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Fitz crouched low in the driver’s seat, fingers drumming along the steering wheel as he watched the front door. It wasn’t lost on him that this was the second time in ten hours that he was staking out the Simmons residence, although he was far more likely to be arrested if one of their neighbors spotted him now. After spending a night drinking on Hunter’s roof, he was very much worse for wear; with his bloodshot eyes and his rumpled button down, Fitz wouldn’t be surprised if he was mistaken for a vagrant.
The thought gave him pause, and he sank even lower in his seat. His mother had enough to worry about without him being dragged home by the police as the sun was rising.
In truth, Fitz wasn’t sure what he was doing there. He sure as hell wouldn’t be impressed by him in his current state, but he just couldn’t let things end the way they did last night. No matter how many swigs he’d taken out of the shared bottle, Fitz couldn’t forget the look Jemma gave him as she’d slunk into her father’s sedan. Scared. Regretful. Hurt. Even hours later the memory was enough to make him feel like he’d be punched in the gut all over again.
It was that feeling that had him pulling what was clearly a move born out of desperation, and Fitz scanned the block for the umpteenth time. After a school year’s worth of conversations, he knew Jemma’s morning routine. Weekday or weekend, rain, shine, sleet, or snow, Jemma went for a morning run. As far as he was concerned, anyone who ran that far willingly was clearly mental; although, he supposed sitting outside a girl’s house on the off chance she’d run by was no better measure of mental health.
Fitz’ doubts about his plan grew as the minutes crept by, his nerves ratcheting higher with the rising sun. Unable to take it anymore, he reached for the key, ready to turn over the ignition and make a quick getaway when he saw her.
She was a speck in the distance at first, bouncing up and down with each stride, her ponytail swinging behind her. But Fitz had no doubt it was Jemma. Instead of turning over the key, he jerked it out of the ignition and clambered out of his car, his limbs feeling far too gawky as he did so.
“Jemma!”
She jerked to a stop as he called her name, head swiveling to find him from across the street. Jemma smiled as soon as she found him, and Fitz felt his heart lift in response. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he feared. Slamming the car door, Fitz moved around the hood to go to her.
“Fitz, I-”
“Jemma, come inside.”
The teens froze in the middle of the street, eyes locked. Fitz watched as the happiness in Jemma’s hazel eyes gave way to despondency, his own hope fleeing in the same instant. Tearing his gaze from her, Fitz looked over her shoulder to see her father framed in the doorway of her home, imposing as ever.
“Fitz.” Jemma took a half step toward him, lip trembling and hand out stretched. “Fitz, you didn’t do-”
“Jemma, I said ‘come inside.’ Now.”
Her father’s tone left no room for argument, and with a sigh Jemma turned away from him and toward her house. She spared a single glance back toward him before slinking past her father and disappearing into the darkness of the foyer. Fitz watched her go before locking eyes with her father.
The older man only glared at him, a silent reminder that Fitz wasn’t good enough for his daughter and a warning of what could befall them if they persisted, before shutting the door. Even from where he stood nearly across the street, Fitz heard the deadbolt click into place, another nail in the proverbial coffin.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring after her, but Fitz knew it was too long. He only moved when another car came along the quiet street, beeping in indignation that Fitz had the nerve to be standing in the street. He gave an apologetic nod and slipped back behind the steering wheel of his own DeVille.
“No,” he muttered to himself, pointing the car toward home. “ No . Tha’s not where we end. No’ if I have anythin’ t’ say about it.”