He was drunk. He knew that much, he could feel the sluggish buzz in his veins, feel the closeness in his head and the dullness lingering on the edge of thoughts that were taking too long to exist.

He was not as drunk as her. She was completely pissed. He'd spent over two years at university with her now, seen her at parties, had a rather inebriated call just after midnight on New Year's Day last year, but he'd never seen her like this. She was giggling uncontrollably at a joke she herself had told so quickly and so slurred that he hadn't caught a word of it. Her head lolled against his shoulder as she clung to him to keep from falling off her chair. His heart thudded loud at the closeness.

She stopped laughing suddenly, and before he knew it she was up and running for the (thankfully nearby) toilets. He ordered a glass of water from the bar and followed her, stopping outside the door, shifting nervously on his feet. He could see his parents watching them from their table. This was going to be interesting to explain tomorrow morning. In fact, between tonight's awkwardness and the inevitable hangover, he really hoped that he'd somehow be caught in some kind of time stasis and tomorrow would never come.

She emerged from the ladies' room looking awful, her eyes brimming with tears from the retching and her hands shaking. She took the glass with a tremulous smile and started gulping the water down.

His father was by his side then, holding their coats into his hands and telling him there was a taxi waiting outside. Fitz thanked him, then guided his still weak partner out of the hall and into the fresh air, which he gulped down in an effort to clear his head. It was drizzling slightly, and they almost slipped a few times on their way down the steps. She was clinging to him for dear life when they reached the bottom.

He steered her into the taxi, and only had time to give the driver his address before she burst into tears and buried her face in his shoulder. He had genuinely no idea what was going on in her head, but he awkwardly rubbed her back and muttered useless, impotent reassurances until they reached his house. He dug in his pocket for some money and his keys, and soon they were in his living room. He sat her on the sofa and went to get more water.

Did he trust himself to try and make food? It would help soak up the alcohol and lessen the hangover, but in his current state he might cut off a finger or burn the house down. He eventually just grabbed the biscuit tin and brought that to her.

She'd stopped crying, and was now sitting staring at his parents' carpet. She looked so helpless, hair wet from the worsening rain and skin pale from vomiting. He sat next to her and she looked up at him with despondent eyes.

He sucked in a harsh breath as he was overtaken by the mad urge to kiss her again. She looked a wreck, smelled of alcohol and sick and was on the edge of tears but he had still never wanted to kiss someone so badly. He took a very large gulp of water, trying to drive the drunkenness away and reinstall some clarity.

"Fitz." Her voice was weak and scratchy, but it commanded his attention like nothing he'd ever known. "I'm so sorry. I ruined everything."

"Don' be daft." His arm came around her shoulder and drew her closer without his consent. "We both jus' got a bit drunk, tha's all."

"We kissed."

He closed his eyes, trying to will the conversation away, he wasn't ready for it. He wasn't ready to ask himself how he felt about the woman next to him, even though the answer was becoming clearer with each minute she spent in his parent's house.

"We were under the mistletoe, 'snot like we had a choice. 'S tradition." He thought for a second that he was going to throw up too, but that wasn't vomit, it was words. "Bloody traditions. I hate this place, Jemma. I bloody hate it. Everythin' ma parents do is traditional. When- when I told 'em I wanted to take my exams early, go to university, when I said I wanted tae make somethin' o' myself, d'ye know what they said? It was 'Oh, Leo, isn't it time you stopped dreamin' abou' goin' off an' buildin' robots an' though' abou' joinin' us down at the factory? It's a Fitz family tradition!' Well I hate it! I'm never goin' tae be like them, and they canna seem tae get it through their thick skulls. I-" he broke off, breathing heavily, years of repressed frustration burning his throat and eyes.

"The whole bloody bagpipes-an'-kilt thing they do," he continued, slower this time, more measured, but still unable to stop, "it's all a con. They draw you in all 'oh isn't the Scottish traditional thing fun?' bu' wha' you don' see is how it eats at people. My parents' idea of Scotland does'n' have room for scientists an' engineers. It's a world of factory workers an' shop assistants an' no' ever trying to be different. Well, I've been different my whole life, an' I don' plan on stoppin' now. So they can take back their kilts an' their cèilidhs, I don' want them."

"You don't mean that, Fitz, you-"

"I do! I wan' out of this place!"

"You are out. You're the brightest young engineer on the scene, and you're only 19!" She rubbed his back, like she was his mother, and thought made him hurt. "And they are proud of you, your dad said so just this morning." He nodded, willing her logic to convince him, but it didn't seem to be winning against years of resentment and perceived disappointment, sitting in his stomach like a hot stone.

"And for what it's worth, I'm proud of you too."

He couldn't help it. There was too much emotion in him, too much new feeling and old feeling and feeling that was beyond his understanding. This time, when his mouth met hers it was more forceful, more demanding. He was drunk and needy, and so was she, and she tasted sour, and none of this was right. But he couldn't stop, so he was pressing her back into the sofa cushions, and she was making sounds that he was choosing to think were sounds of pleasure, though he knew it could just as easily be protest. The thought made him press harder, wanting to wash away her doubt- his doubt- wanting to wash away everything. He was scaring himself, but he couldn't stop, and neither could she.

One hand was woven in his hair, her nails scratching his scalp and creating sparks where they did that fed the fire in his chest, which the other hand was pressed against. They were half lying down, he was between her legs, their tongues melding together messily. He was keeping her from falling off by gripping her thigh where her dress had slipped up, and his hand was inching higher without his permission. Her back was arched, straining up towards him and when he moved against her she moaned, a sound he felt all the way down to his groin.

Then there was another sound, and another body on there with them. Leo sprung back with a cry to see Sally bouncing up and down on the square half foot not taken up by them, barking at them. Everything seemed to hit him then, leaving him winded and struggling to breathe. He'd kissed her again, more than that, and this time there was no mistletoe to blame. He could only blame himself, and at that moment in time he wasn't sure he'd ever shake the guilt. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide and worried and beautiful, but he couldn't hold their gaze for more than a second. He righted himself, back bolt upright and tense, and she followed suit, watching him as though he may snap. Not that this was an unrealistic expectation, given what had just happened.

"This was a mistake" she said, and he found himself nodding even though a large part of him was screaming that she was wrong. "We're both very drunk, and very emotional. We just need to draw a line under this and move on. We can do that, can't we? Fitz?"

He worked up the courage to look at her, and he knew she was pleading with him to reassure her that they hadn't lost this, hadn't lost the only other person they'd ever found who understood them, who accepted them. And it hit him. His relationship with Jemma was too important, too central to his existence for him to ruin it like this. No matter how he felt for her, it didn't matter. They were partners, they were Fitzsimmons. He couldn't jeopardise that.

"O' course we can. We're partners, aren't we?" She beamed up at him, and his heart ached, but he clamped down on the feeling hard and fast. He turned away again, and picked up the remote. "Now, let's see if we can find somethin' worth watchin' while we finish off these ginger biscuits."