Fitz is skeptical about letting alien stuff sit around the lab after the Chitauri incident, but they don't have a choice. He takes precautions, though. When they're not actively studying it, the device gets locked away inside layers and layers of protective materials.
Today, they're trying to get images of its insides for the Holotable, but not even the D.W.A.R.F.s can get consistent readings. Fitz tries not to get impatient, but it's been going crazy all day, and it's impossible to figure out what's inside the smooth, featureless cube.
He lets out a shout of exasperation and leans on the Holotable. "What the hell is this thing?!"
Simmons has been working at it with dogged determination, but she's gotten no more results than he has. "I don't know, but we are going to find out, because I did not go through that much graduate school to be defeated by a little metal box." The words are optimistic, but her voice drips with frustration. She wants nothing more than to take this stupid metal box and bash it with a hammer, though based on what readings she's managed to get so far, it would take a very special hammer to break it open.
And then all of a sudden it's open on the table, its sides unfolded into a nice, neat cross, and at the juncture of the arms is a jumble of little gears.
"What did you do?" Fitz asked, shocked.
Simmons is just as surprised. "I have no idea. I just thought about breaking it open and—"
The safety protocol kicks in, alarm crying softly in time with the pulsing red warning lights. The lab computer announces a radiation hazard and Simmons nearly drops her tablet. "Please proceed to the radiation shower."
Fitz's eyes widen. He knows as well as Simmons the size of the radiation shower. They have a small lab; the radiation shower is proportionally small, and does not fit two. Not comfortably, anyway.
It's only a Level-2 radiation breach, so they get to keep their underthings, but they stand back to back anyway, not looking at each other. They each wonder what it would be like to turn just ninety degrees. He wonders what her silhouette looks like, if the geometry of her curvature is symmetric. She wonders—with purely scientific curiosity—how his proportions deviate from the average of the species, and then blushes furiously, thankful he can't see, when the vision enters her mind of her best friend standing with his fists on hips, feet shoulder-width apart, clad in nothing but his pants and a pair of mismatched socks.
The radiation shower dumps a pair of lab coats on them when it's finished cleaning them off, and Simmons is glad she remembered to stash a change of clothes in the lab after the last decon incident. She's still red-faced when they leave the decon shower, but so is he, and they tacitly agree never to speak of it to anyone.