"Just do it already," Mack yelled from the living room, his booming voice barely covering the yelps of his and Hunter's in-game avatars and carrying all the way to the bathroom, where Fitz had locked himself with his phone and Jemma Simmons' business card.
By way of reply, Fitz grunted and resumed staring at the card in his hand, his cell resting by the sink, unused. No matter how many times he rehearsed the conversation in his head, it felt as if he would never be ready. His stomach would never not drop at the thought and his throat would keep closing, leaving him gasping for air.
"If you don't call her," Hunter shouted, "I will. Set up a play date for you," he said, and laughed when he heard Fitz's reflexive groan.
Perhaps it was one of those things you had to do quickly and without thinking, like ripping off a band-aid or downing a shot of cheap liquor.
Fitz took a deep breath, grabbed his phone and tapped the 10 digits. He'd been staring at that card so hard and so long, the numbers were long committed to memory.
The line only rang once before it was picked up. "Hello?"
"Hey. Hi. Hello," he fumbled, wincing. "Is this Jemma?" Ridiculous. He was ridiculous.
"Yes, Fitz," she replied, her smile plainly audible. "Hi."
"Hi," he said once more, finding himself grinning in spite of his monumental nervousness. "How– how are you doing?"
"I'm good, thank you. And y–"
"So, I wanted to ask you–" he cut her off, anxious to say his piece. "I thought you and I could, huh–" Fitz let out a frustrated sigh, appalled by his own tongue-tiededness. "Dinner," He finally clipped out. "Somewhere… nice?"
"Yes. I'd like that," Jemma replied joyfully. "I happen to be free tonight..."
"I– huh, tonight?" Fitz froze, while his heart picked up in a mad, frantic rhythm. "I was thinking, maybe this weekend, but– tonight's good. Tonight's great." Tonight was disastrous. He felt like he might be sick. He was supposed to have days to prepare! Maybe weeks, if she needed to mull it over!
"Great," Jemma replied, oblivious to his torment. "Are you coming to pick me up?"
"Huh, see, that might be a bit of a problem because I, err, ride a bike?" He found himself wincing. He quite liked his bike. It was a cheap, efficient mode of locomotion that kept him in relatively good shape despite his cheetos and burger-based diet. But there was this particular, glaring downside he'd never considered before...
"Really?" Jemma sounded both intrigued and pleasantly surprised. "I didn't peg you for a motorcycle guy! It's been a while rode at the back of one but one of my high school boyfriends–"
"Yeah, no, I mean, I ride a bike– bicycle. I ride a bicycle." He covered the phone's speaker with his hand so he could bang his head against the wall.
"Oh." There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. "Do you want me to pick you up?"
Fitz gave the wall another quiet smack. "I guess that would… Yes?"
"She said yes!" he said triumphantly as he joined Hunter and Mack in the living room, the transportation issue now eclipsed by the undeniable overall success of his mission.
Both men instantly erupted into cheers, abandoning their game to congratulate him. After all their cheering and coaching, it felt almost like a collective victory.
"Well done, mate," Hunter exclaimed, clapping Fitz's shoulder vigorously enough that it stung, while Mack handed him over a celebratory beer. "I know you had it in you!"
"She's picking me up in an hour," Fitz continued, grinning widely. Perhaps he should shave. Or change. He was wearing a pair of those snug pants Bobbi had insisted on and had never felt quite right…
Before he could voice those concerns, Fitz noticed that the room had gone suddenly very quiet.
"Here?" Mack asked, his brows shooting to his inexistent hairline. "She's coming here?"
"Yes?" Fitz stared back in confusion while Mack exchanged a loaded glance with Hunter.
"Look around, Turbo." Mack said cautiously. "What do you see?"
He scanned the living room, his happy place, with its overloading shelves and posters, figurines and rare comic issues he'd spent a lifetime to collect. It was a little crowded for sure, but it was clean and reasonably tidy.
"I don't know," he admitted. "A room filled with… stuff?"
"Right. Stuff. The same kind of stuff my 9-years-old nephew begs for at every Christmas and birthday," Hunter noted.
Mack shot him a glare. "Try to envision it through the eyes of a woman. A woman who's romantically interested in you. A grown man."
It had never occurred to Fitz to consider his apartment through the assessing eyes of a woman, having long reached the conclusion himself that he was not dating material. Perhaps the guys had a point, though. After all, they presumably knew what they were talking about, and he hadn't the slightest clue. Was she biased against framed monkey posters? Did she expect him to own a coffee table? What if she assumed he lived in some sort of decoration magazine spread, with frilly drapes and cushions everywhere?
Fitz blanched. "What should I– what can I do?"
"There's only so much that can be done in an hour," Hunter said. "I vote that we move everything that looks like you're living in pre-teen nerd heaven in the other room so she gets at least a chance to view you as a potential mate."
"I second that," Mack added solemnly.
When Jemma came to pick up, exactly an hour after they hung up the phone, Fitz's living room was entirely empty and resolutely stuff-less. Actually, it looked like the place was up to rent.
"Did you just move here?" she asked, confused.
"I'm– carpeting? I'm having new carpeting done. Tomorrow," he said, clearing his throat. "So, I was thinking– do you like Italian food?"
As they walked to her car, Fitz kept cursing himself. If this thing with Jemma miraculously worked out, he would have to recarpet his rented condo, not to mention, find a storage facility for all his stuff.
Dating was even more complicated that he had anticipated.
"No, but the sonic screwdriver does exist. Researchers created a device that uses ultrasound to lift and rotate objects in water. It doesn't blow things up though," Fitz added ruefully. "That would be easy enough to implement."
Jemma smiled and sipped her wine, noting the way his eyes crinkled and his hands flew wildly in the air when he spoke of something he was passionate about.
Striking conversation had been laborious at first, enough so that she'd worried their date would go down in flames before their entrees were cleared. But not only was she having a good time now, she found herself utterly charmed. Fitz was sweet and easy to talk to, but also bullheaded, surprisingly snarky, and impossibly smart. Not to mention, riling him up was as easy as it was entertaining.
She'd been astonished to discover his engineering background and unconventional curriculum, having never met another child prodigy in adulthood. His experience of being the lonely child genius among a crowd of young adults strikingly mirrored hers.
She was about to ask him about his leaving the United Kingdom when their conversation was interrupted with a slightly goofy, lyrical version of Happy Birthday in Italian. Beaming, Jemma craned her neck to get a better view of the Maitre'd serenading an older couple surrounded with family a few tables over, in a picture of retiree happiness.
When the song ended and the couple kissed, even Fitz couldn't help but clap. He looked at her with a sheepish expression, and the idea that had been nagging at the back of her mind converted to steely resolve.
"Oh, wow, it's your birthday, too?" Jemma exclaimed. Fitz's eyes narrowed as she waved for the Maitre'd to come nearer.
"Please don't–" Fitz said pleadingly, an air of panic etched on his face now he could tell what she was up to.
"Sir! It's Fitz's birthday, too. Do you think you could…?"
She watched, bubbling with glee, as the man launched into an encore performance of Tanti Auguri A Te by their table while Fitz's face flushed bright red with embarrassment. She grabbed his hand and held it for the entire song, while he did his best to glare at her.
"Thank you very much," Fitz muttered when the applause fizzled, his lower lip in a pronounced pout.
On impulse, Jemma leaned over the table to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. Fitz became instantly still, as if the slightest movement might send her away. She lingered for only a second, wishing she didn't have to. He even smelled nice. Everything about him was nice. Better than nice.
When she sat up straight again, Fitz was looking at her with the softest eyes.
"Best birthday ever," he said with a one-shoulder shrug.
When Jemma had suggested they go back to her apartment for a drink, he'd enthusiastically agreed for two reasons: he was eager to prolong their date, which he'd enjoyed beyond all expectations, and ever since dessert, he'd started fretting about a hypothetical goodnight kiss– something he both dreaded and desperately longed for. He could certainly use the delay to brace himself and, if possible, ensure Jemma was amenable to the idea of kissing him.
Not once had it occurred to him that "a drink at her place" might be code for something else.
They encountered a first road block when it appeared that Jemma didn't have much in the way of beverages. Her fridge was empty save for a bottle of sriracha and a lone beer, which they decided to share. Sitting on the couch, practically hip to hip with her, Fitz was just beginning to grow nervous again when Jemma leaned over and pressed her lips to his, startling him. She pulled back then, a frown of uncertainty on her face, but he immediately recaptured her mouth with an enthusiasm that had her chuckling against him.
The second kiss had turned into a third, a fourth, a twentieth. Jemma began a meticulous exploration the column of his neck while his fingers started itching to feel more of her. Divining his thoughts, Jemma grabbed his hand from her waist to reposition it under her blouse, where her skin was impossibly soft and warm, and he tensed again.
"Everything okay?" Jemma asked against his neck, pausing.
"Mmhmm," was all he could reply.
Her fingernails grazed his scalp as she moved to lick the seam of his lips, sending jolts of electricity coursing through his body.
Only then did he realize that perhaps, Jemma was considering having sex. With him. Tonight.
Fitz could honestly say he'd never considered that a possibility. He loved kissing her. Kissing Jemma was bloody brilliant. He resented the fact that they would eventually have to stop kissing. He was certainly not opposed to the idea of things going further, and his body seemed quite enthusiastically in favor of that. In fact, he'd come perilously close to an extremely embarrassing incident a few times during what could only be described as a good, old-fashioned snogfest.
But he felt completely unprepared. The very idea of pursuing on the path they were on had him torn between blinding lust and unadulterated terror. He liked Jemma. He liked everything about her– not just her striking beauty, or her brain-addling kisses, or the intriguing curves underneath her shirt he could almost– almost– graze with the tips of his fingers. He liked talking to her, too. Hell, he could talk to her, amazingly enough. She didn't zone out when he talked about drones. She enjoyed mocking the bullshit science of popular movies just as much as he did. She'd explained her paper to him, the one he was still trying to recover, and it was brilliant. She was brilliant.
If they moved forward… the odds were not in his favor for things to go smoothly. There was too good of a chance that he would muck it all up, and then it would be over. She would move on to someone in her own league– someone experienced, who wouldn't internally lose it at the thought of touching her boobs.
But if they stopped now, who knew if she'd ever want to try again? Besides, Hunter would never let him hear the end of it.
He was busy debating if he should move his hand another inch higher under Jemma's blouse when, in the small part of his mind that was still aware of his surroundings, Fitz registered the sound of a key turning in the lock. Moments later, the front door opened and shut, followed by the sound of a set of keys being thrown on a mantle, shoes kicked out and, finally, footsteps.
"Hello, Roomie," a female voice called from the hallway. "Change of plans. Lincoln was called to the hospital again and– oh, hello."
For about 2 seconds, all Fitz could feel was relief. As much as he would have enjoyed making out with Jemma for a few additional hours, the choice was being made for him and he could stop agonizing over it. Then he looked up to awkwardly greet her smirking roommate, and immediately recognized the lady from the store– the snarky one. Daisy.
Fitz's stomach dropped heavily as his heartbeat elevated again, this time for a much less pleasant reason. He felt like he'd just been caught red-handed, although his exact faults remained rather unclear. And yet, he couldn't shake the notion that he'd somehow wronged them both.
He saw the exact moment Daisy managed to remember him, too. Her eyes widened slightly with a flash of recognition, although her face remained almost entirely impassive. She had one hell of a poker face.
Jemma cleared her throat, catching his attention again. "Fitz, this is my flatmate, Daisy, this is Fitz. My– date," she said as she pulled on her blouse.
"Hi. Hello. Mmh," Fitz fumbled. "I think I'd better go–" He couldn't be here. He needed time to think– about what had almost happened, about Jemma… And bloody hell, what would Daisy think of him now? Would she out him to Jemma as some kind of incompetent womanizer?
"No, no, you can stay," Jemma said in a rush, frowning deeply.
"Yeah, Fitz, stay! Let's chat," Daisy said, dropping on the couch next to him, as Jemma was still propped up against the armrest. She wiggled her eyebrows. "Read any good books lately?"
"Please ignore Daisy, she has no sense of boundaries," Jemma griped, throwing a glare in her roommate's direction.
"No, really, it's late and I, huh–" Fitz jumped on his feet, gracelessly joining his hands in front of his crotch in a would-be casual posture that was no doubt giving him away faster than any suspicious bump.
Daisy had the decency to cover her snort with a reasonably credible coughing fit.
"Oh, if you must," Jemma said regretfully, rising from the couch as well. "I'll drive you home, then."
"No, no, it's okay," he said with phony cheerfulness. "I'll walk. It's not that far–"
"Ugh, Fitz," Jemma moaned. "It's a half-hour walk at least–"
"More like 45 minutes, but I enjoy a good night stroll, okay?" he insisted, as she followed him down the hallway. He shrugged on his jacket and turned to face her, finding himself tongue-tied once more.
"Can I– I guess–" He sighed, exasperated with himself. "I'll– call you?"
"Yes," she said, and pressed a kiss at the corner of his mouth. "You will."