On a Saturday morning nearly a year after he'd left home for the second time, Fitz is overcome by an urge to once again fade into the background of busy London.
He's been consistent with his music, playing at a few small venues on nights he's not busy with his engineering work, and has made connections that could promise the playing of larger venues. He's managed a steady balance of his passions, building, singing, and always creating, but when he wakes up this morning, he feels a panging longing to revisit the life he'd led in Glasgow during the greatest summer of his 27 years.
There's no watch shop in the area that Fitz thinks would welcome him in with open arms and willingly let him get his hands on the merchandise, so Fitz settles for grabbing his guitar from its home in his living room and lugging it out the door.
He hasn't busked at all in London, not before and certainly not after his time in Glasgow, but he knows exactly where to go for this cathartic release.
He makes his way through London, Oyster card in one hand and guitar in the other, and winds up at St. Pancras station where he knows he's seen buskers in the past. His eyes flicker through the large crowd of people in the massive building and he begins to walk, eyes scoping out the area in search of the perfect place to set up. He's spent ten minutes walking through station when he hears the echo of a piano through the mob of people trying to get from one train to the next. There's something familiar, yet distinctly off, about the notes that are mingling with the idle chatter and general bustle of the station. He strains his ears for a moment, trying to make out the tune from the staggered notes he can actually hear, and feels his heart begin to double in speed when the pieces fall together in his mind.
It's not the typical version of the song, far softer and slower than the upbeat original, but Fitz would recognize it anywhere after spending much of his time actively avoiding it.
His mouth falls open and he can feel the blood thrumming beneath his skin as the steady notes of the piano continue to pierce through the station and Fitz suddenly finds himself sprinting in the direction of the music. He weaves his way through the crowds, the music growing louder with each step he takes, and he pulls up short when he spots a woman with chestnut hair perched gingerly on the piano bench.
She's facing away from him but the soft curls of her hair look so familiar and Fitz wonders if this is just another instance in which his mind has decided to play a cruel trick on him. He's about to turn away like always, unwilling to walk around to the other side of the piano to catch a glimpse of the woman and risk it not being her, but then she begins to sing and Fitz feels the breath whoosh from his lungs.
He's spent every day listening to the demo he'd made in Glasgow, focusing all of his attention on the soft voice of the woman who'd managed to have a greater impact on him in one month than anyone else in all his life.
He'd recognize her voice anywhere and, as it just so happens, he recognizes it right in this instant.
There's a suitcase next to her that looks big enough to fit a grown man and Fitz feels another burst of hope shoot through him at the implication. He'd spent an embarrassingly long amount of time thinking about the girl from Glasgow, seeing her brown eyes in the last dregs of his cooling tea and hearing her laugh in all of the London sounds that inspire him, and now there's a very real possibility that the thought of her will no longer fill him with an all-consuming feeling of melancholia.
This thought spurns Fitz on and he mindlessly undoes the latches on his guitar case before looping the strap over his head and closing his eyes as he listens to the tempo and key that the pianist is playing in. He gives himself ten seconds to process as much as he can before his anxious excitement gets the best of him and he opens his mouth to sing along.
The pianist stops playing the moment he joins in, tensing at the sound of his brogue as he belts out the song he vowed he would never be caught dead playing, and Fitz mentally crosses his fingers when the young woman begins to swivel on the bench. Her eyes are wide when they land on him and Fitz wonders if the sound of his thumping heart might be mistaken for drums by anyone moving past him.
Because it is her.
It's Jemma.
She's sitting five feet away from him with her mouth open and her eyes unblinking and all Fitz can do is keep singing. He keeps his gaze locked on hers as he reaches the chorus and begins to promise that he'd walk 500 miles and 500 more, just to be the man who'd walk a thousand miles to wind up at her door.
His eyes are glistening slightly and he can see that hers are as well. She blinks quickly before moving her fingers to swipe at the tears on her face and, when she looks up at him again, Fitz raises an eyebrow and nods towards the piano with an unspoken, "Well?"
She's still wearing a stunned expression on her face but doesn't hesitate to give him a watery smile and twist back around to resume her own playing. Fitz moves closer, walking to the other side of the piano so he can get a better look at her, and revels in the way that their voices so effortlessly blend together even after all this time.
Fitz can't help but think that the Proclaimers have got nothing on him and Jemma and he feels the smile stretch across his face as they reach the chorus of the song together this time. Their voices fuse together and Fitz once again feels that same surge of something that he's only ever felt once before.
He can't tear his gaze from the woman in front of him and feels his heart double in speed when her eyes meet his above the piano. He thinks it stops beating all together when she gives him a small wink and furrows her nose in the same way she always does.
When they belt out the final notes of the song, Fitz steps back and watches with the standard feeling of awe as Jemma's fingers fly across the keyboard and she brings the song to a close.
When she finally pulls her hands off of the piano, Jemma's head snaps up as her eyes once again lock on his. He's breathing heavily, partly because of the singing but mostly because he's once again in the presence of the girl he never thought he'd see again, and can't seem to keep the grin off of his face. She stares at him for a few long moments, unmoving and unblinking, and Fitz fidgets slightly under her stare. His smile falters slightly at the thought that she might not be quite as happy to see him as he is to see her.
He's about to open his mouth to say something when a smattering of applause breaks through the silence. Fitz's mouth snaps shut at the sound and he blinks quickly as he peers at the crowd that has gathered around him and Jemma. He watches in surprise as people flit towards the guitar case he'd left a few feet away and drop coin after coin into it.
He gives an awkward wave and nod of appreciation to the people that have gathered before turning back towards Jemma. She's standing now, eyes almost level with his, and Fitz has to hold his breath when her caramel stare locks on him. He has a million things that he wants to say, secrets and confessions that he's kept to himself since departing Glasgow, but can't settle on one over another.
Instead, he scratches his head and gives Jemma a small smile before moving his hand from where it's gripped tightly around the neck of his guitar.
"Leo Fitz."
His arm is stretched awkwardly in front of him, half tangled in his guitar strap, but he doesn't have time to focus on the discomfort when the only thing he can process is the fact that the girl he'd left behind is somehow in front of him.
She stares at his hand for a few long moments, still breathing heavily from their duet, and Fitz is about to pull back when her eyes meet his once more and a beaming smile erupts across her face. It's the same smile he'd tried to imprint in his head so long ago and Fitz isn't surprised to discover that he hadn't managed to do it a lick of justice.
He can feel his mouth curving into a matching grin and is slightly embarrassed to admit that his eyes have once again become slightly watery at the realization that, somehow, they're both here together. The embarrassment fades slightly when Fitz sees a slight sheen in her eyes as well and dissipates completely when she grabs his hand, worn and callused from both his work and his art, and squeezes it in her own as she takes a step closer and gazes at him with a fondness that he hasn't been on the receiving end of in nearly a year.
Her smile grows again when he tightens his grip on her and, despite the noise of the commuters that surround them, Fitz can hear her melodic voice as clearly as ever.
"Jemma. Jemma Simmons."