Work Text:
[Fitz] What are you doing?
[Fitz] We're late
[Jemma] Just getting into character. I'll be down in a minute.
[Fitz] Jemma, no! We talked about this.
[Jemma] I'm ready.
[Jemma] ...meet you at the bar!
Fitz had a bad feeling about this. Undercover missions could be fun when there was science involved, but surveillance usually was an endless bore, even if it took place at the bar of a luxury hotel.
To his dismay, Jemma had been adamant that anything but a black tie attire would draw attention to them. As a result, he felt dressed up and completely out of place.
Fitz leaned against the bar and concentrated on projecting an inconspicuous vibe. Every once in a while, he glanced reproachfully at the massive golden chandelier overlooking the adjacent restaurant. Nope, definitely not his scene.
He was about to send Jemma what might have been a slightly cranky text when he looked up and saw her standing by the entrance, her eyes skimming the room. Fitz met her gaze and froze, unable to mirror her smile. He vaguely registered her eyes running over him, but was too distracted to think anything of it.
There was a lot to process.
The crimson, shiny lips. The designer jacket. The leather skirt. The sky-high stilettos. It wasn't just a makeover, though, her entire demeanor was alien. She looked bolder. Sexier.
After a moment or two, he had the presence of mind to close his mouth, but there was no helping his discomfort. His dreadfully fitted suit was becoming positively stifling.
Jemma walked straight to him, smiling brightly, and with no warning at all, she wrapped her hand around the nape of his neck and pressed her lips to his cheek –very close to his mouth, as a matter of fact.
"Ooh," Faux-Jemma cooed in a voice he didn't recognize. "Let me."
With an unnerving familiarity, she brushed her thumb to his cheek to remove the red imprint her lips had left on his cheek, dangerously close from the corner of his mouth. Once she was done, she let go of his neck but didn't step away.
"So, we're a couple then," he said, clearing his throat. She was standing so close, he decided he could talk freely without the risk of being overheard.
"Adulterous lovers, actually," she announced, her voice peppy.
"Adu– what!?" he whisper-shouted, wide-eyed and horrified.
"I know it's wrong," she sighed, her voice rising louder. "My husband is a good man, and a steady provider for me and our three dogs –one bull terrier, two labs– but it just hasn't been the same, since his ailing mother has moved in with us, you know? Besides, he just doesn't give me the attention I need. If you know what I mean," she added emphatically.
Her smile barely faltered when he started choking. Something was wrong; his face felt too hot. Was he suffocating? It had to be the suit. Or maybe the tie? Everything was too tight. He should never have agreed to this.
Hands on his hips, Fitz looked up to the ceiling, searching for inner calm and oh, there was that damn chandelier again.
"Jemma–"
"Amber," she corrected sharply. Then, remembering where they were and what they were doing, she patted his chest and forced out a bizarre, phony laugh. "Oh, honey. I can't believe you forgot my name."
"That's because you don't look like an Amber. At all."
"Oh, shut up, Christopher."
"Jemma," he started between gritted teeth, ignoring her indignant huff, "we're a man and a woman having a drink at a high end hotel bar. There is no need for a seedy backstory!"
"But–"
"Actually, he's right." Coulson's voice sounded simultaneously in both their miniaturized earpieces. "Besides, the target just walked past you."
"Oh no," Jemma whispered. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, sounding appropriately contrite.
Fitz noted that the tint of her cheeks now matched the shade of her lipstick. He kept quiet himself, concentrating on breathing deeply, hoping it would help to repress his mortification.
"Nevermind," Coulson replied. "Bobbi's on it. You two stay put for now and… Try not to cause a scene, okay?"
Although the SHIELD Director couldn't see either of them, as far as they knew, they both nodded in chastened agreement.
"So, erm, do you want a drink?" Fitz asked, after a long an awkward silence they both spent struggling to regain their countenance. "I mean, if we're going to stay put…"
"Okay," Jemma smiled demurely, grabbing a cocktail list.
Suddenly, Fitz realized it might have been a gross miscalculation on his part. He couldn't tell if she was still in character or not. What if she ordered something outrageously suggestive? Or decided to narrate her marital troubles to the barman?
"This a good look for you," she said, her eyes firmly glued to the menu. "I mean, you are very handsome tonight."
"Thanks," he grinned tightly, simultaneously pleased and embarrassed. "And you! I mean, wow, you are, uh–"
"I can still hear you," a tired-voiced Coulson declared through their earbuds, effectively ending any attempt at conversation between the chastened agents.
"I still think my character had potential," Jemma dared to whisper much later, with a hand strategically placed to obstruct the undetectable microphone she wore, "you never even gave her a chance."
"Whatever you say, Jemma," he replied, facing away to conceal his amusement.
He would never admit it, but he was a little chagrined when she changed into everyday clothes and sat down next to him on Zephyr. And when he touched his cheek where 'Amber's' lipstick had stained his skin, he couldn't help but smile to himself all the way home.
