May was waiting in one corner of the hangar when Jemma stormed in angrily. Never mind what the director ordered, if May so much as pulled out a picture of headphones, Jemma would turn around and leave. Just like that.

But May wasn't holding headphones. Instead, she had a familiar tattered notebook in one hand and a large duffel bag in the other. Her stopwatch hung casually around her neck. When Jemma approached, May passed her both the notebook and the duffel bag.

'Assemble it.'

Perplexed, Jemma placed the duffel bag on a nearby bench and opened it. Peering inside, she realised she was looking at the various bits and pieces that made up the original Night-Night Gun. She suddenly realised why the tattered notebook looked so familiar. It was Fitz's development notes.

'May, this is Fitz's area of expertise, not mine.' Jemma looked up at May from her seat on the bench. May's hand was already on the stopwatch.

May nodded. She had expected this reaction. 'That's why I got you his notes. You have three hours from the time you start reading.'

Jemma frowned. Three hours wasn't short, but with Fitz's notes it wouldn't be much of a challenge either. Fitz wrote good notes. Well, good notes for anyone who had a thorough understanding of how his brain worked. Which meant Fitz himself...and Jemma.

'How did you even get these?' Jemma wondered incredulously. She ran her hands over the coffee-stained cover. This should be in a museum, not being exploited for some mysterious training exercise.

'Fitz gave them to me,' May answered. She watched Jemma carefully. The girl was still gazing at the notebook like a treasured relic, running her hands across the book, feeling its creases and the uneven textures from where it had clearly been soaked in some unknown liquid at one point in its life. 'Stop stalling, Simmons,' May instructed, almost exasperatedly.

'Right, yes.' Jemma opened the notebook, and May started the stopwatch.

The hours seemed to fly by as Jemma worked, deducing instructions from the inky diagrams and scrawled shorthand from the tattered notebook. At first, she was hesitant and guarded, ready for May to put a spin on the exercise at any moment. But May merely sat quietly in the corner and watched, seeming really quite relaxed. Piper even stopped by to bring her some green tea. She offered some to Jemma too, but Jemma declined politely, finding Fitz's old notes much more interesting. In fact, she noticed her own initials scribbled in several places.

J.S: Subcut disintegration critical

J.S: Need to fit more dendrotoxin

J.S: Need a better name (but nothing beats 'Night Night Gun' so far)

J.S: Make sure to choose biocompatible casing

At each of these notes, Jemma remarked how carefully Fitz had listened to her opinions at the time. The Night Night Gun was more of his invention than hers; her breakthrough was the dendrotoxin formulation, not the engineering. But Fitz had paid good attention to her thoughts and had even written them down in his notes. Jemma felt her heart somersault every time she saw 'J.S' in Fitz' untidy scrawl and she made a mental note to tell Fitz about it later.

Jemma finished assembling the parts of the original Night Night rifle and set it to one side. She glanced at her watch: 2 hours and 46 minutes. Excellent.

She looked up at May, who seemed to be...napping!? Or at least, her eyes were closed and her head was resting on the bench behind her. She was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, but her weight was mostly supported by the bench.

As amusing and perplexing as this sight of May was, Jemma found the rest of Fitz's notebook much more interesting. Fitz had included some early sketches of the I.C.E.R. pistols, including various possible mechanisms for shrinking down the mechanics to provide the correct stopping power despite the smaller weapon.

J.S: I.C.E.R. is a much better name (yay!)

J.S: Keep total dendrotoxin the same (i.e. need to increase concentration for smaller bullet)

Jemma reached the end of the notebook. She went to close it, then realised that something was written on the inside of the back cover. The writing was different, shaky and almost illegible, and Jemma felt her heart leap to her throat when she realised it must have been written not long after Fitz's brain injury.

J.S. The steps you take don't need to be big. They just need to take you in the right direction.

These words were not written once, but etched over and over from the top of the page right down to the bottom-right corner. Fitz had been practicing his hand-eye coordination by writing Jemma's favourite phrase. Oh, Fitz!

'Jemma.'

It was May, evidently not asleep, and pointing the assembled rifle right at Jemma's face.

'May!' Jemma cried. The fond smile that had been etched on her face for the last three hours vanished, and she jerked backwards reflexively, toppling over the bench and falling in a heap on the ground.

May fished her out and she stood up sheepishly, rubbing a spot on her elbow that was sure to bruise.

'I was holding that at you for the last ten minutes,' May said pointedly.

'Oh.'

There was a pause, as May debated whether she needed to expand on the point she was making. But Jemma was looking suitably abashed and she had probably tortured the two of them enough for the day.

'Go get some rest,' May said finally. 'Take Fitz's notes with you.'

Jemma didn't need to be told twice. She mumbled a thank you and hurried out, eager to find the man who had consumed her thoughts for the last three hours.