Jemma let her eyes slip closed, knowing Fitz would meet her halfway, trusting in the gentle press of his hand to her neck, the desperate bob of his Adam's apple, and the darkening want in his irises to guide him. A heartbeat-skip later, she felt Fitz's hand drop to her shoulder and push back, stopping her in her tracks. It was followed by her name, whimpered and painful, like the sound of a stuck door in an old house. "Jemma? Help?"

She took one look and sighed. "Oh, Fitz."

Reaching out, she let the daddy longlegs crawl onto her palm and up over the back of her hand. Fitz immediately put his fist in his mouth to muffle what she was sure would have been a Home-Alone-level scream, his head nopeing right and left like he was watching the world's fastest tennis match.

"I've got him." She squinted in the dim and picked herself up, walking over to the spotlight to get a better look. "My, you're a lovely one, aren't you?"

A few paces away, Fitz paused from shaking out his dusty button-down to pout incredulously at her words. "Are you cooing?" he gawked. "That little poison factory just tried t' murder me!"

"Ugh, honestly." She looked back over her shoulder at him. "First of all, venom factory. Second, he's harmless. Isn't that right, sweetheart?" She put her hand by the wooden beam surrounding the stairwell and let the little creature crawl off before going back to where Fitz was putting his overshirt back on. Pity. "And really," she continued reasonably, "this is more his habitat than yours, so if he had bitten you it would have been in defense of his home." Never ignore a teachable moment. She nodded in self-satisfaction.

He narrowed his eyes. "Oh, so we're the trespassers." He screwed up his face in disgust. "Well, that's enough reason for me; I say we take off." Fitz shrugged and motioned to the stairs with a questioning head tilt.

Take off what, exactly? She sighed, running her hands over her neck, and tried to compose herself. I can turn this around.

Fitz shook himself out like a wet dog, ruffling his hair and batting at his clothes, then bent and picked up their discarded trash, stuffing the crumpled wrappers into the empty bottles. "So…"

"So…" she smiled, stepping into his space expectantly.

"Ready to head out?"

She fought the irritated huff that strained against her throat. Must I do everything? "Absolutely," she hummed. "Just one last thing before we go." She lifted herself up onto her toes, gripped Fitz by the shoulders to keep her balance, and deliberately fused her lips to his.

When she pulled back, his eyes were wide open, hairline as high as it would go, and a slow smile starting to tug at the corners of his mouth. His lips curled around a silent whaaaat? and Jemma barked out a laugh at the sight.

"Don't look so surprised, Fitz," she chided softly. "Or is that not why you brought me up here."

"Oh, sure," he muttered sarcastically. "A filthy nest of eight-legged face-crawlers. Perfect place for a picnic!"

She rolled her eyes. "Well," she tried again, snuggling closer and wrapping her arms around his waist as she tipped her head up to watch him. "Call me crazy, but I thought it was kind of perfect."

Fitz's expression softened, going a bit goofy in fact. "Okay, crazy." She heard the plasticky thud of the soda bottles hitting the floor, and shivered as the anticipation zipped up her spine. Fitz raised his fingers to her hair, sweeping back a curl that had fallen out of place, and dropped his nose down to rub against the top of hers. "Just so you know, in the interest of honesty," he brushed his lips to her cheek, just under her eye, "I resent the implication that I would ever," he grazed her mouth with a barely-there peck, "bring a girl up here with an ulterior motive."

He kissed her again then, with pause, with intent, with parted lips and just a hint of tongue. Jemma basked in that kiss, a cat stretching in a sunny window, wishing she could make a bed of their bodies, blanket his caresses over her, and feel the weight of him dip into her like a mattress. When they broke away and she caught sight of his face - whether it was the clock behind them, or the spotlight shining on him just right - she could've commissioned a portrait.

She bit her lip and stepped backwards, letting her hands drift over the soft plaid covering his ribs and stomach until distance forced her to release him. "Still want to get that drink?"

"God, ye-" He cleared his throat and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, affecting (as best she could tell) a sort of suave disinterest. "I mean, if you want to."

Mister Cool. She resisted the urge to scoff, mostly successfully. "We could go to Hunter's bar, or…" her eyes frisked him down, then up, "there's beer in the fridge back at my flat. I also have tea."

"Those are both drinks," Fitz agreed with an emphatic nod.

They beamed at each other rather stupidly for a long moment, until Jemma finally broke the silence. "Well, then, what are we waiting for?"

Fitz was trying to focus on what Jemma was saying, and not just the way the glow of the traffic lights set off her porcelain skin. The restless trace of her fingers on the steering wheel belied her mood as she rambled on about how lucky she'd been to rent her flat when she did, how she'd been about to go stir crazy living in a motel for the first month or so after she'd gotten the job and moved to town.

And, to be honest, if anyone was going to make real estate sound fascinating right now, it was Jemma, but he was far more entranced by soft play of red, yellow and green dancing over the contours of her face. He still felt the ghost of her lips on his, warm and pliant, her subtle curves snugging into him as he kissed her. Holy Swiss cheese on a biscuit. Don't bollocks this up. Truth be told, if he'd been a cat he'd have been on his ninth life by now.

"How times have changed…" he muttered to himself, more than a little in awe. He was about to go back to Jemma bloody Simmons' apartment. For a drink. Erm, among other things? He swallowed down the flutter of nervous excitement that thought conjured. He'd be happy even if all she wanted to do was sit on the floor and eat alphabet soup from a can.

It wasn't as if he believed he had nothing to offer. He had friends, after all, so he must be doing something right. And there had been plenty of women in the past who'd told him what a catch he was. Mainly mum and her old lady friends from church, but. Even so.

Just… looking at Jemma, he knew she could have her pick, and he wasn't… he couldn't flirt like Hunter, he didn't look like Mack. What if this was just the aftermath of a very intense day catching up to them? Shared adversity and all that rubbish? Or - oh God - some sort of twisted gratitude forcing her hand. And now she'd invited him to drink with her. Probably needs the alcohol to find you tolerable, whispered his horrible traitor brain. He ground the heels of his hands into his forehead as he tried to dispel the dark bent his thoughts had taken.

"Fitz? Everything all right?" It took him a second to realize she'd stopped talking and was now sizing him up, the dip of her throat tensing slightly in concern.

"Yeah, no- nothin', just… long day." He smiled ruefully.

She didn't seem terribly convinced. "You're awfully quiet over there." Her glance flitted over to him before refocusing on the road. "If you'd rather get to sleep, I can drop you by yours."

Drop you. Fitz told his head angrily to shut it, as he gripped and twisted the safety belt across his chest. "No! No, a drink sounds great," he insisted, trying to convey his very real enthusiasm. "Besides, I already texted Mack not to wait up. How much of a loser would I be if I-" Oh, Hell. "Not that I'm expectin'- and there's nothing wrong with going home early, just- oh, jeez."

Not only had he implied he anticipated staying a while, now she was going to think he was making her the subject of gossip. "I didn't say anything about, er," he coughed, "you know." He tipped his head descriptively.

A muffled noise clued him in that she was trying not to laugh, and his lungs unbuckled a notch. "What do I know, exactly?"

"Eh, well…" he could feel himself blushing from crown to navel, and trusted the car's dark interior to provide some cover. Tryin' to embarrass me. We'll just see about that. Feeling a bit ridiculous but doing it anyway, he leaned towards her and lowered his voice. "I might be persuaded to tell you…" He ran a finger along the bicep of her sleeve. "Once you've gotten a few drinks in me."

He was rewarded by a hitch in her breath and a slight shiver.

He hummed deep in his chest and settled back into his seat. "Oh, and Jemma?"

"Yes?"

"You ran a stop sign back there."

After ascertaining that she had, in fact, broken the laws of traffic, and explaining to Fitz that it didn't matter whether any policemen had noticed because it was the principle of the thing, Jemma was determined not to let him distract her any further. Fitz could distract her all he wanted once they arrived back at her flat, she promised herself. Of course, that didn't take into account the shy, pensive quiet he retreated into once she'd actually parked and they were climbing the hollow-ringing stairwell to her floor. Finally, once they were in front of her door and she gave him an inviting smile, Fitz broke the silence.

"Why me?"

"Why you what?"

He leveled her with a flat look. "Jemma." He blew out his cheeks. "I've been a real prat to you."

"That's true," she agreed, without any malice, pulling out her keys to twist the locks open. She couldn't understand his tone. He's already apologized. "And yes, in future, I'll thank you to dial it down a bit when you've made up your mind to take something the wrong way, but really, Fitz-"

"Look, you're," he waved his hands formlessly in her direction, "not… unattractive." Oh, bestill my heart. His vulnerable expression grounded her, however, as he fought to pick his words. "You could go home with anyone you like. And I know you said that there weren't any decent guys to choose from, but…" he chewed at his thumbnail, "I'd rather not think of myself as a lesser evil."

What? She snapped her head to the side, staring at him dubiously.

His mouth twisted. "You called our compatibility score a mistake. So… why me? Not that I'm complaining," he rushed to add.

Jemma tipped her head, eyeing him with one of those are-you-serious looks. "First off, I'd rather stay single than settle for any kind of evil, so you can nip that line of thinking in the bud." She continued matter-of-factly, tugging him through the door and nudging it closed behind them. "True, I might be slightly out of your league-"

"Hey!"

"-but honestly, you'd impressed me even before MoreThanThat paired us up."

"Yeah?" he prompted, starting a lopsided smile.

"Mmm," she nodded. "Dogs and children, as you may know," she stepped close and ran her palms down the front of his shirt, pretending to smooth it down, "are excellent judges of character."

"I could say the same about you." He drew his arms around her, smiling into her hair. "So I impressed you, eh? How so? Please be specific."

"Ugh, Fitz," she laughed, cheek resting against his chest. "I'm not going to sit here and list why I like you."

"Hmm. Yeah, that's for the best," he said seriously, pulling back to look her in the eye. "We'd be here all day."

"Oh, shut up."

Then she went up on her tiptoes and made sure he did.

Author's Notes:

The spider was originally supposed to be crawling up one of their legs. It ended up on Fitz's face because that happened to me at the Renaissance Faire (one fell from a tree) and it is just as creepy as it sounds. Thank goodness it was just a daddy longlegs!

I dig stories where Jemma loves creepy crawlies and Fitz hates'em. TheLateNightStoryTeller is a crack shot at incorporating elements like that; check her out! Also, TheWholeDamnTime on AO3 once wrote me a lovely prompt titled Spiders and Soup!