Work Text:
“Siiimmons!” groaned Fitz, and Jemma doubted she’d ever heard him sound less impressed. “That’s a raft!”
“It is not a raft,” she sighed. “This is what sea-faring people - the like of which you, only just this morning, claimed to be descended from - refer to as a canoe.”
“What if we capsize?” he demanded. “What then, Dr. Preparation?”
“I imagine that we shall be rather cold and wet,” Jemma replied, her patience fraying.
“And what if we get hypothermia?” he insisted. “Do you have a snappy answer for that?”
“We’ll share body heat,” she shrugged.
Fitz was mid-scoff before his brain processed the implications of her reply.
“Like… as in…”
“As in we take off all our wet clothes,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a four year old, “we both clamber into this sleeping bag, which I have been extremely careful to pack in a watertight container, and we hold one another close until we successfully raise our core body temperatures.”
“H-how long do you think that might that take?” he inquired, all unexpected politeness.
“Oooh,” she mused. “It’d probably take a fair while for us to be satisfactorily warmed. And then I suppose we’ve only got our wet clothes.”
“So we’d have to wait for them to dry?”
“I imagine so.“
“Errr, right,” Fitz nodded, suddenly and unexpectedly satisfied.
“Really?” she asked, suspicious.
“Sounds good, Simmons,” he replied cheerily. “Aye, aye, Captain, and all that.”
Jemma’s eyes were so narrow she could barely make out more than the vague impression of his oddly pink cheeks.
“We’re not going to capsize, Fitz. So you needn’t worry.”
Now the blighter was whistling.
“Who’s worrying, Simmons?” Fitz looked up into the ominously overcast sky and took off a woolly mitten to test for rain with his outstretched palm. “Beautiful day for a paddle!”