Chapter Text
[1. Move-In Day]
“You’re going to love the maintenance guy,” Skye says as Jemma hauls in yet another box from the curb. Even covered in sweat and dust, Jemma can’t help but raise her eyebrows in amusement.
“What did you manage to break before I even got here?” Jemma teases. “And I suppose he must be good at his job, as I can’t seem to find any catastrophic damage.”
“That hole in our dorm wall wasn’t completely my fault,” Skye defends, but even she knows it’s weak. Her practically-adoptive-father Phil had bought her a Wii for Christmas that year. Despite Jemma (and the instruction manual’s) strict instructions, Skye had shirked the provided wrist-strap and flung the controller at the wall while she rather violently played Dancing with the Stars.
At the time, Jemma had been glad that it had only narrowly missed her head as she studied for her American history exam. When they’d received their damages bill at the end of the year, she had not been so glad. That had been ages ago. After a particularly rough breakup with her live-in boyfriend, Skye had needed a roommate to afford a place on her own. Jemma’s lease on her tiny studio apartment had just expired, so they’d found a fairly affordable place in their favorite part of town.
Living together at 26 is distinctly different than when they’d been a couple of silly college girls, but at least one thing hasn’t changed; Skye is, apparently, continuing to throw Jemma at anything with a penis and a pulse.
“Besides, it was the microwave,” Skye continues. She presses a button the appliance in question and it pops open, asserting her point. “It wouldn’t open.”
“And why am I going to love this microwave doctor?” Jemma asks, still amused by her roommate. “Let me guess. He was wearing blue and blue is my favorite color, so we must be made for each other.”
Skye scoffs. “Please, Jemma. You’d be the world’s worst matchmaker.”
“Do we need to revisit the last date you set me up on?” Jemma asks warningly. Skye cringes at the thought. Perhaps Joey hadn’t been the best choice—but to be fair, Skye hadn’t a clue that Joey was batting for the other team.
“I’m just saying, he seems like your type,” Skye says innocently, holding her hands up in surrender. Her face scrunches up and she reconsiders. “Okay, maybe not quite your type, but maybe you need a little not-your-type.”
“If he’s so great why don’t you go for it?” Jemma asks as she rips the tape off of a box labeled “Kitchen.” She and Skye work in tandem, putting mugs and plates into the cabinets that Jemma had already labeled with painter’s tape. The organization of a kitchen was incredibly important; everything needed to be located in an intuitive and well-thought out location. It was one of Jemma’s quirks that Skye had been putting up with for years.
Mugs, of course, went above the side-by-side electric kettle and coffee pot (Jemma’s and Skye’s, respectively). Glasses go in the cabinet just to the left of the fridge, and plates are positioned conveniently close to the dishwasher, for quick unloading.
“Honestly? I’d thought about it,” Skye says, crinkling her face. “But then I figured it might be a good time to be single.”
“You haven’t ever done much of that,” Jemma teases lightly, and Skye bumps her lightly as she moves past to put a set of bowls away.
“And you’ve done way too much of it,” Skye tells her. Jemma scoffs and continues working, but Skye isn’t quite ready to drop it. “You work so much and when you’re not working, you pretty much only hang out with me.”
“That’s not true! I have friends at work!”
“Are you talking about that middle aged man we ran into at the bar?” Skye asks incredulously. “Because if you recall, he called you Doctor Simmons. On a Friday night at freaking karaoke.”
“My lack of a social life doesn’t mean that I need a romantic relationship,” Jemma replies haughtily.
“It does mean you probably haven’t gotten laid in a long time,” Skye jokes. Jemma remains silent and Skye narrows her eyes. “Oh, come on. How long?”
“That’s neither here nor there, Skye.”
“Jemma…”
“Nearly a year,” Jemma blurts out, cheeks flushing. “Forgive me for being a bit too busy trying to find a cure for cancer.”
Skye says nothing, and the silence creeps up on Jemma and raises her suspicions. Skye is never quiet, and especially not in a conversation about Jemma’s personal life. A sudden loud bang, followed by a crash, sounds through their new, still fairly empty, apartment.
Skye stands near the kitchen sink, holding a drawer in her hand. The tracks it slides on in order to function look mangled inside of the now empty space where the drawer had been.
“Oops,” Skye says innocently. Jemma knows better, though. “Guess we’ve gotta call maintenance.”
“Can’t this wait until we’ve finished unpacking the kitchen?” Jemma sighs, exasperated. “I already got a bit of a late start as it is. Garrett was being a pain about my move out inspection.”
“Sure,” Skye shrugs casually. “But I mean—that was the silverware drawer.”
Jemma grits her teeth and her hands clench onto the countertop in front of her. Skye knows exactly how to push her buttons. Jemma can’t just leave the kitchen, the most important room really, without it being entirely unpacked. She won’t catch a wink of sleep tonight and she just knows she’ll end up trying to fix it herself and make it worse. Judging by the victorious grin on her face, Skye knows it too.
“Call maintenance.”
Skye immediately picks up her phone and finds the number in her recent calls, grinning when the heavily accented voice answers.
“Hi Fitz,” she says apologetically. It’s a good thing he can’t see her, because she looks anything but sorry. “My roommate just got here and we were setting up the kitchen and I accidentally ripped a drawer out of the cabinets.”
She pauses, listening to his response. Jemma paces into the living room and tilts her head at the furniture arrangement. Skye had moved in most of the large furniture the day before with the help of her close friend Lincoln (although Jemma secretly wonders how long it’ll be before Lincoln is a frequent overnight guest). She puts her hands on her hips, looking for something that she can work on.
She wipes her dusty hands on her worn-out jeans and adjusts the bandana she’s tied around her hair. Skye can call her Rosie the Riveter all she wants, but at least she doesn’t have pieces of hair stuck to the sweat on her face like her roommate does.
She overhears the end of Skye’s phone conversation. “No, all the track thingies are all bent out of shape? I don’t think we’re strong enough to fix them.”
Jemma rolls her eyes. She’s seen Skye at a gym—Jemma may be the voice of reason, but Skye has always been the muscle.
“Thanks so much! Apartment 9. Although I’m sure you know that, you were just here.”
When Skye says the apartment number, Jemma jumps. “Oh! I got us something. It’s a bit silly and you can take it down if you’d like—“
Skye smiles fondly. “Just put whatever it is up, Jemma.”
Jemma digs through a nearby box, labeled “Décor—Living Area” and emerges with a wooden sign. Skye grins as soon as she sees it.
“Oh my God, Jemma, that is perfect,” Skye gushes. She rushes forward to grab onto it. “Platform 9 and Three Quarters.”
“I couldn’t resist,” Jemma smiles a bit sheepishly. “When we first checked this place out and we applied, I ordered it on Etsy.”
“You’re so damn cute,” Skye says fondly, putting down the sign to give her a quick hug. She’s cut short by a sharp rap on the door and her smile only grows. “Be prepared to get your socks knocked off.”
She swings the door open and greets the maintenance guy, apparently named Fitz.
“I think you’re going to end up beating Mike Peterson in Number 12 for most broken apartment,” a Scottish accent rings out. Jemma spins around in surprise, having been unprepared to hear it.
“Oh I met Mike yesterday,” Skye says conversationally. “Seems like a nice guy.”
“He’s very nice,” Fitz agrees. “Just can’t seem to figure out which end of a hammer he’s supposed to use.”
Jemma stands, completely still, in the living room. The man is slight in build, a few inches taller than her, with messy curls and bright blue eyes. He wears a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a toolbox in one hand. Skye’s right—he isn’t quite her usual type, but there’s something about him that attracts her attention immediately. She wonders if it’s just Skye’s enthusiasm for the idea.
“This is my roommate, Jemma,” Skye introduces. “Jemma, this is Fitz.”
“Hi,” Jemma practically squeaks out. He smiles at her easily.
“Poor thing, having this one as a roommate,” he teases. He enters the kitchen and looks at the damage. “How the hell did you manage to do this?”
“Inhuman levels of strength?” Skye suggests.
“I think she was really just trying to quell my over-organizing,” Jemma jumps in. Fitz takes a look around the kitchen as he kneels down in front of where the drawer should be.
“This had to have been the drawer for the forks and stuff,” he says as he pulls out a pair of pliers to bend the metal tracking back into shape.
“Yes!” Jemma exclaims, a bit too enthusiastically. “The organization of the kitchen is so important. It really—“
“—cuts down on time,” he talks over her. He cringes slightly, looking over his shoulder at her. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
Skye snorts gracelessly. “Please, Jemma is always trying to finish someone’s sentence before they can do it themselves.”
“It’s not on purpose!” Jemma defends.
“I totally get that,” Fitz commiserates as he angles the drawer back into place. He stands and clicks his toolbox shut. “Alright, ladies, looks like you’re all set here.”
“And you live in the building, right?” Jemma asks suddenly. It seems to take him a bit off-guard. If Skye’s reaction is anything to go by, Jemma was a bit too eager in her tone.
“Yeah, I do. Just above you actually, Apartment 19.”
His eyes fall on the sign, leaned against the wall on the floor.
“Platform Nine and Three Quarters!” he cheers. “That’s a great sign you’ve got there.”
“It’s Jemma’s,” Skye interjects.
“What’s your House?” Fitz asks her, lips quirked upward.
“Ravenclaw,” Jemma replies immediately. “And yours?”
He shrugs, scratching at the back of his head. “My friend Bobbi says I’m Gryffindor but I say I’m more of a Hufflepuff.”
“Well what does the official quiz tell you?” Jemma asks. “And if you haven’t taken the official quiz then I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation.”
Unlike most people she talks to, he seems to get that she’s kidding around with him. He barks out a laugh.
“You caught me. The Pottermore test says I’m a Gryffindor but it always feels like a cop-out to say that.”
“Because everyone says they’re a Gryffindor,” Jemma agrees. Skye just watches them, leaning against the couch with a wide grin on her face. The phone in Fitz’s pocket rings rather shrilly and he cringes.
“Emergency maintenance phone. Try not to go burning this whole place down, would you?”
Jemma knows the question is probably meant for Skye, given that she’s the one who keeps breaking things, but his eyes stay on her.
“I’ll do my best to keep her in line,” she says. He winks at her with a little thumbs up. She can’t help but laugh at the awkward gesture and he cringes before he says his final goodbye and leaves.
Jemma doesn’t even want to look in Skye’s direction when the door closes behind him, but she’s suddenly a mere inch or so from Jemma’s face. She pokes her cheek.
“Told you,” Skye boasts. “You’re blushing.”
Jemma doesn’t dignify it with a response.
[2. Two Weeks After Move-In]
Jemma’s just getting out of the shower when she hears the front door open. Skye greets someone cheerily and Jemma glances down at her towel in dismay. There’s no way to get to her bedroom without passing through the common area. Skye has a bad habit of inviting people over without telling her, but she figures it must be her friend from work, Hunter.
He’s a bit of a flirt but Jemma’s comfortable with him, so she supposes it’s not the end of the world if he sees her in a towel. It’s not as though she’s naked.
“Hey Jemma, I gotta go to Hunter’s!” Skye calls out just as Jemma opens the door. She collides with Fitz, who stands with his little toolbox in a different colored flannel than the first one she’d seen. “Oh hey perfect, there you are.”
“Fitz!” Jemma breathes. “What are you—why are you here?”
Fitz’s eyes fly toward the ceiling, cheeks pink. “Skye said there’s an issue with the washing machine.”
“Would you mind showing him?” Skye asks in a voice that would be innocent if Jemma didn’t know her better than that.
“I don’t know what the problem is,” Jemma says to her, teeth gritted. Skye just smiles back, grabbing her keys and heading for the door.
“I’m sure you two will figure it out. Bye!”
“Well, um, I can show you the washer?” Jemma asks uncertainly. She clutches her towel tightly around herself, acutely aware of how awful her hair looks when it’s wet.
He snorts. “I know this building like the back of my hand. I know where your washer is.”
Jemma nods, gesturing awkwardly to her bedroom door. “Alright then. I’m going to just—I’m going to put on some clothes.”
“Yeah you should do that,” he says, then freezes. “I mean it’s your apartment. You could be naked if you want. But I’m also here. Not that your—not that your nudity bothers me.”
Jemma looks away from him just as he diverts his attention to a particularly interesting spot on the white-painted wall.
“Shall I then?”
Fitz grunts and does an about-face, heading for the washer. She dresses quickly. Jemma supposes that of course, she could just stay in her room until he leaves. That’s what she’d always done with her affable but somewhat uncomfortable maintenance guy at her other building. She runs a brush through her hair and slides into her most comfortable pair of jeans and a well-worn t-shirt.
Channeling her inner-Skye, she decides to forego a bra.
It seems to have the intended affect. He glances over when he hears her shuffle toward the small laundry room just off of the kitchen and jumps up so fast he hits his head on the open dryer door above him.
He groans, slapping his hands over his forehead. “Ah, fuck.”
“Oh!” Jemma exclaims. “Sit, sit, please. Let me take a look at you.”
“I’m fine, really.”
She steps into his space regardless, crowding him in the tiny laundry room. His back is to the wall, her cold hands brushing over his forehead, and he suddenly looks as though he wants to die.
She steps back, hands flying away from him. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was inappropriate. I’m told I sometimes have—well, I’m not the best with boundaries.”
She winces apologetically and waves her hands around. “I’m a doctor. Well, sort of. So I just—yes. Okay. I’ll leave you to—to fix that.”
“You could—I mean, I could actually kind of use a hand. I’ve gotta get back there and I won’t be able to reach my tools.”
“I could do that,” Jemma offers. “Just hand you things.”
“Thanks,” he smiles, crawling into the small space behind the washing machine. “Y’know, this is probably the only time in my life that being small has been a good thing.”
“Small? I think you’re rather well-formed and symmetrical, actually,” Jemma muses. She’s glad he can’t see her face; she flinches, scrunching up her whole face. “I think I’ve just run into a boundary again, haven’t I?”
He laughs warmly. “No, no it’s—that’s nice of you to say. I don’t think I’ve ever been called well-formed or symmetrical before, let alone both at once.”
Jemma laughs, part-relieved and part-awkward. “Yes, well. Someone should have, at some point.”
“Seems ridiculous to me now that nobody did. Can you hand me the Phillips head? It’s the one that’s—“
“I do know what a Phillips head screwdriver is,” she jokes. “My father is actually a contractor, back in England.”
“Oh?” he asks, interested. “So what brought you to America to be a sort-of doctor?”
She can’t see his face but she can hear his smile as she places the proper tool in his outstretched hand and takes the wrench back.
“Mostly some good scholarship money,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to travel and explore. When Harvard offered the scholarship—“
A loud banging noise sounds from behind the machine. “Sorry. You went to Harvard?”
She hums. “Yes, I did. And as a correction I am a doctor. I’m just finishing my second PhD now, actually.”
“Second?!” he practically yelps.
“I’m in biochemistry,” she explains. “I mostly do medical research, trying to cure cancer, but—“
“Oh right,” he quips. “Just trying to cure bloody cancer. No big deal.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s the response she usually gets. “I’m no saint. People always get so caught up in what I do and it’s not—I’m just interested in the science, to be honest. That sounds horrible. It’s just—I didn’t get into this to save the world. I got into science because I have to know.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Oh right. Forgot you can’t see my face.”
She hears a metallic sound, something popping out, and then he holds the screwdriver out.
“Wrench,” he says.
“Magic word?” she can’t help but tease.
“Abracadabra?” he says cheekily. She kicks at his exposed foot and laughs, handing him the wrench anyway.
“So tell me more about this need to know,” he says after a bit of grunting.
“Are you making fun of me?” she says self-consciously.
“’Course not,” he responds immediately. “It’s—I’m curious.”
“Ever since I was young, I’ve just had this—insatiable need to know. To understand. And not just science, either, but—everything. Humans, what makes us tick. The things we love and hate. The things that can save us and kill us. So I went into the sciences because I felt like it could give me all of those answers.”
He wriggles out from behind the machine, disheveled and a bit sweaty. One of the buttons of his flannel has come undone at the top and she drags her eyes away from his chest to look at his face. He’s staring at her curiously, in a way that none of the other men she’s ever spoken to on the topic have.
“And did it?”
“Did it what?”
“Give you the answers.”
She bites her lip and forces herself to retain eye contact. “I’m not sure. Which is maybe worse than knowing it didn’t.”
“Given that you just want to know,” he says. He’s not teasing her, either, and she can see it in her eyes.
“You get it,” she breathes.
He laughs, a bit bitterly, and moves past her out of the closet they call a laundry room. “I really do, trust me.”
“So what’s your story?” Jemma asks, watching him as he heads out of her apartment.
He shrugs. “Don’t really have one. I’m the handyman.”
And then he’s gone, leaving Jemma with the distinct feeling that she’s missed something. She sighs, making her way into the kitchen. She spots his toolbox, still on the floor near the machines. It’s so poorly organized that it practically hurts her to look at it.
That’s when she gets her idea.