"Got it. Yes, Seth, I wrote it down." Fitz paused on the telephone, his forehead pulling together like a drawstring, and tried to keep his tone pleasant. We need the money, we need the money, drummed the motto in his head.
"Read it back?" Fitz gritted his teeth. "All right. I've got…" he rolled his eyes, "a gigantic Nordic troll-beast stomps on a church, snaps off the cross and uses it to pick his teeth after eating the congregation. Now, is that before the topless gladiatrix battles the minotaur? Oh. Oh, yeah, no problem. Nope, I'm sure you'll be pleased. Right." He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth as the call came to an end. "Yep, see you then. Thanks for calling Fungineers!"
Fitz replaced the handset in the cradle a bit too energetically, muttering, "Teenagers." He tromped downstairs to the front office. "Mack! Just had a fun chat with Ice Machine Apocalypse - now they want, and this is verbatim, 'big-ass flame jets' to come out from either side of the stage."
"All right, my man!" Mack stood, raising a hand for a high five, which Fitz returned without much enthusiasm. Mack's accounting software was still open on his computer screen, and he gestured to it, smiling bluntly. "Remember, the more elaborate this gets, the bigger Mr. Quinn's bill is gonna be." He gripped Fitz's shoulder. "Trust me, this is a good thing."
"But," Fitz craned his gaze upward, imploring, "they asked for a busty skeleton, Mack. How the Hell am I supposed t' do that?"
Mack whistled, and shook his head slowly. "You'll figure it out, Turbo. You got this."
Fitz, warmed by the show of confidence, began tapping his index finger against his lip. "Well, I suppose I could do a skeleton in a breastplate." He snapped his fingers and pointed to Mack. "Yeah, no problem. Molded cups."
Mack chuckled, "There you go! Now you're thinking like a 15-year old boy." Motioning for Fitz to follow, Mack headed into the kitchen and reached up on top of the fridge, barely needing to move his arms. The terribly deceptive and eternally disappointing blue-and-white biscuit tin that he pulled down, in Fitz's professional opinion, had never actually contained biscuits. Mack popped the lid off and handed Fitz a small piece of paper. "Hey, uh, I've gotta finish up that paperwork so we can head out to the airfield and set up the stunt course for the May-Hill wedding… you mind taking this check down to the station for me?"
Fitz frowned. To KBUS-FM? "Erm… I… they don't exactly like me over there."
"Sorry, buddy, but they need it today and we're on a tight schedule as it is. All you gotta do is drop it off in the manager's office." Mack's expression was sympathetic, but firm. "Okay?"
Fitz shook off his paranoia. "Yeah, all right."
No big deal. It was actually a good thing that Science is Super started filming in twenty minutes. After all, if Jemma and Skye were busy all the way over at Stage 2, he wouldn't risk running into them at all. Right?
-o-
Fitz stepped carefully into the office, his gaze flitting around until he spotted the payment drop box. He'd been lucky enough not to run into anyone yet, and he didn't intend to start now. He darted forward, slipped the check through the slot, and turned to go.
His eyes caught on a flicker of light through the door to the main video editing room, currently standing ajar. Easing it open, Fitz peeked in and spotted the control operator - Akela Amador, according to the nameplate - tipped back casually in her chair, headset in place, supervising a handful of video feeds simultaneously.
Science is Super was up on the main screen, and Fitz allowed himself a minute to observe Jemma in her element. Heh. Her element. He'd seen the show before, of course, and had watched the YouTube clip of her granny panty mishap a few times - purely out of a sense of spite and mockery, of course, not because her legs happened to be fantastic. It's just lovely seeing her humiliated, that's all. Nothin' creepy about it. Still, he had to admit, watching the live feed from his spot behind the door, there was something special about the way she bounced around that stage, full of life and music even when he couldn't hear a sound.
He watched as Bobbi helped Jemma illustrate combustion in several different ways and orchestrate a couple of controlled explosions, one inside a Pringles can and another in a balloon. The reaction shots, interspersed with Jemma's explanation, showed delighted children full of a fearlessness only the young could own. Bobbi and Jemma appeared to banter easily onscreen, laughing and smiling and generally being disgusting.
It was hardly fair, that she should be so well-loved and so talented, while he and Mack were constantly trying to compete. Over the last month, Fitz had even begun taking requests for his magic act - from letting the client choose what animals they used (that made for some interesting cleaning at the end of the night) to more dangerous routines (sword juggling? Mack had nearly lost an ear) to the sort of obnoxious card tricks he usually made fun of (incredibly, it was a grey elephant in Denmark… every time!) to trying his hand at snake charming (and not in the way Hunter had implied). Not to mention the fact that Fungineers, a company Mack had built from the ground up, had been reduced to working for a pair of boob-obsessed adolescents just to make ends meet.
She owes me, Fitz decided. Jemma would never even have heard of Bobbi Morse if not for him. And she is good with fire…
Fitz snuck back out the door, found a Post-It note, and made what might have been a rash decision.
Once the credits had rolled on Science is Super and they'd cleared the stage to make room for Gramsy to host her infomercial on handknit pet jumpers, one of the grips ran up to Jemma and pressed a pastel paper square into her hand.
"Thank you, Carl." Jemma stared at the chicken-scratch note in quiet shock.
Saw part of the show.
He'd crossed out a section. Squinting, she was able to make out "Not bad if you like that sort of thi" and couldn't help the scoff that erupted in her throat. The note continued.
You owe me for Bobbi, I could use your help w/ sthg. 555-616-3489 Fitz
She snorted. Presumptuous arse. Pulling out her phone, she quickly tapped out a response.
[To Drama King: Glad you liked the show. Feel free to take home a promotional poster next time you're at the station.]
After about a minute, her phone buzzed.
[From Drama King: Ha. Ha. Maybe to draw mustaches on it. And you still owe me.]
She rolled her eyes.
[To Drama King: Scones, remember? :-) I owe you nothing.]
[From Drama King: The scones were an apology for your atrocious interference with my show. Poor Rosie Rabbit was traumatized.]
The speed with which Fitz was responding made her wonder what he did all day. Maybe I did take all his customers.
[To Drama King: I said sorry! The apology was the apology.]
Honestly, she thought to herself. He was the one asking for her help. He could at least try to be nice.
Five minutes later, he still hadn't texted back, and Jemma was getting impatient. Whatever this mysterious favor was, and as difficult as Fitz himself could be… she'd never been able to resist a challenge. Taking a deep breath, she hit the dial button.
It picked up on the second ring. "Yeah?" His voice was gruff, and the roar of wind and a variety of engines whipped through the background.
"Oh! It's, erm, it's Jemma Simmons?"
"Right! Hold on, let me get inside!"
A moment later she could hear him much more clearly. "Hey. I, er… thanks for callin' back. Look, there's-"
He was interrupted by a breathy female voice whose words she couldn't quite make out and the sound of a door slamming.
"Jemma? I've got to go." He lowered his volume to a hard whisper. "The florist for this wedding is being a real nag, keeps complainin' about wanting to go into the city. Mack's getting a bit pissed off."
"Oh… well, I just wondered what you needed my help w-"
"- yeah, I can-"
"- send me the details?"
"I'll do that. Listen, I'd better go before there's any bloodshed." He chuckled humorlessly, and then must have held the phone away as he shouted, "Ey! We need that motorcycle ramp over- arrgh! I've got to- these idiots-" Click.
Jemma stared at the phone, open-mouthed. He hung up on me. She really couldn't remember when she'd met someone with such atrocious manners. An hour later, when the particulars of Fitz's project came buzzing onto her phone, and she had more or less already decided to help, Jemma knew she couldn't let him think he'd won her over that easily.
[To Drama King: Intrigued. Will discuss further.]
[To Drama King: And Fitz?]
[To Drama King: :-) Don't start thinking this makes us friends.]
Author's Notes:
Many thanks to thelatenightstoryteller for helping me think of some combustion experiments for them to do on Science is Super!
The "grey elephant in Denmark" card trick, if you've never had it done to you, relies on math and mental prediction to guide the audience into a series of conclusions.
Fitz's phone number is simply 555-616-FITZ, just in case you were wondering if the last four digits had any special significance.
:-)