"Skye!"
"Hnnnghnn?"
"Oh, sorry! Are you… sleeping?" It was four in the afternoon.
"Nap." There was a throaty cough, followed by a rustle of sheets. "It's okay. I needed to get up."
"Good, because I could use your help. You see, I've just spent the day in the park-"
"Seriously? I can barely move today," she croaked.
"C'mon, girl," chuckled a deep voice in the background. "You know that's not from the hangover."
There were more muffled sounds, a whispered squeal and a quick kiss from Skye to her boyfriend before Jemma heard a door close.
"Okay, we can talk now. What's the matter?"
"As I was saying, I've just spent the afternoon with Fitz-"
"Umm, no, you did not say. Jemma, that's big! Did you tell him how much you wanna 'uncap his Magic Marker'?"
Jemma let out a pitiful whine. "I was hoping you could tell me."
-o-
"Bobbi, how much do you remember of last night?"
"Hey, rock star!" She could hear the smile in her friend's voice. "Uhh… most of it?"
"Oh, thank god." Jemma explained the situation as quickly as she could. "Please, just- can you recall any specifics?"
"Huh. There was definitely a conversation about scones." Well, that's not so bad. "And then you asked him about his penis," Bobbi added matter-of-factly.
"What?!"
"Truth or Dare? You made me to do a baton twirling routine in an adult onesie. Now that I remember."
Jemma pressed the pads of her fingers to her eyes and gave her head a minuscule shake. "Right, I'm sorry, could you just go back to that last part?"
"The under-the-kilt thing?" Ah. So that's what Fitz had meant. She'd been hoping her own fuzzy memory was a false one.
Bobbi continued breezily. "I wouldn't worry about it. The whole thing was pretty obviously a joke; can't imagine he'd hold it against you."
Fitz? Hold his under-the-kilt thing against me? Never mind. Still, despite Bobbi's nonchalance about the situation, having confirmation of what she'd said was twisting her gut into knots. "The next time Skye suggests a girls' night, I want you to lock up my phone. And the vodka."
Bobbi laughed. "Are you kidding? I haven't had that much fun in weeks! Talk about a roller coaster ride." At Jemma's sigh, she added encouragingly, "For what it's worth? If Fitz is anything like Hunter, he probably thought it was hot."
Fitz woke early the morning of the Children's Day Spectacular, a brightness to his mood that matched the early sun streaming onto his bedsheets. Rolling over, he unplugged his phone from the charger and bit his lip to control the smile that appeared as soon as he saw the message.
[From Doc: Big day!]
[From Doc: Thanks for the driving directions :-) ]
[From Doc: And no jokes about how my driving needs direction.]
Pulling himself up to sit cross-legged on his bed, he sent one back.
[To Doc: Me? Insult your driving? :) You clearly have me confused with someone else.]
He kept typing, professing his sarcastic love for anyone who routinely went ten miles below the speed limit, but his finger stilled over the send button and went to the backspace key instead.
[To Doc: See you there!]
Jemma was unloading the fireworks from the boot of her car when she heard the thunderclap. She shaded her eyes and looked up. No, no, no! That did not look like a "scattered shower". A wheeled trunk lay at her feet, not to mention the large wooden crate of fireworks, and it was a good five-minute walk yet to the main stage. "Damn."
She tugged the miniature umbrella out of her purse and debated the odds of successfully carrying everything she needed in one trip. She craned her neck towards the Hyde Park entrance, trying to spot one of the teenaged volunteers. Perhaps if I just pop over there and ask…
"Jemma!" Fitz jogged up from the other side of the parking lot, carrying a suit bag over his shoulder. "What're you doing? It's about to start pourin' down out here."
Frowning in impatience, Fitz handed her the nylon garment bag. "Here. If it rains, hold that above your head." He bent to heft the crate up by the cable ties at each end, grunting as his back straightened.
"I'll be fine. But if it starts to rain, that" she pointed to the crate, "really oughtn't get wet." As quickly as she could, Jemma draped the makeshift poncho over the top of the wooden slats.
"Then we'd better run!" Fitz chivvied, while Jemma flipped the trunk onto its wheels, grasping the handle behind her with one hand and holding up her map with the other. "Let's go!"
They took off at a good clip, and she let herself follow behind Fitz, focused on not tripping and trusting that he knew the way. As it was, fat drops had already started to fall by the time they ducked under the shelter next to the outdoor stage. Before long, water was drumming the the roof at a punishing rate.
"That was close," Jemma panted, taking a grateful seat on top of her props trunk. "Thank you. All the fireworks for the finale are in there."
Fitz had his hands braced on his thighs as he tried to catch his own breath. "Fireworks, eh? You sure it's not bricks?"
She shot him a flat look. "Come on, help me raise it up."
They each grabbed an end and lifted the crate so that it sat atop a pair of cinderblocks, and Fitz found a plastic dropcloth to drag over the top. He grabbed his garment bag and brushed a few drops off of it.
"Is your tux all right?"
Fitz let out a wry huff. "It's seen worse." Reaching into the protective bag, he pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to Jemma. "You, er, might want t' dry off…" he gestured vaguely towards her shoulders.
"Ugh." She took the cloth and ran it gently over the top of her jacket and her new, carefully curled shorter hair. "I should have known better than to trust the weather report," she sighed, lightly patting her cheeks and forehead before returning the pocket square. If the rain kept up, she was liable to end up looking like a drowned cat by day's end. Where's that "feminine appeal" now, producers? At least before, she could have salvaged her ponytail. "I don't suppose you've got a mirror?"
"Fresh out of mirrors… only smoke left, I'm afraid." Fitz squinted at his own joke, taking back the handkerchief with murmured thanks and rubbing it against the back of his neck. "But you look-" he swallowed, "erm, what I mean is, you hair's- it seems okay?"
"Okay," she repeated slowly, scanning his face for more information. The diffuse light in the lean-to, filtered as it was through the rain, picked up the tiny droplets in Fitz's curls, refracting across them like glittering sand.
"Not- it was fine before, too, just-" Fitz shifted from one foot to the other, "You know, it's short now, so… that's good. For you."
She blinked up at him. Based on this reaction - quite the break from his usual swagger - her hair either looked gorgeous or utterly catastrophic.
He balled up the cloth in his fist and stammered on, "What I'm tryin' to say is, for a superhero, if you're in a fight, obviously longer hair isn't very pract-" The sound of a phone ringing cut him off mid-ramble, and Fitz pulled his mobile from his pocket with a quiet "Oh, thank God."
"Hi, Mack. Yep. Just got caught in the downpour, didn't have my umbrella. No, it's all right - I'm heading back now. Okay."
Hanging up the phone, Fitz scratched sheepishly at his jaw and picked up his tuxedo. "I'd better get back, finish setting up. I sort of left Mack with all the work."
"Oh." Jemma fought down her disappointment by offering a bright smile. "Take this, if you like." She held out her mini-umbrella.
"Eh, these spring showers never last long." Indeed, the sky was already starting to clear, bursts of sun beginning to scatter the ground at random intervals. "Well, good luck with your…" Fitz motioned to the accoutrements taking up the small shed. One last tug at his ear and he was on his way out. "Okay, then, bye!"
Jemma saw him off with a small wave, half-wanting to keep him there but wholly unsure what to do about it. As soon as he'd gone, she dragged a hand down her face. What the hell was that?
Fitz groaned into his chest. What the Hell was that? In his defense, he'd barely been able to think, much less string three words together in the Queen's English, not when Jemma had somehow found a witch to cut her hair and make her even more astonishingly beautiful. How am I supposed to contend with that? Watching her dab at her dewey skin, spiced-rum eyes sparkling and cheeks still rosy from their run through the rain, it was like some twee scene from a romantic movie, and Fitz couldn't help feeling just the slightest bit angry at himself. Because he was supposed to be in charge of his own brain. Not some… some sneaky, conceited, overly competitive… talented… quite genius really… surprisingly thoughtful… Hmmph. There went his scumbag brain again.
"And you're sure you don't need me to come down there?"
"Skye, I promise, it's all perfectly in hand. There's plenty of event staff around." Skye was certainly needed at the station, though several of the county's popular children's television shows were represented in booths around the park. "But I'll make sure to let you know, should anything come up that needs your attention."
"You better. Bring me back a funnel cake!"
Jemma laughed. "I think I can manage that."
"Oh, and… about that thing that we were discussing earlier?" Skye was being cagey, meaning Vaughn was likely listening in. The Vaughn and Only had actually become quite popular - Skye'd even gotten fan mail for it that described the host as "professorial" which had given them both a good laugh. Despite his new fame, however, Vaughn remained an incorrigible gossip and eavesdropper around the station.
"You're referring, of course, to the very important manscaping issue I asked you about?" On occasion, it was convenient to have a code word in place for important conversations.
"Oh my god, so dumb. Yes. The manscaping."
"What of it?" Her hand wrapped just a bit tighter around the phone.
"You have, uhh, 'full approval' on that."
Jemma breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Skye."
"Hey - if it's what you want. Now go get 'im, tiger."
Biting her lip, Jemma opened up Fitz's contact screen.
[To Grumpy Dwarf: I'm scheduled for lunch at 1:00. You?]
She barely needed to wait before the response popped up.
[From Grumpy Dwarf: Yeah, pop by if you like.]
[To Grumpy Dwarf: Actually, could we meet? Say, Taco Tuesday's, 20 minutes? I've something to ask you.]
Fitz frowned at the message. She needed to schedule a face-to-face, just to ask him a question? That's rather ominous. Either that, or Jemma had just asked him to lunch. Like a date. It was hard to know which option terrified him more.
He wasn't stupid; he still remembered how it had felt months ago when he thought she'd been flirting with him over coffee. Back then, though, she'd been a lovely stranger, someone he could like, but ultimately a hypothetical fantasy. Everything's different now. Now they had a rocky start to overcome, a fat file folder of insecurities and arguments and dirty tricks to flip through for emotional ammunition.
Poring over Jemma's drunken voicemails had made it fairly obvious that their enmity was rooted in miscommunication, but really, what did a few initial mistakes matter when all they'd done since then was muck things up? Even if he could allow himself to admit that maybe Jemma Simmons was 97% perfect for him after all, at this point it seemed as if they'd doomed themselves before they'd even begun. And, honestly - outside of the occasional urge to pull her hair aside and nibble on her neck - Fitz thought he was doing pretty well in his dealings with Jemma. Did they really need more than what they had?
Only one way to find out.