"I'm proud of you," Hunter said gravely, raising his beer to salute Fitz's mostly successful date.

Bobbi raised her bottle as well and leaned over to clink it against Fitz's, before taking a long sip, ostensibly neglecting to share a toast with Hunter. It was still early in the evening and the bar was empty but for the three of them and another small group of suit-wearing men sharing an afterwork drink.

Mack was noticeably absent, but his rare cheery mood at work as well as his conspicuously plaid-less outfit left Fitz wondering if maybe, a certain security agent had finally agreed to a date.

"It's a whole new level of complications, though," Hunter continued. "I mean, your first time is almost certainly going to be terrible–"

"You don't know that," Bobbi intervened, glancing at Fitz's rapidly blanching face.

"Hell yeah, I know that. Let's be realistic, here. I say, if you like that girl so much, your best option is to practice with someone else first."

"I don't want to practice with anyone else," Fitz said in a tone that suffered no argument. It felt so entirely wrong, there was no way he would even consider it.

Hunter frowned. "You sure?"

"Yes!" He huffed an exasperated sigh.

"Cause I could always set you up a profile on Tinder or something–"

"Oh no, not bloody Tinder again–"

"–and that little problem of yours could be dealt with by this time tomorrow!"

Bobbi's eyes had shot up at the mention of the app, but she made no comment, her lips closing into a tight line.

" No," Fitz said with a shiver of distaste. He had vehemently refused each time Hunter had suggested that option, and yet he kept bringing it up. It was a terrifying prospect, meeting someone explicitly for hooking-up purposes– someone with standards and expectations, who would no doubt have a good laugh recounting the episode to her friends...

"There's always the other solution– you know, the sane one," Bobbi piped in. "Just be honest. Tell her the truth."

"I agree with the hellbeast," Hunter said. "If you want it to happen with her, then there's no way around it. You have to tell her."

"Do I need to?" Fitz grimaced at the thought. He kept hoping they would find a magical way around that.

"It's not that big a deal," Hunter shrugged, even though he didn't sound much convinced. "Wanna practice?"

"What?"

"Let's just rehearse that conversation, alright? Pretend I'm her."

Fitz glanced at Bobbi, who merely shrugged.

"Come on," Hunter insisted. "Tell me."

Fitz mumbled something unintelligible before taking a large, vengeful sip of beer.

"What was that?" Hunter cupped his ear.

"I'm a virgin, okay?" he repeated loudly, sounding miffed, and immediately shrunk in his chair when he noticed some of the businessmen at the bar were looking in his direction, intrigued.

"Sweet. Now I know you don't... don't have syphilis!" Hunter said brightly, then whined after Bobbi elbowed him in the ribs.

"Why would she think I have syphilis?" Fitz frowned in astounded curiosity.

"I don't know, mate, that's not the point–"

"What Hunter meant to say," Bobbi cut in, daring Hunter to contradict her with a single raised eyebrow, "is that she'll understand. And it's okay to wait. It's okay to build up to it. But if you don't tell her where you stand, you can't expect her to guess. It can only lead to misunderstandings and confusion."

"I suppose you're right," Fitz reluctantly acknowledged.

Bobbi nodded. "When will you see her again?"

"Tomorrow. We're having dinner at that Thai place she likes."

"Great. Then you need to tell her over dinner," she said decisively. "Take your time to explain, but don't drag it out. You don't want a repeat of last time."

"I don't?" His cheeks heat up as he recalled the most pleasant moments of their previous date.

Bobbi and Hunter both grinned and exchanged a knowing look, before something seemed to pass between them. Their heads shot back to face Fitz with impressive synchronicity.

"What I meant," she said, biting her smile, "is that you don't want to mislead her, or have her misinterpret your behavior. That is the surest way to mess things up between you two."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right," he nodded, squaring his shoulders. "I'll tell her over dinner. Tomorrow. I'm gonna tell her tomorrow." Then he downed his beer in one long, fortifying gulp.

"I've got something for you," Fitz said unexpectedly as they waited for their satays and pushed a small black object to her side of the table.

"Oh, really?" Jemma replied, her smile growing rigid. Thankfully, he hadn't picked up on her nervosity yet. At least she'd picked the perfect place for their tricky second date– the restaurant was neither too snobbish or too casual, and quiet enough for the serious and potentially veryembarrassing conversation they were about to have. "A flash drive?" she asked, surprised, after examining the nondescript device.

Fitz sat a little straighter in his chair. "It's your paper," he clarified, glancing at her, and a blush crept up his cheeks as her expression changed. The words started tumbling out of his mouth, laced with a mix of pride and bashfulness. "I'm sorry it took so long. The hard drive was badly damaged and it took forever to figure out a way to fix it and have some spare parts shipped from Taiwan. Then I had to write a new data recovery program because nothing I had on hand was doing the trick, pretty ingenious actually–"

"Fitz!" she cut in before he could apologize further for going out of his way salvaging her hard work. "You're wonderful. Thank you." On impulse, she leaned over, craning her neck to reach his lips with hers.

When she sat back, he was blushing in that charming, almost juvenile way of his, and for a moment there, she was tempted to dismiss the plan entirely.

According to Daisy, Fitz was a pickup artist– or at least, he strived to be one. How or why she thought so remained unclear, as Daisy wasn't very forthcoming with intel. The one thing she'd adamantly denied, much to Jemma's relief, was that she and Fitz had never been a thing. Still, she insisted that Jemma needed to protect herself, or at the very least, test him a little before things went any further.

And thus, the plan was born. Their next conversation would make or break their relationship.

"Fitz," she started, but he quickly raised a hand, demanding to speak first.

"I've been thinking about it– about us," he said ominously, fixing his gaze on his own hand and the patterns it drew on his misty glass. "If this is going anywhere," he said earnestly, "and I really hope this is going somewhere... Then there are things that you should– well, one thing really, but– I'm sorry, I rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times, I swear, but it's so–" his hand flew up, drawing vague figure in the air between them as his face took on a dejected expression. He signed, resigned, and shook his head almost violently. "Forget it. I'll tell you later. It's not that important."

"Alright," she said, her forehead creased with uncertainty. "Actually there's something I wanted to tell you, too. I don't want to send you running for the hills or anything but I think maybe we've been moving too fast and… considering my dating history and everything–" she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, because by 'everything', she definitely meant Daisy. "If we're gonna do this again, then I think we should hold off on the physical part for a while."

There. She'd said it. Sex was explicitly off the menu. There would be no dessert– unless, of course, he wanted to try their superb coconut cake.

She watched him carefully, expecting to see a flash of disappointment or annoyance on his face, but much to her surprise, Fitz's face lit up and a delighted smile replaced his previously frustrated expression.

"That is a fantastic idea," he said, without a trace of irony. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Really? You're okay with–" Jemma narrowed her eyes. Was it possible he hadn't understood what she was suggesting? She thought she'd been reasonably clear, but it wouldn't be the first time a man reinterpreted her words according to his wishes. "No sex?" she asked crudely, anxious to dissipate any possible misunderstanding.

"No sex," he repeated happily. "From personal experience, I've reached the conclusion that sex tends to really complicate things," he said, his tone a little donnish, "and right now, I think we should probably focus on getting to know each other, you know?"

Jemma tilted her head to the side, eyeing him curiously. "I have to say, I'm surprised. I never thought you'd be so easy to convince."

"I'm completely convinced already," he said with an enthusiastic nod. "I think it's great. Perfect."

Jemma had come prepared to face several types of reaction, but never in a thousand years would she have expected instant and complete agreement. It was troubling. Was it calculated? Some sort of weird reverse psychology meant to have her begging for it by the end of the evening? "Most guys I've dated would be insisting by the third date how much they needed to 'physically express their feelings'," she air quoted.

"By the third date, huh? You know what? Let's make it the tenth," he said resolutely. "Ten dates."

"Oh, really," she said dubiously, wishing she could shake the sense of suspicion that was nagging at her. "Why not fifteen?"

"Fifteen is easy," he bragged. "Twenty. Yes. Twenty dates without sex."

"Twenty dates," she repeated, incredulous.

Fitz, for one, looked positively gleeful. "This is genius," he said, raising his glass to salute her brilliant idea.

This situation was entirely unprecedented. Never in her adult life had she even considered dating a man for over a month without– well, physically expressing her feelings. And more importantly, she wasn't sure she wanted to. She'd suggested this to test Fitz's interest in her, not to deprive herself. Not to mention, she was very interested to find out if the way Fitz kissed –enthusiastically, eagerly and tirelessly– extended to other activities as well.

Meanwhile, his expression was sobering, too. "I just have one question," he said with a slight frown. "Does it mean– are we still allowed to– make out?"

Jemma couldn't help but grin. "We most certainly are."

Later, after Jemma parked her car in front of his apartment complex, they almost crushed the to-go serving of coconut cake he'd insisted on taking home, as they made out like a pair of horny teenagers trying to make the most of the last minutes before curfew.

"18 dates to go," Jemma said, breathless, as she unhooked her arms from around his neck.

"I don't think the ones before we made the deal should count," Fitz countered, eyes closed, as he tried to regain control of his breathing.

"They count," she replied unflinchingly, cursing Daisy and herself for an idea she was already regretting. "They definitely count."

After being granted that unexpected and frankly miraculous respite, Fitz decided it was time for him to do some research.

With a sense of diffuse trepidation, Fitz turned down the picture of his mother standing on his dresser, before he went to extract Hunter's lovingly curated collection from the bottom of his closet, where it had been buried behind several boxes of comics. He randomly fished out a few boxes, repressing a shudder. Even with her framed photograph facing away, it still felt like his mum would know somehow.

After turning down the light, he settled in bed, feeling inexplicably nervous, he took a few deep breaths before he finally dared to press "play".

Fitz watched the first movie for a total of three minutes before he relented and pressed the eject button. It took him that long to pinpoint exactly what was bothering him– the woman on the screen reminded him sharply of the meanest teacher he'd ever had, with her overdone, puffy hairdo and sour expression, while the man's impressive hairiness and jiggling gut proved thoroughly distracting.

The next one featuring two reasonably attractive ladies in superheroine capes and the clueless civilian they'd just rescued, but he had to relent again when it looked like they were about to take those very long, sharp and angular-looking fingernails very close to some sensitive parts of their male companion's anatomy.

After that, he tried a few more, but every last one of them featured one or several fatal flaws that prevented him from enjoying the show– weird, over-enthusiastic screaming, bizarre camera angles that prominently featured parts of the male performer he wasn't that interested in, unfortunately placed acne… It soon became obvious this was not going to work for him.

While his body did perk up as he skimmed through some of the scenes, his mind was increasingly affronted by the laughable scenarios and affected baby voices. Besides, it all seemed rather counter-productive. The movies freaked him out a lot more than they... intrigued him. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Hunter he wasn't very interested in that particular hobby.

Besides, no amount of grating, high-pitched squeals or acrobatic mating could come close to simply reminiscing the mind-numbing lust he'd felt while kissing Jemma. While snogging Jemma senseless. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could still feel the trail of languid, open-mouthed kisses she'd peppered from his ear down to his collarbone, hitting a number of sweet spots he hadn't known he had.

He wasn't going to do that while he thought of Jemma, though. It would be wrong– disrespectful.

At long last, he picked out the one DVD box he hadn't thought to watch. The peppy, cheerful theme song was engaging enough, and by the end of the first episode, his curiosity was piqued. By the time Leslie Knope valiantly defied a rogue Venezuelan delegation, Fitz was thoroughly enamoured with the show and the people of Pawnee.

Before he knew it, he'd marathoned straight through the entire season. It was tempting to start on the third one right away, but he wondered if Jemma would like to watch the rest with him.

The next month was a blur of outings and happiness and Jemma.

On their sixth date, they went to the zoo on a sunny Saturday afternoon and spent half of the afternoon sitting on a bench opposing the chimpanzees' vast enclosure, watching them climb and play and grin and fight. After a while, an older chimp with a greying beard and a cantankerous look took offense to them overstaying their welcome– or perhaps to them making out unrestrainedly in its line of vision. He hated to upset the monkeys, but Jemma tasted of mango ice cream and the sun shone in her hair and she smiled like she wouldn't want to be anywhere but here with him, and Fitz was only a man, after all.

Their ninth date was a dinner-and-a-movie affair. As they waited in line to get their tickets for Captain America, Fitz tried his very best not to blush outrageously when he thought of the offensive parody that was still lying in a corner of his apartment. When the lights went off, Jemma linked their hands together and let them rest on her bare knee, not letting go of him until the credits rolled. After the movie, they engaged in a heated Team Cap vs Team Iron Man debate that dragged on and on until their waiter had to inform them the restaurant was about to close its doors. Fitz was quite proud of himself, really– he'd made some good points for someone who'd spent the entire movie wondering if her legs were as soft higher up under her skirt.

On many dates, they stayed in. Fitz was delighted that Jemma enjoyed Parks & Recreation as much as he did, and together they marathoned through three entire seasons tucked under a plaid comforter on her couch, which was quickly becoming Fitz's favorite place in the world. Facetiming his mother with Jemma in his arms had been a complete accident– he had just picked up without thinking it through, distracted as he was by Pawnee's city council election– but a few minutes later Jemma and his mom were grinning at each other and laughing at his expense and his stomach was making all kinds of weird somersaults.

It hit him then. This, what they were doing– it wasn't casual dating. It wasn't casual anything.

They spent every other evening together each week and when they weren't together, they were constantly texting. She was the first and last thing that crossed his mind every day, and whenever he read or saw or heard something interesting, his first thought was invariably 'I have to tell Jemma' . When he wasn't with her, he kept wishing he was– talking with her was easy. Even when he fumbled for words, she knew exactly what he meant to say. And the way her mind worked– that was an endless source of amazement.

Bobbi had snickered when he'd brought it up. "You're in love, you dork. It really is that simple."

"I can't be!" he replied, aghast. "I haven't told her yet."

The closer they got to that dreaded twentieth date, the more terrified he became. He was perfectly content with the way things were going, for the time being. Talking, laughing, eating fine foods and kissing for hours– surely it didn't get any better than that. His body certainly seemed to crave new developments, but with each passing day, his apprehension eclipsed his longing a little more. He knew it was entirely his fault– he'd let go of every chance to tell her, and now it was too late. He simply couldn't. He had missed his window of opportunity, once again.

Jemma was a very sensual woman, and she'd started hinting to how she wished things would move a little faster by the third week. She was actually looking forward to sleeping with him. When the day came, soon– much too soon– she would be crushed with disappointment, no doubt, and there was nothing he could do about it. She would have to break up with him then. He couldn't blame her, he completely understood. No grown woman wanted to date a fumbling, panicked virgin who didn't know the first thing about pleasing a woman.

Somewhere along the way, in Fitz's mind, the long awaited 20th date became the final one. He was counting down to the day he would lose her, and damn, was that going to hurt like hell.

On the morning of their scheduled last date, Fitz woke up so twisted out of shape he couldn't eat it a thing, and his morning tea tasted like soggy ashes. He couldn't rid his mouth of the taste and the feeling remained– it was like a hangover that became worse instead of better as the hours went by. He toyed with his phone all afternoon, typing and deleting, and generally not accomplishing a thing, until he couldn't postpone it anymore. He texted her a laconic, I'm sorry. I can't make it tonight and as soon as the message went through, he turned off his phone.

Apparently, he was a virgin and a bloody coward.