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Jemma cinched the green smock tightly at the waist. “Here,” She said, tossing over a scrap of fabric to Fitz, who was staring at her.
She had artfully splattered a trail of blood along the (rather short, now that he thought about it) bottom half of her surgical smock. It trailed just at the top of her thigh-high fishnet stockings, brushing against the hem with a little swishing sound that made him gulp.
They’d been together for some time now -- were even buying a flat together, but no matter how normal kissing her and holding her and seeing swaths of her skin had become, it always seemed to wallop him in the chest -- just how much he loved her, and wanted her, and longed for her, even, and especially, at common place little things. The sound of a hem brushing against her stockings, a curl of her hair getting stuck on her lipstick, the way she smiled at him and curled her fingers forward, beckoning him close, into her space, where only he belonged.
He’d long given up being caught staring at her, all wide-eyed in wonder, a small, dopey smile hanging open off the side of his mouth. He was allowed to now, and he’d do it as much as he liked, which was rather often.
It suited them both.
The ironed-on pink triangle on her chest slid up to her shoulder as she lifted her hands, turning to look half in the mirror. Her breasts seemed freer, somehow, moving alluringly beneath the fabric as she reached up with one hand, pulling her hair away from the nape of her neck, and clasping a string of ostentatious pearls together. They clacked noisily, and it jolted him back into the present.
He glanced at the tiny garment in his hand. “Why am I holdin’ a gold lamé flannel?” He asked, bewildered. He shifted from one foot to the other, holding his towel tight at the waist. “I though’ you said I had a whole fancy dress outfit?”
“You do,” Jemma said, her voice an amused purr, as her mouth curved up at the corners, like a cat who’d just found cream.
“Where’s the rest of it?” He asked, and then said, confused, “Wha’ even is it?”. He plucked at the corners and held it out. “Gold lamé hotpants?”
His eyes grew wide and his voice grew furtive, “Jemma, no,”
“Jemma, yes ,” She spun around with a saucy grin. “Plus, you agreed --something science-y.”
“I thought, p’rhaps like, Frankenstein or Thomas the Train, or the Curies, or Tesla and his lover-bird, not -” He gestured between her and his hotpants in a flustered motion.
“The Rocky Horror Picture Show? But it’s a classic, Fitz! And it was what we had on hand!” She rejoined quickly, and then added in a rush, cheeks pinkening, “What with Elena and Mack throwing the Halloween party together so quickly -- to perk Daisy’s spirits, you know, so we can’t not wear fancy dress! And so I had to throw something together very quickly, you understand - with what we had on hand-”
“You had gold lame hotpants on hand? How? When ?” Fitz grilled, waving them around in agitation, like a very flamboyant, flashy flag.
Jemma’s face, which had been so animated and happy, with a smile wide as the Cheshire Cat’s, began to fall. “I suppose...You have plenty of suit shirts and slacks - Brad -”
Fitz pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes with a beleaguered sigh. “No, Brad’s boring. And it’s too close to my everyday dress, people’ll think I didn’t even try -”
He pivoted suddenly, and blanched, “Jemma, am I as dowdy as Brad?” there was real fear in his voice.
Jemma burst into giggles, smothering her mouth with her pink rubber gloves. “Dowdy!” she crowed, and then caught her breath, “-hardly, love! Why do you think I gave you the hotpants?” She said with a wink.
Fitz held them out gingerly by the waist band. He pinched them between forefinger and thumb, and stared. His eyebrow raised incrementally as he flicked his gaze to his girlfriend. ‘Because, and I quote ‘I had them on hand ,’ -- and thus, I repeat, how? When?! I don’t remember these, ever, and by god,” He said with a blush and an leery grin, “I would remember these,”
Jemma coloured further, a flush of pink curling along the column of her throat (He’d never, ever get bored of the sight). “A while ago…Just get changed,” She muttered, dropping her gaze, her eyes flashing with embarrassment. Swiping her overstuffed makeup bag and her phone, she jogged quickly away from the conversation and into the adjoining bathroom.
Fitz felt that lopsided grin begin to stretch across his face. Jemma had secret hotpants.
Secret hotpants with a story.
He tossed the wet towel onto the bed, stepping into the --alarmingly tight! -- hotpants as he attempted to stride toward the bathroom door.
“Jemma, why d’you have a pair of secret gold lamé hotpants?” Covertly readjusting himself, he grimaced, and then tilted his upper-body around the door-frame.
Jemma groaned into the mirror, and set down her make-up brush. She took a deep, fortifying breath, and turned, leaning back against the sink.
“Well alright,” She began, her face as red as a double-decker bus. “Two years ago -- when we weren’t really speaking -- Remember how Bobbi had put together that elaborate 1970’s roller-disco party thing for Mack’s birthday? And how it had got sidelined by that one mission, remember? And well...”
She took a deep breath and grew even redder (He hadn’t thought it possible). As she spun back around to dig for something in her makeup bag, she said, all in a rush, “itwassortofpartofmyoutfit.”
Fitz’s feet seemed to twist out beneath him. He stumbled, weak-kneed, into the doorway, both confused and turned on. It was, sadly (or not so sadly, depending on one’s point of view), a natural reaction to many common occurrences with Jemma. He hadn’t any idea why he wasn’t used to it yet.
“Why!?”
“It was Daisy’s idea!” She nearly shouted, clutching her neck, all a-fluster, “She said, and I quote ‘the easiest way to get a mans’ shorts off is to put booty-shorts on .”
It was Fitz’s turn to blush, Uncoordinatedly, he stuck his hands on his hips and twisted awkwardly, simultaneously gulping and grinning. He dragged his gaze up from Jemma’s shapely calves, along the length of her fishnet clad thighs to the tightly encased swell of her hips, up her torso and the curve of her breasts, to her bottom lip, which she had sucked between her teeth in trepidation.
“Oh.” He snaked out his tongue to wet his lips, and answered, “... oh .”
“More’s the pity,” She murmured, giving him her own elevator stare, dwelling somewhat heavily on his torso and lamé short region. She was unable to hide the delighted way her eyes lit up, nor the titillated grin that broke out. “I never got to wear them, and of course, it took us a long-distance sabbatical across the universe and a lot of other unsavoury things before I did get your shorts off, but-”
She finally managed to drag her heated gaze up from his shoulders to his face, and winked as she finished, “at least they’ll get put to good use now.”
Fitz scoffed, and casually tried to move his hands to cover his crotch. “Hardly. I look like a twelve-year old boy on the beach who lost his family. Just wanderin’ around, askin’ people if they’ve seen where they went.”
He looked down, and then looked back up, with a crooked grin, “A very flamboyant twelve year old. Who listens to loads of Abba.”
Jemma cracked up, her raucous laughter making up, in some small part, for the embarrassment he might face. “At least toss me a tenser or two and I can bandage up my undefined pecs. Maybe I can stuff some socks in there, like a pre-teen girl who just wants to impress her mates, yeah?”
He went into a terrible falsetto, “ Mum says my breasts will come in soon !” He palmed his chest, “D’you know, I think Mack stuffs his bra. I don’t think it’s possible to have man-boobs that size -”
Jemma, wheezing with laughter, tears forming at the corner of her eyes, grabbed him by the butt, a squeezing palm-full, and tugged him forward, planting a sloppy, laughing kiss half-on the side of his mouth.
They kissed and giggled, and giggled and kissed, missing mouths and booping noses by accident, awkwardly, lovingly, until their chests stop shaking with chuckles, and their tongues became preoccupied with drawing sighs from each other’s mouths.
Fitz shuddered a breath, and backed up slowly, dropping his nose to Jemma’s hair as she turned, smelling the coconut scent, and letting his arms hang loosely around her waist.
Overdrawing her eyeliner, she flagrantly shadowed everything up to her eyebrows, and slicked on a striking red lipstick. She was applying a stark contour on her cheeks when he realized he had one more gripe at hand.
"Why do you get to have all those clothes, and I get this flimsy sticky sheet of 1970's horror over my manbits?" He whined, nuzzling his nose behind her ear,eyes looking into the mirror, watching her mouth part in pleasure. Her black shadowed-eyelids drooped shut as he kissed her pulse-point, scraping his teeth over it.
Suddenly, he pulled away, his brows creased self-righteously.
"In fact, I’d wager you’re fully covered under there. Camisole, those tight lycra workout trousers that hit just above the knee - You've probably got all the underwear on too - reams of it! Bras and those weird tube-sausage-casing things, giant , comfortable cotton knickers that cover your bum, all hidden beneath that smock -"
Jemma reddened, and tried not to grin. " Actually.. ."
In the mirror, Fitz’ eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.
"I'm, erm...not wearing.. that ."
“N ot -erm , er, wearing wha ’?” Fitz’s voice cracked, and his hands clenched the green surgical smock tighter.
"It was going to be a surprise! For later..." Jemma trailed off. A tiny, sensual smile pulled the corner of her mouth into a dangerous, hairpin curve.
"So - to recap,”He began.
Jemma turned around in his arms, leaning against the sink again. She looked up at him beneath her eyelashes, and he gulped.
“You're...um-” He took a deep breath.
Jemma had wreathed her hands low around his middle, her fingers at the small of his back. He screwed his eyes shut, and soldiered on.
“You’re, just - just wearing rubber gloves, thigh-high fishnet stockings, and a smock."
“- And my mother’s pearls!” Jemma sang out, spinning him around forcefully with her grip on his hips. She slapped his lamé-clad bottom as she sent him stumbling from the bathroom. “Now just give me another two minutes, the party’s already started, and you know how I hate to be late!”
Fitz, in a state of aroused shock, fumbled through the little first aid kit under the bed, and began winding a tenser bandage around his naked torso, nodding unconsciously while trying to process what he'd just learned.
He looked down at his lower half, and muttered. “Thank god Mace hates to turn up the thermostat.”
Quickly, he fiddled with his watch, and set the timer for 30 minutes. But, 25 would be enough wouldn’t it? To make an appearance, say hello, pretend to be interested in something other than pushing his sexy girlfriend into a closet and ravishing her silly?
From the bathroom, he could hear the off-key strains of Janet’s signature song, “Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me.”
“Right,” He said to himself. “15 minutes.”