"What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what a PR nightmare this is?" Mayor Coulson was standing behind his desk, leaned over with the pads of his fingers pressing white against the varnished wood, while Deputy Mayor Hill stood off to his side.

Jemma opened her mouth to speak - needlessly, it turned out - as the very next second the mayor filled the pause with another outburst. Ah. Rhetorical, then.

"I've got angry parents up the wazoo, telling me they don't need their kids seeing a half-naked woman-"

"Technically, sir," Fitz tried to interject, "it was a half-naked drawin-" at the same time that Jemma protested, "It wasn't his faul-"

"among a whole lot of other disturbing images." Coulson glared. "This was supposed to be a family-friendly event. Now I've got the school board breathing down my neck, telling me I oughta ban both of you from next year's Spectacular!"

"Sir," Jemma started, "it really was more complicated than-"

"And that's not even taking into account the damage to the stage. The Hyde Park Recreational Association is furious. Doctor Simmons, you should count yourself extremely lucky that you have such a fan in Daniel Whitehall."

She and Fitz darted confused looks at one another.

"As the head of Hyde R.A., Mr. Whitehall is in a position to sue the city, the broadcasting station, and the Fungineers." The mayor straightened and traded a glance with Deputy Hill. "Yet for some reason, he's offered to waive all claims. Said he'd hate to punish a woman who," Coulson turned to face Jemma, "has done so much to promote discovery through experimentation." He sighed. "I've authorized Mr. Whitehall to call on either of you for anything he might need - and make no mistake, you two will be assisting with the renovations."

They both nodded dumbly, still processing everything they'd heard. Then Coulson turned to Fitz, eyes trained on him like missiles.

"As for you."

Coulson unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in the massive leather chair, effortlessly keeping his authoritative stance. "I nearly gave you the finale this year. Is this the kind of show I would've gotten from you and Mack?"

Fitz bristled, still proud of the work he'd done for Ice Machine Apocalypse, despite everything. And the flamethrowers went off perfectly. He forced himself to swallow his building frustration. "Mack had absolutely nothin' to do with this, sir. It's on me."

"You're damn right it is." Coulson picked up a pen and clicked it in irritation. "Never thought I'd need to lecture you about quality control." He faced Fitz sternly. "Protocols. Preventative steps. Ever heard of those?"

Fitz's face had gone stormy, but he nodded. "Yes, sir." Bugger. This was not how he'd planned to spend his Saturday night.

"Good. Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again." Coulson reached over to the old-fashioned rotary phone on his desk, and grabbed the glossy black handset. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get in touch with the TV station and see how they want to handle this mess. I wouldn't be surprised if they rebrand your entire show." He directed the last comment at Jemma before tipping back wearily in his chair. "Deputy Hill," he held up the phone, "please get your wife on the line."

Hill stepped forward and took the receiver, then hooked her fingers into the base of the old telephone, scooting it closer to her and beginning to dial. "You didn't have to scare them, Phil," she murmured, lips quirking in what might have been amusement. As she lifted her head and put the handset to her ear, she gave Fitz a quick I've-got-your-back wink. "Thanks for all your help with the wedding."

-o-

They sat on one of the benches inside City Hall, letting the throat-wringing they'd just gone through wash over them before heading home. Jemma let out a wry huff. "So."

He shook his head. "Yeah. Not every day you get chewed out by the mayor." He scratched his eyebrow, risking a glance over, only to find her eyeing him with a barely suppressed smile.

"Wish I could see Garrett's face," Fitz started, picturing the preacher's eyes bugging out at the sight of a laser-lit pentagram goat, "when he realizes that because of him, most of Treehouse Falls' highly impressionable youth were just treated to, erm," he chuckled, the absurdity of the situation catching up to him, "to…"

"A parade of skeleton breasts?"

Fitz coughed, something like a shocked guffaw, and after a beat of silent staring, they both broke into a fit of giggles.

"That does sound fun," Jemma laughed, pressing both hands to her cheeks to calm herself down. "Though I'd rather see his face when I ram my foot into it."

Oh, come on. That was just unfair. Fitz swallowed, peering at Jemma as he tried to sort out how serious she was. Either way, the idea of Jemma going all Tarantino on Preacher John was more than a bit sexy. Needing a little breathing room, he tugged off the tie he'd been wearing (it was a meeting with the mayor, after all) and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Fitz…" she started, and the after-hours lighting in the building didn't quite let him see it very well, but… is that a blush? "You know how you're always saying we're not friends?"

"Uh-huh." We're always saying. It wasn't just him. Somehow, he couldn't find it in himself to correct her. Or to stop staring.

"I was thinking…" her fingers came up to play shyly with a curl of her hair. "Do you maybe want to… go not be friends over a drink?"

His brain stuttered. She was asking him out? Okay, don't get ahead of yourself. He'd been in this situation before, thinking they were on a date, only to be disappointed. "Yeah, we could do that. And-" Could he drink around Jemma without letting on how much he liked her? That was too much pressure, probably, for a pair of co-workers. Food would be better. "Or breakfast, even."

She raised one eyebrow. "You want to have drinks, then breakfast?"

Too late, Fitz realized how it sounded. "No! No, oh, God, not like- I just meant, it doesn't have to be drinks. I know how you like scones, and it's not as if I'm a drunk-" Stop. Talking. "Well, I am at Scout's quite a lot, but I- and if I'm being honest, you're no paragon of sobriety-" Seriously. Stop now. Especially since Jemma was nodding her encouragement, chin on her fist and face a perfect mask of hermetic amusement. Mortification battled offense, and his mouth finally snapped shut.

"No, no!" she protested. "Don't let a scone-loving alcoholic like me stop you. You were saying?"

His eyes narrowed. Laugh it up, sweetheart. There was no way he was going to the bar with her now; the last thing he needed was Jemma and Hunter ganging up to take the piss. "You know what? I've got just the thing."

He grabbed her hand before could think about what he was doing and dragged her down the hall to the ancient vending machines. Pulling out his wallet, he said, "Pick your poison."

Jemma shot him a quizzical look, but pointed to the unsweetened Nestea.

"Ugh," he joked, as he fed a couple dollars into the machine. "Cold tea? Where are you from, Georgia?"

She poked him in the ribs with one well-placed elbow and a dry, "Beggars can't be choosers."

"Hey! Is that a dig at this five-star selection of snacking options?"

"Not at all!" she mocked adorably, before assessing the contents of the machine again. Jemma bit her lip as she surveyed her choices. Probably making Excel sheets in her head over a few pieces of junk food. "In fairness," she allowed, "this is almost certainly more than I have in my refrigerator at home right now."

"Aww," Fitz clucked. "I wouldn't go shopping either, if I didn't know how checkout lanes worked."

"And if you'd ever listen to someone else's voice," and she didn't even bother to face him, "long enough to ask a cashier about the 10 Items rule, you'd find they all agree with me."

He chuckled. "Why'm I not surprised that you've been surveying supermarket employees over this?"

After getting himself a Coke and an extra bottled water for good measure, Fitz punched in the code for a couple of candy bars and a packet of crisps. When he offered her first pick and saw her nose wrinkle, he heaved a sigh and turned back to the machine.

"Honestly, Fitz, it's not that I don't appreciate-"

"Shhh," he waved off her objection. "I know. We'll find you somethin'."

They both stood in front of the glass, silently searching for anything that could conceivably have originated in the ground. Ahh, there at the bottom, with the gum and the other garbage choices. "Trail mix all right?"

She nodded, uncapping her tea and taking a sip. "Oh, dear, that is horrible."

"Told you." He plucked the Nestea out of her hands and shrugged. "Waste not, want not." Fitz choked down about a quarter of it before he had to toss it in the bin. "Wow - that is vile," he brought up his fist to stopper a burp, "I thought only the machines were from the 70s." He handed Jemma the cold water to make up for it and grabbed a bag of dried fruit and nuts out of the dispenser. "Now come on!"

This time, her hand slipped easily into his, and Fitz tried not to let it show on his face just how much it delighted him. He tugged her up the broad stairs at the end of the hall, trying to ignore the twinge in his shoulder from where he'd hit the stage. When they reached the fourth floor, he yanked open a door painted "Staff Only" and kept going up another, narrower stairwell.

"Fitz, where-"

"Almost there! Just trust me."

And then they were at the top, standing on the wide wooden platform that ran along the walls inside the clock tower, both of them blinking up at the enormous reversed clock face. The way the spotlights hit the frosted glass threw the room into odd swaths of brightness and shadow.

Fitz found himself saddled with a conundrum. Sit down in a well-lit patch, keep things professional, or slink into a darkened corner and hope for the best? As it turned out, Jemma made the decision for him.

Jemma got to the top of the stairs, breathing a tad heavily, and of course - of course - he'd brought her to a clock tower at night. Because, what, all the lakeside gazebos were taken? There weren't any rooftop gardens festooned with fairy lights within walking distance? Jemma spun slowly, taking in everything she could. This was the sort of fantasy-movie scene that made her want to write in a diary.

Fitz turned to her, pride in his posture, and grinned, "See? Told you it was cool."

She had to give it to him. "And you were right, Fitz." She stepped delicately across the old boards and found a nook that wasn't quite so directly under the beam of the spotlights, and set down her things.

He caught her arm before she could lower herself down to sit, pulling off his button-down and laying it on the floor in front of her like a beach towel. "It's, erm, it's dusty," he mumbled in apology, as if he hadn't just brought her to what was, arguably, the most romantic spot she'd ever physically set foot in.

Jemma dropped into a kneel and shifted about, eventually ending up sitting crosslegged with her back to the wall. As he settled himself next to her, she found herself staring, trying to discern from his demeanor whether he'd brought many girls here… and promptly decided she didn't care. If this was Fitz's usual move, it was a good one. And it's working.

Fitz stretched his legs out in front of him and took a rather large bite of one candy bar, then stuffed a couple of crisps into his mouth, humming in satisfaction at the combination.

Jemma rolled her eyes and shook a handful of trail mix into her palm. "How did you even know about this place?"

He crunched for a few seconds, then glanced sideways. "It's not the first time the business has been in trouble," he shrugged. "Mack and I've had to take odd jobs before."

A rivulet of guilt trickled into her chest. "How long have you worked with him?"

"Professionally, only about five years, but we met back in school." He scraped his hand over his stubble. "I was shy, bit of a loner. And the youngest one in my class. Mack was the only one who treated me like a regular person."

Her brow knitted. "But you're not a regular person."

His mouth twisted wryly. "Erm, thanks?"

Not this again. She brushed her hand on top of his where it rested on his leg, pulling it back just as fast. "I don't mean that in a bad way."

"Me neither." He shook his head quickly. "I'm sayin', Mack treats everybody the same. He needed help with the coursework, and he wasn't afraid to ask a kid." Fitz coughed, and averted his eyes. "And later, after I… well, you've already heard how," he took a deep breath, and his tone turned overly light and cheery, "I wasted all my savings and 'untapped potential' on a pipe dream!" When she didn't laugh, he gave up the façade and picked at a scuff on his jeans. "Mack gave me a chance after everyone else gave up."

"He sounds like a good friend." She willed him to look at her, and by some coincidence he did. "And you are too." She rested her hand gently on his knee. "Fitz-" she inhaled, letting it out slowly. "I don't want you to feel as though you're giving anything up by working with me."

"What? No, no- I don't." His eyes darted to her hand, and he covered it with his own. "Jemma, thank you for the job offer. I'm lookin' forward to it."

"I am too," she squeezed lightly. "I just… you don't have to worry, you know? You could keep doing magic-"

"Nah," he interrupted good-naturedly. "It's about time I retired the Amazing Leopold."

But- the tuxedo! "You're quitting? It's just, you never…" She licked her lips.

He quirked his head, questioning.

"You never finished explaining that coin trick."

Fitz's eyes rounded, and his mouth burst into a wide grin.

"Yeah? Yeah, all right," he nodded enthusiastically. He stuck his hands into his jeans pocket and his expression wavered, blushing pink. "Erm, Jemma?" He grumbled something under his breath that sounded like I hate change. "I don't suppose you could spare a few quarters?"

Oh, god, his hands. Fitz's hands were works of art and she wanted them on her. Jemma watched, drums pounding wildly in her chest, as he hid a quarter by pressing it between two fingers and dropped the other three coins into his opposite palm. Nod. Nod like you're paying attention. The trick was really quite run-of-the-mill, if she was being honest, but she leaned forward, transfixed by the interplay of muscles in his palms, the way the tendons in the back of his hands jumped under his skin.

"Okay, now you try."

She inhaled, nodded, and tried to recreate what he'd shown her, conscious of her quickened heartbeat and the way her own hands shook when she felt his eyes steel into her. After the fourth quarter fell out partway through the trick, he snickered, and his expression took on a much more relaxed, familiar bent.

"That's all right, Jemma, no one's good at everything," he teased. "But y' might want t' keep your day job, just in case."

"Hey!" She elbowed him. "We have the same day job now, you walnut."

"Sure, until the station realizes they're wasting my considerable stage presence and impeccable comedic timing and decide to give me my very own show. Then we'll see who's ratings are higher."

She sniffed. "Well I certainly didn't ask you to work for me so that you could Game of Thrones the entire thing, and if that's how you-"

"Hah!" he pointed. "Work for you! See? I knew it." His head bobbed in satisfaction. "All that nonsense about workin' with you and all the while you've wanted me to be your trained monkey on set."

She laughed, "Oh, my god, stop talking."

He smirked. "Is that a direct order, Captain? Because I'd rather keep talkin', but since I work for you, I suppose I don't have much choice if that's a direct-"

Her hand came up, fingers splayed, and pushed into his cheek, nearly tipping him over until he caught himself with an arm on the floor behind him.

"I warned you…" she giggled, as he grimaced in disgust at a cobweb stuck to his hand and wiped it on his jeans.

"You're gonna be a terrible boss, you know that?" He picked up his bag of crisps and shook what was left into his mouth. "I should file a complaint," he said in between chews, then bit off about a third of his candy bar for good measure.

"Ugh." She wrinkled her nose. "I could file a complaint about your eating habits; I swear you've got the diet of an unsupervised five-year-old."

"Jemma…" he looked at her, disbelieving and more than a little judgmental. "You've never had crisps and chocolate together?" When she shook her head, he tsked in condemnation. "You have to fix this."

She chuckled and indicated his empty packet of crisps and flattened candy bar wrapper. "I don't know how, Fitz, seeing as you ate it all." Her gaze immediately flicked to the salty crumbs on the corner of his lip and the way he was sucking a bit of chocolate off his index finger. Hmm. Perhaps she did know one way.

Author's Notes:

So I decided to make this chapter longer by about an extra thousand words :-) I think I'm still in emergency-fluff mode after the finale. Let me know what you thought!

(Also, I don't think I need to tell you, but eating chocolate and potato chips together is really an excellent idea and you should all try it.)