Chapter Text
Jemma slowly gets out of the cab. She holds on to the open door and looks up at the apartment building in front of her. Part of her wants to get back in the car. She’s not in the mood for this. People. Happy people. A party. Mingling. Her heart doesn’t want to be here. She sighs deeply.
“If you don’t close that door soon, I’m gonna start the meter again,” the grumpy cab driver interrupts her thoughts. “It’s New Year's Eve. There’s other people waiting for a ride, you know.”
Jemma squints, glaring at the cab driver, before angrily slamming the door shut. She barely manages to take a step back on the sidewalk before the yellow car speeds away.
“Happy New Year to you, too,” she yells sarcastically after the car. A sudden stiff wind blows down the street, forcing Jemma to pull her coat tighter. She turns around and takes another deep breath, before walking quickly towards the steps leading up to the building entrance. A young man approaches the stairs at the same time. He wears a brown leather bomber jacket and carries a large box of pizza.
“Are you delivering pizza for the party in 807?” Jemma asks him, and he stops in his tracks, looking at her in slight confusion. “Because I could pay you and take those from you,” Jemma adds. “Then you can save yourself a trip to the eighth floor in the slowest lift known to man.”
“Umm,” he mutters, alternating between staring at her and the box in his hands. “Ummm. No. I’m… I’m not delivering. I’m… my roommate… well… not really roommate… just a friend whose sofa I’m crashing on until I find my own place because I just moved here from Scotland… well… he had the brilliant idea of wanting to order pizza… on New Year’s Eve… but of course he didn’t want to wait three hours for it to be delivered and well, I hadn’t even started my beer yet, so it was up to me to pick it up, and usually I would protest, but the poor sod just had his heart broken and—” He stops, exhaling sharply. “I could have just said I’m not delivering pizza, couldn’t I?”
Jemma chuckles briefly as he looks at her almost apologetically with his piercing blue eyes. “Well, it was far more informative this way,” she replies and he smiles shyly. “How about I at least open the door for you then?” she asks.
“Thanks,” the young man replies, and together they walk up to the entrance door.
Balancing his pizza box on one hand, he enters the code into the keypad to open the main door. Once it unlocks, Jemma pulls the door open and follows the man inside and to the elevator. Silently, they both stare as the numbers above the elevator ever-so-slowly count down.
“It really is a ridiculously slow lift,” the young man remarks.
“Yes,” Jemma agrees. “If I weren’t wearing heels, I’d probably take the stairs.”
“Really? Didn’t you say you’re headed to the eighth floor?”
“I don’t mind the exercise,” Jemma replies, slightly more grumpily than she had wanted to.
He looks at her wide-eyed, and Jemma is about to apologize for her tone when a ding from the elevator draws their attention. The corners of his mouth quirk up into a shy smile, and he waits patiently until Jemma enters the elevator before stepping inside himself.
“Could you press seven for me?” he asks politely.
“Of course,” Jemma replies, avoiding his eyes.
The doors of the elevator close and barely noticeably the elevator car moves upward.
A strange tingle rises up Jemma’s spine caused by the uncomfortable silence in the small cabin.
“God, it’s so slow,” the man next to her mumbles, staring straight ahead.
The comment makes Jemma smile. Shyly she looks over at him, thankful that he’s trying to break the silence. “Well, at least it’s reliable,” she remarks. “I mean, it’s slow, but I’ve never seen it get—” A sudden jerk and loud creak of the elevator interrupts her. “Stuck,” she quietly finishes her sentence. Her eyes wander across the walls around her. She senses that they’ve stopped moving. Her heart begins to beat faster and she swallows hard.
“Oh bloody hell,” the stranger next to her exclaims. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
With one hand, he pulls out a cell phone from his back pocket and activates the screen. He sighs deeply and his gaze falls on her. “You got reception in here by any chance?”
Jemma opens her purse and retrieves her phone. The words No Service stare back at her on the screen. Apologetically she shakes her head.
The stranger grimaces in frustration, then nods towards the small black flap below the panel of buttons. “What do you think our chances are of the emergency phone working?” he asks, squinting his eyes doubtfully.
Jemma takes a deep breath and opens the flap. Nothing but a small bundle of disconnected cables peek out. Her lips begin to twitch, and she quickly bites down on them, trying to keep her composure.
“Dammit,” the young man mutters. “If I had the right tools, I could probably connect one of our mobiles and use it to call out.”
Confused, Jemma looks up. “The right tools?”
“I’m a mechanical engineer,” he explains.
“I can offer a hair pin,” Jemma remarks, shrugging her shoulders.
The left corner of his mouth quirks up, and sadly he replies, “I’m an engineer. Not MacGyver.”
Jemma exhales sharply. “Well, your friend,” she contemplates. “He’ll be waiting for his pizza. So if you don’t show up, he’ll know something is up and he’ll figure out that we’re stuck, right?”
His tongue nervously glides over his upper lip. “Hunter was already kinda shitfaced when I left,” he admits. “Chances are he’s asleep by now.”
“Hunter? Of course. Bobbi broke up with him again,” Jemma mumbles to herself before adding a sarcastic “Great!”
“What about you?” the stranger replies. “You were headed to a party? I mean, people are expecting you, right? Boyfriend, husband, girlfriend, wife, someone , right?” He looks at her with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Jemma’s lips begin to tremble, and she turns away from him, blinking away tears. “My friends don’t know I’m coming,” she says in a shaky voice. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here,” she continues as sadness mixes with anger. “I was supposed to be home in England for Christmas and New Year’s.”
She exhales angrily as her voice gets steadier. “But noooo !” she exclaims, furiously gesturing towards the door. “My boss decides last minute that my expertise is desperately needed for this urgent biochem project and I can’t possibly go on vacation, lest I want to jeopardize my career. So, I’m stuck at the lab every bloody day, including Christmas and New Year’s, while he’s off to the Bahamas or God-knows-where. And then Daisy calls and invites me to her party, but I can’t possibly go, because I have to finish this ruddy experiment before the deadline and I don’t even want to be around people because all I wanted was to go home because I haven’t seen my family in a year and I always spend Christmas and New Year’s with them. But then I’m standing in the lab and the data is finally complete and I look at myself in my stupid pencil skirt and my high-heels. And I don’t even know why I’m wearing them because there’s nobody there, no reason to follow their stupid dress code. I could have gone to work in my pajamas or nude and nobody would have noticed. And I look at myself and I say, ‘What are you doing here? The project is done . You met the deadline. Go to the party. Why would you want to spend New Year’s Eve alone when you’ve got friends who invited you?’ And I think, ‘Oh, I’ll just surprise them, and show up there unannounced.’ So I take a taxi straight from work here and it’s ridiculously expensive and the driver is a grumpy old fart with no manners whatsoever and I get here only to get stuck in the world’s slowest lift with a complete stranger on New Year’s Eve when it’s not even two hours until midnight.”
Angrily she slams both hands against the panel of buttons repeatedly. “This is not how tonight was supposed to be! This is not where I was supposed to be! You bloody stupid piece of mechanical garbage!”
She walks backwards until her back hits the wall causing the elevator to briefly shake. Unable to keep herself up anymore, she slides down, pulling her knees closer and letting her tears run freely.
“Leopold Fitz.”
Surprised, Jemma looks in the direction of the voice. The stranger puts his pizza box on the floor and sits down next to her.
“What?” Jemma asks, confused.
A warm smile plays on his lips and he extends his hand towards her. “Leopold Fitz,” he repeats. “Your stuck-in-a-bloody-stupid-piece-of-mechanical-garbage-on-New-Year’s-Eve companion for the evening.”
Shyly, Jemma accepts his handshake.
“I don’t know if that makes it better,” he adds. “But now I’m not a complete stranger anymore. And I completely understand that you’d like to be far far away from me and from here and with your family. And this isn’t exactly how I imagined my New Year’s Eve either—although admittedly I also didn’t expect to be spending it with a drunk, heart-broken Brit. And, quite frankly, if I have to face a potential New Year’s Eve kiss at midnight—not that I’m suggesting that we’ll have to kiss or that we’ll be stuck here that long—but if I should have to face a New Year’s Eve kiss then you might quite possibly be far preferable to Hunter.”
She chuckles at his joke and a weak but grateful smile flashes across her face. “Jemma Simmons,” she replies. “Nice to meet you, Leopold.”
He grimaces briefly. “Fitz,” he remarks. “Just Fitz. I’m not a big fan of my first name to be honest.”
“Oh,” Jemma says, surprised. “Alright then. Fitz. Well, you can still call me Jemma. Or Simmons, I suppose. Whichever you prefer.”
“I like Jemma,” he replies. “Nice to meet you.”
Something about his friendly tone and warm, firm handshake puts Jemma at ease. She takes a slow, deep breath before letting go of his hand.
“So,” she begins, “when you say ‘companion,’ are you referring to the Firefly kind or the Doctor Who kind?”
He lets out a laugh. “Well,” he replies, “while I consider Firefly an excellent show that would have deserved many, many more seasons… it does not quite compare with Doctor Who in my humble opinion.” He pauses briefly. “Although, admittedly, I wasn’t thinking of either of those two when I said that… it just kinda came out that way.”
“Fair enough,” Jemma says. She feels a sudden change in mood and his open answer conjures a smile onto her face. “An excellent reply, might I add.”
“So you’re a Whovian as well?” Fitz asks, pointing at her curiously, his eyebrows slightly raised.
“I am indeed,” Jemma replies, pointing at her lift companion. “Every single episode. From start to finish. In the correct order.”
“Impressive,” Fitz notes, pushing his lower lip slightly forward and nodding enthusiastically.
“I am quite proud of that,” Jemma admits.
“As you should be,” Fitz says. “I’ve seen every episode, but I didn’t start out in the correct order,” he explains, looking straight ahead as he recalls his anecdote. “I watched the 1996 movie. Still don’t know how I managed to convince my mum to let me see it. I mean, I wasn’t even nine when it aired. I had nightmares for a week ,” he says and chuckles briefly, before looking back at Jemma. “But at the same time, it was so… cool. I mean, you grow up hearing about Doctor Who and to actually see it.” He takes a deep breath. “So, after that, I took a break of a few years and then I started to watch every episode I could get hold of, reruns and all that, and when I started studying—well I was quite a bit younger than everyone else, so nobody really wanted to talk with me or hang out with me so I had plenty of time to myself and I started to systematically collect all episodes and watched them in order and caught up on the ones I had missed and… well… That’s my Doctor Who story,” he concludes, shrugging his shoulders.
Jemma lets out a quiet laugh. “It’s a lovely anecdote,” she remarks. “And I applaud your diligence.”
“Thank you very much,” Fitz replies, grinning widely. “A compliment from a fellow Whovian is always greatly appreciated.”
“So,” Jemma says, giving him a questioning look. “Who’s your favorite Doctor?” Before he can answer, she points at him enthusiastically. “Let me guess!”
To her surprise, Fitz rolls his eyes at her. “Right,” he says grumpily. “I’m Scottish. So of course Tennant or Capaldi should be my favorite? Right? That’s what you’re about to say. That’s what everyone says! But,” he continues gesturing wildly. “Tennant’s not even using his Scottish accent. That alone should give me cause not to choose him. I mean, I know that wasn’t his choice, but still… and… and then Capaldi gets to use his Glaswegian accent? I mean, seriously? What the hell? It’s just… it’s infuriating, really. And why should my Scottish upbringing dictate my choice of favorite Doctor? Huh? Can you explain that to me?”
Jemma looks at him wide-eyed, unable to suppress a grin. When he finally takes a breath, forcing him to interrupt his rant, she takes the opportunity to interject. “You are absolutely right. Where you come from should certainly not dictate who your favorite Doctor should be.” She shrugs her shoulders. “To be quite frank, I was going to suggest the Eleventh Doctor.”
“Really?” Fitz remarks surprised. “Smith? Why? ”
“I can’t even say why,” Jemma replies honestly. “I just thought you’d be into him.”
Fitz wrinkles his forehead. “Into him? You met me barely ten minutes ago. How would you know what I’d be into?”
“Fair enough,” Jemma counters. “I apologize. So who is your favorite Doctor then?” she asks as a peace offering.
Fitz squints his eyes, looking at her questioningly as if he’s analyzing her trustworthiness. Finally he sighs and leans closer. “The Tenth Doctor’s favorite Doctor,” he says slowly and pointedly.
Jemma’s eyes widen excitedly and the mischievous look in his eyes makes her smile. “The Fifth Doctor? Really? Very interesting.”
“Well,” Fitz begins. “I don’t know. I felt like the Fifth Doctor’s era was… it was more sciency, back to basics. I mean it still had humor and all that but it just… it was more up my alley. I know the celery thing seemed silly to some people and his whole Edwardian cricket thing, but there was just something about him. I always felt like he... he was more sensitive or vulnerable or something. And he treated his companions as teammates, you know? Like he wasn’t afraid to accept someone else’s leadership. I think that’s not a bad quality. But at the same time he was also extremely courageous. And he sacrificed himself to save Peri’s life!” He shrugs his shoulders. “He’s my Doctor.”
The passion with which he speaks causes Jemma to smile again.
“I think the Fifth Doctor is an excellent choice,” she admits. “And!” she adds, pointing at him excitedly. “He’s the Tenth Doctor’s father-in-law.”
“What?” Fitz asks, confused.
“You don’t know that?” Jemma replies in surprise. “Tennant met Peter Davison’s daughter on set for the episode ‘The Doctor’s Daughter,’ in which she played the Doctor’s daughter. They got married and—to top it all off—she later gave birth to a daughter. It’s a wonderful piece of Doctor Who trivia! I can’t believe you never heard that!”
“Well, it’s settled then,” Fitz says. “You are the Top-Whovian in this lift, if not in the entire world.”
She chuckles. “Well, I highly doubt the second part of that statement.”
He laughs briefly, before putting on a fake serious look. “So. Your turn! How did you become a Whovian and who’s your favorite Doctor. And I won’t guess. You’ll just tell me, because I’m not going to drop a clanger like you earlier!”
Jemma laughs out loud. “Alright,” she begins. “My father is a huge Doctor Who fan and as the 1996 movie drew closer he got so excited, it was truly infectious. But, unlike your mum, there was nothing eight-year-old me could have said to make him allow me to watch it when it aired. And I was so disappointed.” She takes a brief break to wet her lips. “But,” she continues, “on my twelfth birthday, he puts this gigantic box in front of me and says ‘Now you’re ready.’” She chuckles at the memory. “And I have an inkling what it could be, but I’m too excited to believe it, and my hands are shaking as I open the box and it’s filled with video tapes. I mean, he had recorded every single episode, either as they aired or in reruns and he bought whichever serials had been released on VHS and they were all in that box, meticulously labeled. And from that day on, we watched one serial every single day that we could until we finally hit Number 156, the 1996 movie.” Jemma takes a deep breath, looking at her lap. “And when I was in the States working on my second PhD when the revival started, we would watch the new episode, wait until the other had seen it, and then we’d Skype about it. We still do that,” she adds quietly.
Jemma slowly looks up at Fitz when he doesn’t reply. His blue eyes sparkle at her and a smile is playing on his lips. “That’s a wonderful story,” he says and Jemma wonders if she sees a shimmer of tears in his eyes.
“Thanks,” she replies quietly.
“So, who’s your favorite Doctor then?” Fitz inquires next.
Jemma straightens her back and looks mischievously at him out of the corners of her eyes. “Tom Baker,” she says importantly. “The Fourth Doctor. Longest-lived incarnation!” She pauses and becomes more serious. “He always seemed the most interesting to me. He has so many facets. He can be nerdy and whimsical and somber and really quite dark at times. And he has such high moral standards. I admire that. I mean, just think of his speech— iconic speech—when he’s supposed to destroy the Daleks? Incredible! Even as a child it gave me chills.” The corners of her mouth quirk up a little. “And of course he owned the first K9.” She sighs. “God, how I wanted a K9 when I was a kid.”
Fitz lets out a quiet laugh and points at her. “I tried to build one myself,” he remarks.
“Really?”
“Yep. Almost destroyed my mum’s basement in the process,” Fitz adds.
Jemma chuckles and takes a deep breath. “And, well, something about the Fourth Doctor always reminded me a little bit of my Dad,” she says, more to herself than to him.
“Who’s your Dad’s favorite Doctor?” Fitz asks curiously.
Jemma laughs. “First Doctor all the way,” she explains. “A true Whovian purist. Although,” she adds, gesturing at Fitz, “he also seems to quite enjoy Capaldi. Maybe because he’s excited to see that they cast a more experienced actor for the role.”
“You mean older ,” Fitz jokes.
Jemma snickers. “Well, I wouldn’t say that to my Dad’s face, but… yes .”
They both laugh, but when it subsides the uncomfortable silence returns to the small elevator car. Jemma swallows, looking back at her legs.
“So,” Fitz’s voice draws her attention back to him. “Now that we’ve successfully explored our respective personal Doctor Who stories, I have another very important question for you.”
“Oh,” Jemma exclaims, surprised and a tad nervous.
Fitz leans a bit closer. “Are you a vegetarian?” he asks in all seriousness.
Jemma laughs. “No.”
“Excellent,” Fitz replies in relief. “Because Hunter ordered every meat on the planet for that pizza.” He gestures at the box lying on the floor. “And I suggest we don’t let it go to waste. Although,” he adds, “quite frankly I don’t understand why Americans—and Hunter is Americanized enough—insist on throwing fifty thousand toppings onto a pizza.”
“Oh, I know,” Jemma chimes in, agreeing enthusiastically. “I mean, what’s wrong with a perfectly simple yet delicious—”
“Pizza Margherita,” both say in unison, before smiling at each other.
“Exactly!” Fitz says, pointing at Jemma. “I mean, I know I just moved here, but even when I’ve visited in the past, it’s always baffled me! And the crust? I mean, what is this fluffy thick thing even supposed to be?”
Jemma laughs out loud. “I couldn’t agree with you more!”
“Let me tell you,” Fitz continues. “Finding an authentic Italian pizza place is high on my list of things to achieve while I live here.”
“Oooh,” Jemma exclaims excitedly. “I might be able to help you with that! There is this lovely little Italian place, not too far away from here actually, and, well I’m not Italian, so a true Italian may still consider it insufficient, but I think their pizza is really quite delicious and authentic!”
“I’m gonna need the name of that place!” Fitz replies enthusiastically.
“Gladly,” Jemma remarks, when she feels and—more importantly—hears her stomach grumble.
Fitz chuckles briefly. “Well,” he says, reaching for the pizza box. “Maybe in our dire situation here, we should just bite the bullet and eat the meat-laden monstrosity Hunter insisted on.”
Jemma nods and happily accepts one of the large greasy pizza slices that Fitz hands her.
“Maybe you should just find a new job,” Fitz says, his mouth half-full as he finishes off another piece of pizza.
“Right, because that’s so easy!” Jemma replies, rolling her eyes at him and reaching for her third slice.
The box is more than half empty by now.
“Well, no. Not easy. But, you clearly seem miserable there and Quinn is taking advantage of you and your talents, and what’s the harm in applying elsewhere?”
“What do you know about my talents?” Jemma asks curiously.
“You work for Ian Quinn. Quinn Worldwide!” Fitz remarks. “You have talent. No doubt about it.”
Jemma smiles shyly at the compliment. “Well, nobody worth my while has put out any job ads lately,” she counters.
“So?” Fitz exclaims. “Send in an unsolicited application. I know for a fact that Stark Industries is always looking for talented biochemists.”
“For a fact?” Jemma repeats, a hint of doubt in her voice.
“Yes,” Fitz confirms. “ My project is going to need a good biochemist,” he says pointing at himself, before beginning to gesture wildly. “Not that I’m saying you’d be the right biochemist for my project. I don’t know your specialty. But there are tons of bioengineering projects going on there, and Stark loves confident crap like unsolicited applications. That’s how I got my job!”
Jemma sighs. “Well, I’m afraid I might be lacking a bit of confidence to just send in an unsolicited application to Stark Industries.”
“No you don’t,” Fitz counters. “Look at me! I was scared shitless when I sent in my application, and I felt like I had to fake my way through the entire interviewing process, but I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I had a perfectly fine and secure job in Glasgow but I made a promise to my mum before she died that I would try to reach for my dreams. ‘Aim for the moon,’ she said, ‘aim for the moon and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.’ And I know that’s cheesy and ridiculous and cliché but she was right and I made her a promise to at least try. And I went for it and I tried and I got it. If I can do that then why shouldn’t you be able to? You have your job at Quinn Worldwide. If you apply to Stark Industries and they don’t want you, you’ve lost nothing. But! —if you want my honest opinion—Stark and Quinn are bitter rivals and if Stark gets the opportunity to snatch away one of Quinn’s top scientists—and let’s face it, you must be one of his top scientists or that arrogant arse wouldn’t exploit and overwork you like that—well, then Stark will snatch you with a skip in his step, a twinkle in his eye, and a very lovely large-numbered salary offer!”
His pep talk makes her laugh. “Alright,” she says quietly. “ Maybe I’ll send in an unsolicited application to Stark Industries.”
“There you go!” Fitz exclaims excitedly. “New Year’s Resolution!”
A muffled multi-voiced cheer draws their attention. Fitz looks up to the ceiling.
“Must be midnight,” Jemma assumes.
Fitz looks at his watch. “Yep, sure is.”
Jemma takes a deep breath and gets up, her legs tingling slightly from sitting too long. “Alright then,” she exclaims, looking at Fitz expectantly.
“Alright then?” Fitz repeats, confused.
“Well, do you stand by your previous statement that I would be a far preferable choice of New Year’s Eve kiss compared to Hunter?”
He chuckles. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, shaking his head slightly.
“But it’s a rather sweet tradition and supposed to be good luck,” Jemma counters. “I will need good luck when I apply to Stark Industries.”
Slowly Fitz gets up, smiling at her warmly. “Fine,” he says, wiping off his hands on his trousers. “But for the record: You don’t need good luck for Stark Industries, you have what it takes!”
He straightens up and pulls down his bomber jacket, before leaning closer to plant a gentle peck on Jemma’s lips.
“Happy New Year, Jemma,” he says when he breaks away, his blue eyes gazing down at her.
“Happy New Year, Leopold,” Jemma replies.
Her hands fly to her mouth when she notices his slight frown. “Oh no,” she exclaims. “Oh no no no. Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Fitz tells her, an honest smile playing on his lips.
“No,” Jemma repeats. “I can’t possibly start the new year by insulting you by using your first name which you hate .”
“Well hate’s a bit of a strong word,” Fitz tries to chime in, but Jemma waves her hands in front of his face to stop him from talking.
“No no no, do-over,” she exclaims, and before he can say anything, she cups his face and presses her lips against his.
She intends for it to be a simple peck, like the first one, but somehow her lips linger, somehow they melt against his, soft and warm and tender, somehow it takes effort to pull away from him, somehow her nose gently rubs against his as they part, somehow she feels his surprised exhale against her lips and an excited shiver runs through her body, somehow her eyes stay closed a few seconds longer than expected, somehow she inhales his scent and feels his hands barely touching her waist, somehow his eyes stare at her more darkly and intensely than before while his mouth gapes slightly ajar.
“Happy New Year, Fitz,” she mutters barely above a whisper.
He clears his throat, and his tongue briefly darts out to wet his lips. “Happy New Year, Simmons,” he replies equally quietly, and the use of her last name makes her chuckle.
She takes a deep breath and steps a little back. “There you have it,” she says, unable to hide her smile. “A do-over.”
He nods slowly. “Yep. And most definitely far nicer than anything Hunter could have offered,” he jokes.
She chuckles. “Thank you,” she says.
“What for?”
Jemma shrugs her shoulders. “Keeping me company.” She inhales slowly. “I know you didn’t really have a choice but you could have simply decided to sit in your own corner in silence after my little mental breakdown.”
He smiles at her. “No, I couldn’t have.”
Jemma sighs. “Well, this was certainly not where I wanted to spend my New Year’s Eve nor with whom I wanted to spend it, but I must admit, it turned out to be quite a special and lovely New Year’s Eve… and certainly memorable.”
“Yep, that’s the kinda stuff you’ll tell your grandkids about one day,” Fitz adds, pointing at her.
“Precisely,” Jemma agrees, a smile on her lips.
“So, what now?” Fitz breaks the momentary silence.
Jemma shrugs her shoulders. “There’s a bit more pizza left,” she suggests. “And I believe there are still some science fiction series we have not yet covered.”
Fitz lets out a brief laugh. “Alright,” he says, rubbing his hands together and walking back to where he had been sitting earlier.
“Well, and that’s the story of how I—” Fitz stops talking when Jemma’s attempt to stifle a yawn fails miserably.
He chuckles briefly. “I see! My slightly weird, yet endearing fascination with the various primates on this planet. That’s where you draw the line?” he teases her.
“No, no,” Jemma tries to interject. “It was really quite—” Another yawn attack forces her to interrupt her reply. “Fascinating,” she finally manages to finish and looks at him apologetically.
His warm smile shines back at her. “Why don’t you sleep?” he suggests quietly.
“No,” Jemma exclaims and looks at her watch. “It’s barely 1:30. We’re in our late twenties. What kind of people in their twenties go to sleep at 1:30 on New Year’s Eve?” she asks, slightly frustrated, pressing her lips together to stop herself from yawning again.
“Umm,” Fitz mutters, gesturing at Jemma with his thumb. “People who were forced by their arrogant bosses to work until 9:30 pm on New Year’s Eve?… In heels,” he adds pointing at her shoes. Then he points at himself. “People who were forced to listen to their friend bitch and moan about a breakup for hours on end and then were sent on a suicide mission to pick up a disgustingly greasy pizza on New Year’s Eve?” He gestures back and forth between the two of them. “People who get stuck in a lift on New Year’s Eve. You know: people like us?”
His reply makes her laugh. “Fine,” she says. “Maybe trying to get some sleep isn’t the worst idea.”
Fitz nods in agreement. “Here,” he says and begins to take off his jacket.
“What are you doing?” Jemma asks, surprised. “You’re going to get cold!”
“No I won’t,” Fitz disagrees. “It’s not cold in here.” He hands her the jacket. “Use it as a pillow. It’ll be more comfortable.”
“What about you?” Jemma says, full of concern.
“I can sleep anywhere,” Fitz replies. “Trust me.”
Jemma smiles at him and quietly folds up his jacket. She lays down on the elevator floor, her head close to Fitz. The jacket feels warm against her cheek and the smell of the old worn leather reminds her of her parents’ sofa. She closes her eyes and inhales the familiar scent. “Good night, Fitz,” she mutters quietly.
A smile flashes across her face, when she briefly feels his hand on her shoulder. “Good night, Jemma.”