Archive of Our Own

Fitz is in a hurry. A more urgent hurry than he can remember being in for a long time, actually. Just as he rounds a corner, he nearly slams directly into Coulson.

“Oh, god! Sorry, ‘scuse me,” he says, sidestepping to avoid colliding with his boss. He hisses as some near-boiling tea sloshes onto his wrist.

Coulson places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him before he can scurry down the hallway again.

“Fitz, we need to talk,” he says.

Fitz is just about to say that he has an urgent matter to attend to (intending to leave out the fact that the urgent matter is to get this tea and scone to Jemma so that she doesn’t start watching series two of Doctor Who without him) when he sees the look in the older man’s eyes. It’s the same dead-serious look Fitz had grown accustomed to in the days after the fall of SHIELD. He straightens instantly, tea and telly forgotten.

“What is it, sir?” he asks, anxiety flooding his system as scenarios start racing through his mind. SHIELD can’t have fallen again, can it? No… Ward? Is he not dead after all? He’s certain Coulson killed him on Maveth. Maybe something with Daisy?

“Not here,” Coulson says, using the hand on his shoulder to direct Fitz into his office.

Fitz’s heart feels like it might hammer out of his chest. What could be cause for such concern that they couldn’t even talk about it in an empty hallway? Just as his anxiety is ratcheting up, Coulson flicks open a panel near the door of his office and hits a few keys. Since Fitz is the one who developed that particular wall panel and all the technology within it, he knows that Coulson has just soundproofed the room. 

“You have to get out of here, Fitz,” Coulson says, voice low and more serious than Fitz can ever remember it being.

His brain stops short, trying to process what he’s just heard. Get out of where? The base? The city? SHIELD? Where is Jemma?

“Jemma,” Fitz says once his jaw finally unlocks. “Where’s Jemma?”

“She’s fine. For now,” Coulson says.

Fitz’s heart freezes in his chest, and he only just manages not to drop the tea he’s holding. For now?

Coulson is behind his desk, opening drawers and shoving things into a small drawstring bag without looking back up. Once he’s seemingly gone through every drawer, he brings his gaze back to Fitz’s.

“Okay, take this and get out of here. Now. You know where to go.”

“If you think I’m going anywhere without Jemma –” Fitz begins, but is quickly cut off by Coulson.

“I’m not asking you to go without Jemma, Fitz,” he says, but Fitz talks over him before he can finish his thought.

“What the hell is going on?”

“You’re being targeted,” Coulson explains. “I don’t know why or who by. All I know is that they’re in SHIELD and I have no idea who I can trust other than our team. So you have to go. We’re going to sort this out and make sure you’re safe, but we can’t do that if you’re here.”

“Sir, whatever is going on, I’m sure it’ll be easier to figure out with me here working the problem. I can look after myself,” he says, jaw set. If anyone thinks they’re going to get him away from his team just by threatening his life, they have another thing coming.

“It isn’t only you they’re targeting,” Coulson says gravely.

Fitz doesn’t need to ask for clarification. His whole world screeches to a halt. Okay, if someone thinks they can get him to do anything at all just by threatening her life, they are absolutely right.

“Jemma,” he breathes.

Coulson nods, thrusting the small bag at him once again.

“Go. Get Simmons. Get your go-bags. And get the hell to the plane. May will take you where you need to go, and she’ll give you all the details we have on the way.”

Fitz takes the black bag and slings it over his shoulders, already turning to leave when Coulson speaks up one last time.

“Fitz, you two look after each other. We can’t lose either of you.”

“Fitz, there you are,” Jemma says, a wide smile spreading across her face at the sight of him. “My tea must be stone cold now.”

Her teasing flies directly over his head as he rushes into her small room and slams the door behind himself. He quickly soundproofs the room (since he had implemented the same soundproofing technology from Coulson’s office into both his and Jemma’s bunks).

“Jemma, is your go-bag ready?” he asks, voice almost a whisper even though he knows they are safe from prying ears.

“What?” she asks, brow furrowing in confusion. She sits up on the bed, alarm spreading across her face as she sees the urgency etched into his. “What’s going on, Fitz?”

“Your go-bag,” he repeats. “Is it ready? Can you grab it right now?”

Without any further questioning, Jemma is up off of her bed and reaching beneath it to pull out a stuffed backpack. She slides it onto her shoulders and grabs the remote to switch off the telly. “What about yours?”

“I’m going to go get it now. You take this and get to the Quinjet. May is there waiting on us. I’ll explain everything I know once we’re in the air.”

Jemma nods, reaching out to take the bag he’s offering with a steely determination in her eyes. She knows him, trusts that he’s making an informed decision for both of them and that he’ll tell her everything as soon as he can.

“Where are we going?” she asks, gripping Coulson’s drawstring bag tightly in one fist.

“Wales.”

At that, he sees real fear flicker across her face. But she nods once more and gives him a quick, tight hug, whispering in his ear, “see you on the plane.” She steps back, giving him a hard look for a moment before she speaks again. “I’m not going anywhere without you, Fitz.”

Warmth blossoms in his chest and threatens to creep up his neck at her words, but he clears his throat and tries not to let the affection he suddenly feels show on his face. Now is hardly the time for any of… that. “I know, Jemma. I promise I’ll be there in a moment.”

She seems at least a bit comforted by his words and turns to leave without further comment.

Once Fitz has grabbed his own duffle bag from beneath his bed, he’s sprinting off towards the plane as fast as his legs can carry him. As bad as he feels about not saying goodbye to his team, he knows he can’t delay getting Jemma out of danger any longer than absolutely necessary. The halls echo loudly with the sound of his footsteps, and he’s struck by how eerily quiet it is in the base right now. Has Coulson rounded everybody up for some kind of assessment? Fitz doubts it, he knows that isn’t the smartest play. So where is everybody?

Shaking his head, he tries to put it out of his mind and redoubles his efforts to get to Jemma. Soon, he’s skidding into the hangar and running up the ramp of the Quinjet. He can almost swear he hears Jemma mutter “thank god” as the ramp closes behind him.

“You two strap in,” May says, already flicking switches to begin take off. “I’ll explain everything when we’re in the air.”

“What on Earth is going on, Fitz? How much did Coulson tell you?” Jemma demands, taking his bag and storing it next to hers before they sit on two adjacent jumpseats and strap in. “What could be so bad that we have to go to Wales? We didn’t even go to our safe house when SHIELD fell.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Fitz says with a small, helpless shrug. “Coulson pulled me into his office when I was on my way back with your tea and told me that we had to get out. That someone was targeting you and we knew where to go.”

“Targeting me?” Jemma says, confusion colouring her voice. Fitz can tell that she has absolutely no idea who might want to harm them either. “Well, shouldn’t we have stayed with the team, then? Helped them figure out what’s going on? I mean, surely I’d be more benefit there than hiding away in Wales with no way of communicating with them.”

Fitz sighs, shaking his head. “No, Jemma. Coulson said it’s someone in SHIELD and he doesn’t know who to trust. He said that our team is going to sort it out, but that they can’t do that with us in imminent danger.”

“Wait,” she says, turning to face him. “Us? I thought you said they were targeting me?”

“Well, me too,” he admits, attempting a casual shrug.

“You made the right choice,” she whispers. Fitz swears he actually sees the anxiety on her face multiply as she takes in the information that he’s in just as much danger. Which is exactly why he hadn’t come right out and said so in the first place.

“I know,” he answers, looking down at his hands. He anxiously rubs his palm with his thumb, and all he can think is that he’d rather be holding Jemma’s hand right now. He can’t shake the unsettled feeling he’s had ever since Coulson told him she was okay ‘for now.’ Something deep in his gut just wants to feel her skin against his, to have the tactile proof that she’s here and safe with him. But he can’t do that. They’ve just started over. They aren’t there yet, and maybe they never will be. He rubs harder at the palm of his hand and clenches his eyes shut to ward off the panic that she could be taken from him at any moment. Everything will be fine once they get to Wales, he’s sure of it. No one other than Coulson and May even knows about their safe house.

Trying to force himself out of his spiral, he says, “we’ve not been to Wales since we bought our cottage, have we?”

Jemma hums in agreement and Fitz looks over to see her gnawing at her bottom lip. Things have never been bad enough that they would need to leave SHIELD and take refuge away from their team. “Oh, it is lovely, isn’t it? It might be nice to see it again.”

“It is,” Fitz whispers, nodding. They had made the decision to buy a joint safe house their first year out of the academy, and had anyone else known about it, they would have scoffed at them. It certainly isn’t common practice for agents to share safe houses, even with their spouse, but Fitz and Jemma had both agreed that they could never imagine a scenario in which one of them needed to be stashed away without the other. So, they found a quaint little cottage off the coast of Wales, close to home for both of them, but far enough away that they felt safe, and Fitz had drawn up fake identities for them both to go with it.

“Guess we’ll be going by Rose and Jake MacDonald for the foreseeable future, huh?” Jemma says teasingly, bumping his shoulder with her own.

Fitz laughs a little and agrees. The identities he had made for them were that of a married couple, as not to raise suspicions. He can’t hold back another laugh when he remembers just how brightly his cheeks had burned with embarrassment when their estate agent referred to them as “the MacDonalds” and asked them how their honeymoon had been with a suggestive nudge. Luckily for both of them, Jemma swooped in and saved the day, telling him about their trip to the Seychelles and the snorkelling they had done there. Fitz had nodded along, keeping his jaw firmly shut.

“I’ll never forget how red your face got when that estate agent asked if we had enjoyed our honeymoon,” Jemma says with a giggle. 

“That’s exactly what I was just thinking about!” Fitz says, covering his face with an embarrassed groan.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Fitz,” Jemma says soothingly, placing a hand on his shoulder and kneading it lightly. Fitz fights the instinct to lean into her touch, but he can’t find it in himself to pull away. “It was a terribly inappropriate question; anyone could have been thrown off by it. Especially considering the fact that we weren’t actually married. 

“Right, well… yes,” he says with an awkward cough. “You handled the situation just fine.”

A blush creeps across Jemma’s cheeks and Fitz bites back a grin at the sight. “My saving-Fitz-from-blowing-our-cover instincts kicked in, that’s all. 

“Oi!” he protests, shoving her shoulder lightly with his own. “I have never blown our cover. You’re the one who can’t lie to save your own life. I dunno how you pulled that one off.”

“Shut up,” Jemma mutters.

Fitz smiles, relishing the fact that they’ve somehow gotten back to this place, a place where things between them are as comfortable and easy as breathing. For a long time, he was convinced they never would. He had been terrified that he’d lost his best friend in the whole world after he was injured, and then just as things were getting better, she got sucked into a bloody rock and spat out on an alien planet for half a year.

Before Fitz can really spiral thinking about what exactly happened on that planet, Jemma leans her head onto his shoulder and sighs deeply. Content. If he didn’t know her as well as he does, his anxiety might be able to convince him that it was a bad sigh, one that means she wishes she were anywhere other than where she is right now. But he knows that sound, has heard it more times than he can count. After a long, successful day in the lab; when their favourite episode of Doctor Who comes on during a binge-watch; when she’s just taken the first bite of her favourite brownies… Yes, Leo Fitz knows that sound. It’s been a balm to his soul for a decade now, and it soothes him just as much in this moment as it did the first time he heard it.

Hesitantly, he leans his cheek against the top of her head. Jemma makes the sound again, quieter this time, and Fitz’s heart seizes up in the best way possible. Sure, some unknown villains might want them both dead, but something deep inside his chest tells him as long as they’re together, they’ll be okay.

He’s gently roused from sleep when Jemma moves her head, jostling him. His eyes flicker open to see May standing before them, a grave look on her face. To be fair, May usually has a grave look on her face, but Fitz can see behind her eyes that this isn’t her run-of-the-mill seriousness. He sits at attention, all sleep evaporating from his system in a moment.

“Agent May,” Jemma says, rubbing one eye with her fist as she sits up straight. “What on Earth is going on?”

“We don’t know much,” May says, hands clasped behind her back. “Someone inside SHIELD wants the two of you. We don’t know what for, just that it isn’t anything good. Phil is holding a meeting with every available agent right now while Daisy and Mack search the base and all SHIELD files for any information they can gather. All we know is that it was urgent to get you two to safety as soon as possible.

“As far as official SHIELD record goes, you’re going on an undercover assignment in Belarus. I’ll drop you off in Wales, where we’re officially stopping to refuel, and continue on to Belarus on my own so that the flight logs match. In the bag that Phil gave you, there’s a secure two-way comm that we’ll use to contact you once a day with any new information and to check in. If anything suspicious happens, use it. Phil will have the other end on him at all times, and we’ll come extract you. He also loaned you a few of his toys that should help you in a pinch. You’ll each take two ICERs and two real guns – use them if you need them. Look after each other.”

Despite the ice-cold dread spreading through his chest, Fitz can’t help but think that that was the most he’s ever heard May say at one time. He feels Jemma’s hand land on his thigh, and he rests his hand on top of it without a second thought. She flips her palm up and their fingers lace together in a move that feels second-nature, though he isn’t sure how. She squeezes his hand as she nods at May.

“You guys will look out for each other, too,” Jemma says, more statement than question. “If someone is out for Fitz and me it isn’t much of a stretch to think that the rest of you might be in danger as well. 

“Don’t worry about us, Simmons,” May says with what Fitz genuinely believes is fondness in her voice. “If you don’t have any questions, I’m going to get back to the controls.”

Fitz shakes his head, taking a deep breath and holding it for a few seconds. When Jemma confirms that she doesn’t have any questions either, May fixes them both with one last hard look before turning around and walking away.

The two of them relax back against their seats at the same time and turn their heads to look at each other. Fitz’s stomach clenches at the fear he sees swimming in her eyes. He knows she must be seeing something similar in his. He can’t shake the feeling that their team knows more than they’re letting on, that they are in more danger than anyone is really saying. The thought that Jemma’s life is in danger fills him with more dread than he can even describe. Somehow it feels very different from the way their lives are generally in danger every time they go into the field, or even just from the nature of espionage. This time, Jemma’s life specifically is being threatened by some unseen force, and Fitz can feel himself unravelling the more he thinks about it.

So when Jemma turns and rests her head against his shoulder again, he does his absolute best to shove those feelings down and trust their team to take care of her, of them. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and holds her closer. There’s something soothing about having her pressed tight against him, warm and alive and strong, and before he knows it, he’s drifting back off to sleep.

The dark green door of their cottage is just as welcoming as Fitz remembers it being all those years ago. It’s tucked away in a little groove surrounded by vibrant trees that contrast brilliantly with the dark shingled roof and faded grey stone of the cottage’s façade. It’s small: only two bedrooms, a living space, and a cosy little bathroom. Everything about it has always said safe to Fitz. He supposes that’s why they decided on this cottage over all the others on their list. 

“Shall we?” he asks, inexplicable nerves knotting up in his stomach. It’s different from the anxiety he’s feeling over their current situation with SHIELD; those are perfectly understandable, of course. No, these are nerves related to Jemma. To being alone in a small house with her for an indefinite amount of time. Before he can let himself fall down the rabbit hole of why, exactly, he’s anxious about spending time with his best friend in the world, Jemma grabs his hand and pulls him towards the door of their house.

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen it,” she whispers. Fishing the key out of her purse, she turns slightly to him. “I sort of hoped we’d never need to again, though.”

“Yeah, me too,” Fitz answers, squeezing her hand gently. With one last deep breath, she unlocks the door and pushes it open.

It’s just as comfortable as he remembers. There’s a familiarity to the space that he can’t quite understand, since they’ve never spent any time here before other than to ‘move in’ when they’d first bought it. The light hardwood of the small living room welcomes them inside, flowing seamlessly into the small attached kitchen. There’s firewood sitting near the little fireplace, and he wants to settle down on the sofa with her right away, stoke the fire and pick back up on their Doctor Who binge. In the back of his mind, he’s grateful that Jemma had insisted on having someone come by regularly to make sure it was stocked and clean and ready for them at a moment’s notice, especially since Fitz had thought it a silly idea.

“Oh,” Jemma breathes, walking further inside. “It’s even lovelier than I remember.”

Fitz drops their bags next to the doorway and lets Jemma lead him along to the bookshelf adjacent to the fireplace. She trails the fingers of her free hand along the spines of the books there, laughing softly at the choices in literature of their younger selves. Among them are a lot of old scientific journals, the entirety of Harry Potter, a Shakespeare anthology that he doesn’t remember buying, and tonnes of old textbooks that they’d hung onto for one reason or another.

“I’m so glad we kept not one but two copies of Dr. Waden’s texts for holographic engineering,” he says with a wry smile.

“You never know what’ll come in handy when you work for SHIELD, Fitz,” Jemma teases.

They certainly aren’t hoarders by any stretch, but it is true that they’re both always hesitant to get rid of anything that might be helpful in their rather unique line of work. Never know when they’ll need Volume II of Intro to Holographs to save the world as they know it.

She squeezes his fingers one last time before dropping his hand to grab the first Harry Potter. He immediately misses the warmth of her fingers wrapped around his, but shakes it off, shoving the feeling down and reaching up for a book of his own.

He plucks out the first thing his fingers brush against, which just happens to be one of the texts from their neurobiology class in freshman year at the academy. Fitz’s breath catches in his throat as he flips it open to a familiar page. Jemma’s neat handwriting etched into the page brings back a flood of memories that make him smile. Neurobiology was one of the first classes they’d ever had together, and it was one of the few at the academy that Fitz really struggled with. Struggled with, that is, until Jemma would lean over and scrawl notes better explaining the lessons for him.

Jemma was the first person who he had ever met who could really keep up with him. Who understood his thought process so well that she could teach him some things better than the brilliant professors who they were both so fond of. His first real, proper friend. When he looks at the notes she had written for him in the old textbook, his heart clenches so hard he thinks it might actually stop. It aches for simpler times when they were just two bright-eyed young minds beginning their journey. For the loneliness that he felt all the years before meeting Jemma. For the cavity in his chest that she filled up so completely it was hard to even really remember what it was like before they met.

“We really should get rid of some of these books,” Jemma says, interrupting his thoughts. “Donate them at the very least.”

“Not this one,” Fitz blurts out. His fingers clench, sliding against the slick, glossy pages of the book as though she were about to rip it from his hands and toss it in the fireplace. “I, ehm… we might need this one still. One day. You’re a biologist.”

“I know I’m a biologist, Fitz,” Jemma says with a soft laugh. “What book is that, anyway?”

“Craeden’s neurobiology one,” he says, sheepishly holding it out for her to see.

She makes a small “aw” as she reaches for the book. A wide grin spreads across her face when she sees the page he’s been reading, no doubt looking at the decade-old note that reads “Don’t worry, Fitz. I’ll explain this bit after dinner :D” with an arrow pointing to a particularly challenging topic that she knew he would be having a tough time with. He can only assume that the rest of the notes on this particular subject were scrawled into one of his long-forgotten notebooks.

“No,” she whispers, handing the book back. “We’ll keep that one.”

The thinly veiled emotion in her voice makes him feel better about his own reaction to the textbook, so instead of putting it back on the bookshelf, he leans down to tuck it safely into his duffle bag. When he stands back up, Jemma has re-shelved Harry Potter and the look in her eyes is so soft that he almost feels like he should turn away. 

Instead, he says, “how about we go drop our stuff off in our rooms?”

If he didn’t know better, Fitz would swear that she looks a little disappointed, but she nods anyway. “Might as well.”

Their two bedrooms branch off directly from the living room since the small cottage doesn’t have a hallway. Fitz’s is nearest the front door, and Jemma’s the back. They’re connected by the small bathroom which has a door to each of their rooms.

Fitz drops his bag on the old chestnut desk that he’d transferred here straight from his dorm at the academy. He and Jemma had both invested in new desks when they went to Sci-ops, but neither of them could stand to part with the ones that had seen them through their time in school, so to the safe house they went. The grain of the wood is familiar beneath his fingertips, telling him the stories of late nights working with Jemma on this project or that, cramming for exams that he’d forgotten about because of one of said projects, takeaway that he had spilled trying to wrestle her away from his food.

With a grin, he pats the desk once before turning to flop down on his mattress. The room, like everything else about the cottage, is small. Not in a way that’s claustrophobic, but cosy. Safe. It almost makes him feel like the world outside is smaller than he knows it to be. Like if he and Jemma can stay in this place forever, maybe they can avoid all the hardships that the universe keeps throwing at them. The cosmos isn’t angry with them here.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking around the room. The walls are a pale yellow that Jemma had fallen in love with the moment she saw them (Fitz had to admit, they did make him feel rather at ease), and the light wood flooring from the living room continues into both bedrooms. The bright blue rug in the centre of the room is another vestige from his time at school, as is the telly mounted on the wall opposite his bed. He grins when he remembers Jemma complaining that the telly took up half his room: “It’s bloody ridiculous, Fitz! It’s far too large for such a small room! And anyway, we won’t ever be here! Why get such a large television if you’ll never even get to enjoy it?” If it’s a crime to enjoy your favourite shows on the biggest screen you can shove into your room, then they might as well arrest Fitz right now. When he told Jemma as much, she rolled her eyes so hard he’d actually been a little worried they’d fall right out of her head.

A gentle knock sounds from his bathroom door and Jemma softly calls his name. The door creaks open when he tells her to come in, and her head pops just inside. He gives her a grin, sitting up and patting the bed next to him. The bed dips gently under her weight and she crosses one leg beneath the other, leaning back against his headboard.

“I’ve got some really mixed feelings going on,” she admits hesitantly, biting her bottom lip.

At the sight of Jemma’s discomfort, his own anxieties rush back in full force. He’s been so caught up in nostalgia, he somehow managed to put the very real threat looming over them to the back of his mind.

“It’s just… it’s kind of nice to be away, isn’t it? Almost like we’re on a proper holiday. And all this stuff from the academy, I can’t help but feel that… nostalgia for when things were simpler. When we were just two kids with no idea what was coming next. But I also can’t forget why we’re here. Someone wants to hurt you, maybe even kill you. Kill us.” She lets out a long, shuddering breath and avoids eye-contact.

Before he can chicken out, he reaches over and places one hand on top of hers.

“I know,” he says. It’s stupid, simplistic, and probably not at all what she was hoping to hear from him, but it’s all he’s got. He doesn’t mean it in a shallow sense. He really does know exactly what she’s feeling. The thought that someone is targeting his – Jemma, he catches himself – makes his stomach churn and his vision go red. But they’re also surrounded by all the good memories that cling to everything in this place. They make him feel younger, less damaged. The way that Jemma laces their fingers together and gives him a grateful smile makes him think that she understands what he was trying to get across.

“Wanna watch Doctor Who? I’ll make the tea this time if you get the fire going.” Jemma squeezes his fingers and he’s nodding before she’s even finished speaking.

Before long, the wonderful, woodsy scent of a fire is wafting through the cottage and the two of them are lounging on the couch. They have cups of tea in one hand and their others are clasped together again, though he isn’t quite sure how that happened. Fitz doesn’t let himself wonder whether it’s strange for two best friends to be holding hands for no reason at all. Instead, he just enjoys the feeling of Jemma’s soft, smooth hand wrapped around his and sinks further into the couch.

“It really was a good idea to have the housekeeper stock the place with our favourite shows over the years,” she says, scooching a little closer to him so that he can just feel her thigh against his. When she had insisted on keeping the house cleaned and stocked with a bit of food, he decided that they might as well send over copies of the most binge-worthy shows they could think of as well.

“Told ya so,” he says, bumping her shoulder lightly. She tsks, holding her cup of tea closer to her chest to steady it, but he can tell there’s no contempt behind the sound.

“Hit play,” she says, sipping at her tea. Rather than letting go of Jemma’s hand, he puts his cup down on the coffee table before them to grab the remote and do as she says. The familiar theme fills the room and they both bounce just a little in time with it.

“He’s such a baby!” Jemma exclaims when the newly-regenerated Doctor appears on-screen. Fitz rolls his eyes and smiles. “He’s like a little chicklet, look at him.”

“Hush, Jemma,” he says with a laugh. She pokes her tongue out at him but does settle down.

They get an episode and a half in before he feels a gentle, hesitant pressure against his shoulder. He knows without looking that it’s Jemma’s head and between how light the pressure is and the way her hand spasms tighter around his, that she’s nervous. At first, he thinks it’s something about their safety that’s got her worked up. He’s trying to think of something to say to soothe her fears when she makes to sit up straight again. Oh! Without another second of hesitation, he relaxes against her, trying to tell her he’s fine with this arrangement without speaking and making it awkward.

She lets go of a deep breath as she leans fully against him. An overwhelming urge to wrap his arm around her shoulders washes over him, but he resists, settling for running this thumb along her index finger.

“It’s an injustice, you know,” Jemma says grumpily.

“What is?” he asks, brow furrowed. He knows for a fact that this is one of her favourite episodes in series two. Maybe she’s thinking about their least.

“That they didn’t let David Tennant use his natural accent for his Doctor,” she says, nudging a little closer to him. His cheeks lift with a massive smile that he couldn’t hold back if someone were threatening his life.

“You mean his Scottish accent?” he says, chest warm.

“Yes, of course,” she says. He swears she sounds a little embarrassed. “That’s his only natural accent, isn’t it?”

“Not a fan of the estuary accent, then?” he asks, biting his bottom lip. “I think Tennant does a good job of it. In fact, if I didn’t know he was Scottish, I’d never be able to guess.”

“No, his accent is fine,” she says, shrugging. “Excellent, even… I just… prefer… his natural one. That’s all.”

Fitz wants to keep pushing, to ask her why she, an Englishwoman, would prefer her favourite character have a Scottish accent. But he doesn’t. Instead, the warmth in his chest spreads up to his face, and he finds that he doesn’t mind this blush too terribly much.

“His natural accent is cool,” Fitz agrees, letting the subject drop. Jemma squeezes his hand one last time before they quiet down again.

After a while, fatigue is starting to really settle into his bones. He slouches further, never letting go of Jemma’s hand. Just as he’s about to ask whether she wants to watch one more episode before bed, a soft sound cuts him off. Glancing over, he sees that she’s snoring, her (now cold) cup of tea balancing precariously on her thigh. As loath as he is to wake her (and have her move away from him), he can’t imagine she’ll be very pleased to be awoken by cold tea ruining her jeans and their sofa.

He shrugs his shoulder gently, whispering her name. When she doesn’t stir, he reaches across them to grab her cup and place it next to his on the table. “Jemma, wake up. Let’s go to bed.”

“Mmm,” she responds, snuggling against him even more. Fitz curses the cosmos once again before he speaks up a little louder.

“C’mon, Jemma,” he says, jostling her again. He briefly wonders if she’d be opposed to him just carrying her to her bed, but decides against it quickly. “Time for bed. Let’s go.”

Finally, she wakes up properly, sitting up ramrod straight. He soothes her, letting her know there isn’t anything wrong, that it’s just time for them to get to sleep. She nods, biting her bottom lip and staring him down. He doesn’t understand the look on her face, which is really something considering he’s been studying Jemma Simmons’s facial expressions for a decade now. After another moment, she leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, just catching the corner of his mouth, before scurrying off to her bedroom.

Fitz stays frozen in place, mouth hanging open in shock. His hand comes up on its own accord and two fingers press against the place her lips had been moments ago. It’s silly. It isn’t like they haven’t kissed before. Properly kissed with Jemma pressed up against a lab bench and her hand cupping his face and all. He just… wasn’t expecting it. It wasn’t emotionally charged like their first one. And something about the way she’d looked at him before leaning in.

Swallowing hard, he catalogues away that particular expression as the ‘Jemma maybe wants to kiss me’ face.

After making sure the cottage is locked up and the security system is armed, Fitz heads to his own bedroom.

Fitz wakes with a start, looking around wildly for whatever it was that had ripped him from sleep. It takes him a moment to remember where he is and just as he does he hears it again. Jemma. Screaming his name. He swears loudly, hand hovering briefly over the ICER on his bedside table before he wraps his fingers around the cool metal of the proper gun and leaps out of bed.

He bursts through his bathroom door, across the few steps it takes to clear the room and into Jemma’s. All the while, she’s still screaming for him. Haunting, bloodcurdling screams that fill his head and make his heart feel like it’s going to burst. He cocks the gun.

When he opens the door to her room, the first thing he notices is that it’s empty except for Jemma.

There’s no attack happening. Jemma is in her bed, asleep. Safe. Screaming from whatever nightmare must be torturing her. Fitz engages the safety on the gun and sets it down on the table next to her bed. He sits down, one hand reaching out to grab Jemma’s shoulder gently and shake her.

“Jemma,” he says, hopefully just loudly enough to wake her without scaring her even further. It takes a few more shakes, but eventually her eyes fly open, and a strangled sob escapes her.

“Fitz,” she cries, sitting up straight.

“Jemma, Jemma,” he says, trying desperately to get her to focus on him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.”

“Oh god, Fitz,” she breathes. He gathers her up in his arms, cradling her head against his chest. She clings to him, fingers clutching at his t-shirt, digging into his skin. “You’re here. You’re alive.”

“’Course I’m alive,” he says softly, rocking her gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“In my d-dream,” she says, words muffled against his chest. “Someone… they got to you. Took you away. Threatened to kill you if you didn’t give up my location. And when you didn’t… it wasn’t an empty threat, Fitz." 

“Shh,” he whispers, stroking her hair. “It’s okay. No one is getting anywhere near either of us. We are perfectly safe here.”

“You don’t know that,” she protests, shaking her head. “You can’t promise that.”

“I bloody well can,” he says. “And I just did.”

Jemma doesn’t respond. Instead, she buries her nose against his chest and takes a deep breath. Her hands leave the front of his shirt, trailing up to cup the back of his neck. Her nails scrape against the short hair there, and Fitz does his best to ignore the feelings it stirs up inside of him. Now is hardly the time for that sort of thing.

He isn’t sure how long he holds her for, but eventually, her breathing evens out and she stops clutching at him like he’s going to disappear at any moment. Instead, she just sits on his lap, her arms looped lightly around his neck.

“D’you think you want to try and get some more sleep now?” he asks, running his fingers through her hair. She nods, pulling away from him and laying back down. He leans down to kiss her forehead before making to stand up and go back to his room.

“Wait!” she says, reaching for him again. “Will you stay?” 

He takes a moment to consider what a bad idea it is for them to sleep in the same bed. They’ve only just started over and he doesn’t want to push her faster than she’s willing to move. She is the one who asked, though. And at least this way if she has another nightmare, he’ll be right here to help her. So, he nods and gets into bed beside her, keeping as much space between their bodies as the full-sized bed will allow.

Fitz wakes up much warmer than he normally does. Warmer, and more well-rested. His left arm is completely dead, but that doesn’t detract at all from the warmth buzzing in his chest. Without opening his eyes, he snuggles closer to the body he’s spooned against, burying his face against it.

After a few more moments of bliss, his eyes snap open and his brain catches up all at once. It isn’t just any body he’s pressed up against. It’s Jemma’s body. Swearing softly, he tries to snake his arm out from beneath her body but doesn’t have any luck. Their fingers are laced together, hands pressed tight against her abdomen and she isn’t showing signs of letting him go anytime soon.

He can’t decide whether it’s wrong for him to just lay there and enjoy this. Jemma hadn’t consented to any snuggling; she’d merely asked him to sleep next to her to keep the nightmares away. No, he should pull away. Get up and make them both a strong cup of tea and some pancakes and try to forget the feeling of her form moulded perfectly to his.

Slowly, he starts wriggling his fingers to break her grasp without waking her. He succeeds, and even gets his arm out from under her and starts to pull away when she stirs. She presses back against him, whispering, “Fitz.”

“Jemma?” he whispers back. 

“I was… I was just going to make us some breakfast,” he says, voice still low. One of his hands is still on her hip, and it flexes instinctively. He wants to stay right where he is, but he doesn’t want her to feel pressured in any way. Anxiety curls in his stomach at the idea that she’ll be horrified to have woken up wrapped together as they have.

“Pancakes?” she asks, flipping over suddenly so she can look at him. One side of her face has pillow creases on it and her hair is an absolute mess. Her eyes are warm and there’s a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. He’s never seen a more beautiful person in his entire life.

“Mhmm,” he ekes out. “And tea.”

“That does sound lovely,” she says. The smile overtakes her face. “Why don’t I come help you?”

He grins back at her. “Perfect.”

 Jemma stirs the batter with an amount of determination that he only ever sees her use when performing an unexpected surgery in the field. He chuckles a little, asking if she’s okay.

“Hmm?” she asks, still hyper-focused on the bowl in front of her.

“I said, are you okay?” he says again, amusement turning into anxiety. 

“Oh? Yes, yes I’m fine. Why wouldn’t you think so?” she asks, stirring the batter so hard he thinks the bowl might crack.

“Mostly because if you mix that batter with any more force, I think we’re going to have a real mess on our hands. And our heads.” He reaches out cautiously and takes the bowl from her, setting it on the counter next to him.

She sighs in frustration and slams the spoon down, splattering batter all over the counter.

“Jemma,” Fitz says, real concern colouring his voice. It’s incredibly rare that she gets irritated enough resort to any kind of physical violence. He can count the number of times he’s seen it on one hand. “What’s going on? The SHIELD threat?”

“No, no. It isn’t that. Well, that isn’t helping, but it isn’t the problem,” she says, shaking her head. Fitz stays quiet, not following her at all. He knows that Jemma sometimes struggles with putting emotions to actual words, but this is even worse than normal.

“So what is the problem?” Fitz asks. He’s trying his best to stay cool, but he can hear the anxiety in his voice, feel it on his face. Has he done something wrong? Has he made her uncomfortable? Maybe she doesn’t like it when he holds her hand or wraps an arm around her shoulders or stares at her for too long. It seems like Jemma can read his thoughts because she scrambles to explain. 

“It’s just that we… I feel like we’ve been slowly… sliding? Slipping down this path? I mean, we hold hands sometimes and we spend all our time together. Well, I suppose we did that before, didn’t we? The time-spending, not the hand-holding. And I just… well, we kissed. A real, proper kiss. And it was… And then this morning we woke up all pressed together. I just feel like if we don’t get this out in the open, if we don’t do something about this soon, I’m going to explode. I don’t want to lose what we have, Fitz. You’re the most important person in the world to me.”

“Jemma, what are you saying?” He feels like he’s going to be sick. His heart is going to beat out of his chest. Is she trying to break up with him? You can’t break up with someone you aren’t dating. But you can ask him to stop holding your hand and staring at your lips and imagining what it would be like to –

“What I’m trying to say is… Oh, Fitz. I don’t know how I can live without you. I think about kissing you all the time and being in this cottage all alone with death hanging over our heads is making it even worse. What I’m trying to say is –”

In an instant, it’s crystal clear what she can’t seem to get out. By some miracle, she feels the same way he does.

“I love you,” he breathes.

“Yes,” she whispers with a heart-shattering smile. She bites her bottom lip, anxiety and hope mingling in her eyes.

“No, Jemma. I love you.”

“Oh.”

She looks just as shocked as he feels. The logical part of his brain knows that it’s impossible for the world to have stopped turning, and yet his gut tells him it has. It tells him everything around them has stopped. That they’re the only two people left on this Earth, and that his feet are glued to the floor beneath him.

“I love you, too,” she says.

Her eyes are shining and her bottom lip is wobbling and suddenly they’re moving towards each other. They meet in the middle, his hands going to her hips to pull her tight against his body while hers come up to press against his chest. When their lips meet, her right hand moves to the back of his head. It trails down softly, landing on his cheek and resting there. Her fingertips press into his skin, pulling a shiver from him. She pushes him against the counter without allowing a centimetre of space between them. The rasp of her fingers on the stubble on his jaw makes desire zing through his veins and pool in his stomach. One of his hands leaves her hip to bury itself in her hair. The silky strands sliding through his fingers feel better than he always imagined they would.

His lips part slightly, just enough to capture her bottom one between them. A soft moan escapes her throat when his tongue trails lightly along her lip and she presses her mouth harder against his.

Everything about Jemma is surrounding him, and he’s never been happier. Never been more content. One of her hands slides down his back to cup his bum, the other still against his jaw. Her hair falls like a curtain around his face, her lips move smoothly against his. An achingly familiar scent permeates the air around him. It’s the scent that clung to his sheets after long nights studying at the academy. The scent that comforted him on the nights he worked up the courage to talk about his father. The scent that welcomed him home from every field mission and tortured his dreams after he realized his best friend was so much more than just his best friend. A warm, soothing scent that he’s never been able to put any name to other than Jemma.

He pulls back, but only goes far enough to rest his forehead against hers. Her breath puffs gently across his face and her hair tickles at his nose, making it crinkle up as a smile blossoms across his face. 

“Was that okay?” he asks. Now that a small section of his brain is freed up from the all-encompassing feeling of kissing the only woman he’s ever even wanted to kiss, anxiety is beginning to creep in. “I didn’t mean to push too fast.”

“Too fast?” Her laugh breezes across his face and the look in her eyes makes his heart clench. “Fitz, it’s been ten years. And there’s some group of mad people in our own organization who wants us dead. We don’t have any more time to waste.”

“Well, when you put it that way...” He tilts his head again, brushing their noses together before pressing a soft kiss against her lips. He can feel her smile against his mouth and the corners of his lips lift without any conscious effort. 

This time, Jemma is the one to pull back. “I really am starving.”

“Well, we’d better finish up these pancakes, then,” Fitz says. He gives her one last kiss and pulls away so he can start pouring batter onto their small griddle (which is more than heated up by now).

“Are you doing chocolate chips in yours, too?” he asks. At her “mhm”, he grabs the little bag of chocolate chips and shakes a suitable amount into the batter. “How many pancakes do you want?”

 “Two is fine,” she says. She walks the few steps to their fridge and grabs the butter before making her way back over to grease the griddle with it for him. 

“Two,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“We don’t all have insatiable monsters living in the bottoms of our stomachs, you know,” she says, poking his side and wiggling her fingers a little. He squirms away, a laugh bubbling out of his chest.

The griddle sizzles as he pours big circles of batter onto it. He starts with Jemma’s two, letting them cook for a bit less than he will his own. He’d made the mistake of overcooking her pancakes a few times at the academy, and ever since then, he’s done his best to cook them exactly as she liked. It wasn’t that she had complained, or even acted disappointed. That’s why it took him a while to notice, in fact. It was only after he’d seen how lightly she made her own that he asked if she didn’t like the way he did them. She had been reluctant, but eventually, she admitted that he liked them far too dark for her own tastes. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me? I would have made them how you like,” he said, staring at her in confusion.

“Well, I just thought it was nice that you were cooking for me, I figured it would be rude to tell you that you were doing it wrong,” she admitted. A light blush coloured her cheeks, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You’re ridiculous. Promise me you’ll tell me stuff like this in the future?”

“Promise.”

“Fitz? Earth to Fitz?” He’s snapped out of his daze by Jemma waving her hand in front of his face.

“You gonna cook your own breakfast?” A fond smile is playing at the edges of her lips and he wants to kiss them again.

“What?” he asks eloquently. She sighs with feigned exasperation, stepping closer to look into his eyes.

“I lost you for a second there,” she says, pressing a hand against his heart. “Where’d you go?”

“I was just thinking about how you refused to tell me you hated my pancakes for weeks when we first became friends,” he says with a chuckle. He shakes his head, turning around to pour four more large circles of batter onto the hot griddle.

“I did not hate them! You just prefer yours a little… crispier than I do,” she says defensively, her chin jutting out. After a moment, her tone becomes contemplative. “Something about this place really brings back all those memories, doesn’t it?”

He hums in agreement, flipping his pancakes. “Probably something to do with all the old stuff we’ve got crammed in here. Textbooks and desks and rugs and blankets…”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Her arms slide around his chest and she presses the length of her body along his back.

“Things aren’t exactly the same, though,” she whispers against his shoulder. He shivers, leaning back against her.

“No, not exactly.”

That night, they decide to pick back up with their Doctor Who watch. Fitz lies down along the length of the couch and Jemma snuggles down in front of him, bodies pressed together. He has one fist propping up his head and the other hand is resting on the dip of her waist. Before the opening theme is even finished ringing throughout the room, she’s grabbed his hand and slotted their fingers together. She brings them down to rest against her stomach with a happy little sigh.

His attention drifts away from the Doctor and Rose more quickly than he would ever admit. All he can seem to properly focus on is the warmth of Jemma against him, the way her hair smells, the way he wants to kiss her neck. By the time the characters on screen are staring directly into a black hole, Fitz is brushing his nose along her neck. Her breath catches in her throat and he grins, leaning down just enough to kiss her flushed skin. He can feel her pulse thrumming beneath his lips and it makes his own heartbeat speed up. He wonders if she can feel it against her back.

“Fitz,” she breathes, tilting her head to give him better access. He groans low in his throat, lips latching to her pulse and sucking lightly. He’s caught between wanting to leave a mark and not wanting to hurt her, but when she moans out loud he sucks harder without thinking. She gasps and his lips leave her immediately.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, kissing the spot softly. “I got carried away.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” she says with a breathy laugh. “That wasn’t a bad gasp.”

“Oh,” he says. His cheeks heat up and he bites his bottom lip before he decides to nip at her neck. She makes the noise again and he catalogues in his extensive knowledge about Jemma Simmons that that is a good noise. One that he’d like to hear more often.

She wiggles a little bit, letting go of his hand so that she can flip over to face him. A broad grin overtakes his face when she looks into his eyes. Her hand comes up to cup one of his cheeks, thumb rubbing against his stubble. “Hi, there.”

 “Hello,” he says, nudging her nose with his.

She stretches her neck to press their lips together. His top lip slides between hers and she seizes the opportunity to suck it lightly and flick her tongue against it. When her nails scratch along the back of his scalp, it sends fire sizzling through his entire body. He kisses her harder, his tongue slipping out to tease against hers and slide along her bottom lip. Out of all the noises he expects to hear from her, a snort of laughter isn’t at the top of his list. He pulls back with a soft smacking sound, looking at her in confusion.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. He knows he isn’t exactly experienced in this field, but…

“I just couldn’t help but think that the Doctor probably wouldn’t appreciate us snogging rather than paying attention to his world-saving adventures.” She blushes, hiding her face against his neck. Fitz laughs out loud, thinking of the face the Doctor might make if he knew they were making out like randy teenagers right in front of him.

“Well,” he says, still chuckling. “I hope he would excuse us just this once. We’ve spent many nights giving him our undivided attention. I think it’s time we give each other the same courtesy.”

“That is an excellent point, Fitz,” she says with a wide grin. Their lips reunite softly. It certainly isn’t the cleanest kiss they’ve ever shared, they’re both smiling so wide that their teeth are almost clashing, but Fitz thinks it’s lovely just the same.

Her hand skims up his chest and around the back of his head and up to the top to run her fingers through the short hair there. After a second, she makes a slightly frustrated sound in the back of her throat. “Sometimes I really wish you’d grow your hair out again.”

He scoffs. “What, so I can look like a seven-year-old boy again?”

 “Your curls do not make you look that young,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I happen to love them.”

“Well,” he says, secretly chuffed, “don’t hold your breath, Simmons.”

She laughs, crinkling her nose at him and pulling his hair lightly. Privately, he thinks that he can probably wait a little while until his next haircut.  

Suddenly, Jemma shifts her hips against him and desire overwhelms his senses again. He kisses her, biting her bottom lip then soothing it with his tongue. Soon, the room is filled with the sounds of their lips moving against each other and their gasping breaths. Fitz thinks that he’d be content to lay in front of the crackling fireplace snogging Jemma Simmons for the rest of his life.

“No sense in trying to sleep all the way to the edge of the bed tonight, is there? We’d just end up back in the middle like this morning, anyway,” Jemma says with a teasing grin as she slides under the covers in her room. They had just finished locking up the cottage, setting the alarm system and putting the fire out (after a couple splendid hours of kissing on the couch). (Fitz’s lips are going to be incredibly chapped by the time they get back to SHIELD, and he couldn’t be happier about it. 

“I suppose not,” he agrees. He checks the bedside table for his guns (safeties engaged) and his ICERs before he gets into bed and she scoots right over to him. One of his arms wraps around her shoulders as she lays her head on his chest. He kisses the crown of her head, eyes already drooping closed.

“It’s a real shame that the only holiday we’ve ever had is because someone wants to kill us,” Jemma says.

His heartbeat speeds up at her words, anxiety crashing down on him again. For the most part, the cottage keeps away the dread that should be settled in the pit of his stomach, but when it comes back, it comes back like a tsunami.

“Hey,” she says, looking up at him. “It’s okay. When we talked to Coulson this afternoon he said they were making real progress, remember? We’ll be home safe before we know it.”

“I know, it’s just…”

“I know.” And she does. He knows she does. Somehow, the thought of losing him is just as unbearable to her as losing her is to him. “We are going to be okay. Coulson and May and the team will make sure of it.”

“You’re right,” he says. He’s silent for a few minutes, ruminating on a thought that has been itching at him all evening. “You know, I was thinking… Coulson seems to think that it’s only a matter of days before this is wrapped up.”

“Yeah,” she says, waiting for him to finish his thought.

“Well… what do you think about maybe staying here a little while longer? Without the threat of mortal danger hanging over our heads?”

“A holiday?” she asks, perking up at the idea.

“If you want,” he says, shrugging. “And if Coulson says it’s okay.”

“That sounds lovely. But it would be nice to have our laptops and phones and things.”

“Maybe if I promise to give him a really cool upgrade on his hand when we get home we can sucker him into bringing us some stuff.”

Jemma giggles, nodding against his chest. He kisses her head one more time and they settle down to get some sleep. It isn’t long before they’re both drifting off.

Fitz sleeps better than he has in years.

A couple of days later, Coulson tells them that May is prepping the Quinjet to come pick them up and bring them home.

“Right, sir,” Fitz says a bit awkwardly. “We were actually wondering…”

“Yes, Fitz?” he asks after a few beats of silence.

“We were wondering if it would be okay if we stayed here for a while. It’s just… we haven’t had a holiday. Ever. And we’ve been… Well, you see, we’re actually… Ah… Ehm…”

Coulson laughs on the other end of the line. “You two are having a nice time?”

Fitz blushes at the suggestion in Coulson’s voice, but answers honestly. “Yes, sir, we are.”

Jemma bites her bottom lip, squeezing his hand a little harder than what’s strictly comfortable. He’s just getting ready to jump into his offer of a kick-arse upgrade for his hand when Coulson responds.

“You two take all the time you need.” Fitz swears he can hear the smile in their boss’s voice.

“Thank you, sir,” they say in unison.

“And Fitz-Simmons?" 

“Yes, sir?” 

“I’m happy for you. We’ll see you soon.”