Chapter 1
Prompt 1: Fitz with a hangover, while Jemma feels fine.
The shutters were strewn tightly. Fitz hadn’t remembered closing them, but he usually kept them drawn for the most part. Unless he was testing a solar device, or some other gadget that required the natural flush of light, his apartment remained a cave of wonders, complete with darkness. He was glad they were shut, because if he had opened his eyes to an overwhelming amount of light, he didn’t think he would survive.
Fitz shifted in his bed, the blankets poured on top of him now causing him to stop. The constriction of the jeans he failed to take off the night before, weighed him down in the sheets. Not wanting to move or not wanting to die under the crushing heat, Fitz had to come to a decision. He wormed his hands to the waistband of his jeans, and after unzipping them; he slid them down and left them crumpled at the bottom of his bed. He would have to find them later.
Nearby, his phone buzzed, thankfully on vibrate. It was still loud, startling noise. Slowly, he snaked his hand out of the bed and reached out to the nightstand next to the pillow. The brightly lit screen caused Fitz to recoil, shutting his eyes, faster than he could have decided.
"Bloody hell," he croaked.
After adjusting the brightness settings, he took a peek at the text message that had popped up.
"Good morning, Fitz! How are you feeling today?"
It was from Jemma, his neighbor. They, and a couple of mutual friends, had went out to a bar last night, hence why Fitz was suffering from the painful consequences of a hangover. And, one of the worst he ever had.
"Like death," Fitz texted back. He plopped the phone back down and settled on readjusting the sheets in hopes some cooler air would help break his sweat.
The phone buzzed not a second later.
"I'll be right there," Jemma responded.
For so long Fitz had assumed the worst about Jemma, that she was a stuck-up brat. This was, of course, before he had actually spoken to her. Then one night, months ago, he heard a loud scream from her apartment, and a crashing noise that woke up most of the floor. Fitz, who was up late working on yet another gadget, sprung up from his work space. He grabbed a pair of pants, and without thinking, ran into the hallway and knocked on the door to her apartment.
"Who-who is it?" A scared, shaken voice of the inhabitant had rang out.
Fitz stammered to find the right words; he hadn't quite thought this out thoroughly.
"It's your next door neighbor, I heard you scream," he finally said.
A few moments later, he heard the familiar clink and shifting of bolts that unlocked the apartment's door.
Jemma stood before him, in a bathrobe, hair a mess, with a baseball bat clutched in one hand.
"Are... are you all right?" Fitz asked. She looked terrified, her eyes red, and underneath were the remnants of tears, swept to the side.
"Someone tried to break into my apartment form outside," she responded.
Fitz was thankful that someone had only tried. Despite feeling up until this moment, contempt for this woman, he was glad she was safe.
"Did you whack him with the bat?" Fitz tried to diffuse the tense moment with humor, it was what he considered his redeeming quality.
The fear on Jemma's face broke, and she smiled, laughed even. Fitz was successful. Jemma invited him in and showed him the bedroom window, the would-be intrude had successfully forced open. The intruder had broken the latch that kept the window secure. In lifting the window, a tiny potted plot on the ledge had slipped off the windowsill and crashed to the floor, waking and alerting the sleeping Jemma. Fitz examined it, and after Jemma refused to call the cops, Fitz receded back to his apartment, brought back some tools, and not only fixed the window, but heightened the security tenfold in her apartment. It was nearly three in the morning when he finished, and after Fitz and Jemma sat at her kitchen table chatting over tea. She had been too scared to go back to sleep, and Fitz had been too enamored by her personality. Plus, she was British, which was a taste of back home for this lonely Scotsman.
Jemma wasn’t initially what Fitz had constructed in his mind. She was endearing, charming, and above all intelligent. She worked as a biochemist. Her bedroom had been a cluttered mess; unlike the prim and proper room Fitz would have imagined it to be. She cracked jokes with Doctor Who references and on her fridge hung Harry Potter magnets. She missed England, having not met one other person from the homeland, but didn’t discount how enjoyable it was to live in California.
From there, their friendship blossomed. A few weeks later, Fitz’ job announced they would be relocating, but not wanting to move to the middle of nowhere- USA- Jemma helped procure him a job at her company. It was there that they worked in the lab together and would often get drinks after work with some other friends in different departments.
Coming back to it, they had just started off the night getting drinks, but things took a wild turn.
A few minutes later after Jemma had texted him that she was coming over, Fitz heard the key turn in the front of his apartment. Fitz had given her an extra key and Jemma had given hers in return. Fitz didn’t mind watering Jemma’s plants when she went back to visit her mum and dad. And Fitz certainly didn’t mind Jemma coming over whenever she wanted, to bring over something she cooked or baked, just because she felt like it. On top of excelling in two difficult science concentrations, Jemma just did it all and made it all look so easy. Which, as Fitz had come to know her was so far from the truth. She was also clumsy, over-spoke when nervous, had the most atrocious excuse for handwriting, and, while he would never say this to her face, she wasn’t the best at cleaning.
“Fitz?” her voice echoed from the front of the apartment. Fitz groaned in response. He could hear her light pattering of footsteps head across his living room, into the small hallway, and into his bedroom.
She set a tray of something atop the papers sprawled on his desk, and because the room was too dark, she clicked on the desk lamp.
Fitz groaned, again. He shifted under the covers, cowering from the light.
“Oh, it is not that bad you big baby,” Jemma huffed. She was using a quiet voice, so Fitz knew this was all in jest.
Fitz unrolled the covers down to the bridge of his nose. He squinted his eyes to look at Jemma hovering over him. She looked refreshed, like she had just come back from a weekend retreat in the mountains or something. Fitz was immediately envious of her bright and perky demeanor, while he suffered under a crushing headache and aversion to light and movement.
Jemma turned back to her tray and picked up a steaming hot cup of coffee. She knew regular old tea wouldn’t cut it, this was a cause for coffee.
“Sit up,” she instructed.
Groaning, yet again, Fitz did one better by sliding his legs around, so his feet met the floor. The coolness of the room felt really good on his newly exposed skin. It was then that he remembered he had taken his pants off and was now sitting in front of Jemma in just his boxers. Redness boiled up under the skin of his cheeks. How embarrassing, he thought as Jemma placed the warm cup in his hands.
She sat down on the bed next to him, her light weight led to a small dip in the mattress. She sat with him in the mostly dark room for several moments, waiting for Fitz to take a sip of the beverage.
The aroma of the coffee made Fitz feel like a whole new person. It washed away some of the nausea that had dredged up when he shifted out of the bed. And the first sip, the soothing taste of hazelnut, made just the way – and the only way – he liked coffee, was a shot of morphine to his hung over symptoms.
But above all else, the thing that helped rub out the undulating pain was the mere presence of Jemma alone. She always lightened his mood.
“So, we have to talk about last night,” Jemma cut through the silence Fitz had been savoring.
Those words were scary in any context. And the fact that Fitz could barely remember anything from last night was his first clue that something either embarrassing or horrifying had happened on his part. Whatever he did, he was just crossing his mental fingers that it in no way harmed Jemma.
And yes, Fitz thought, he hoped he hadn’t confessed the crush he had on her.
Fitz took a long sip from the coffee, in hopes to buy some more time. He let the piping hot caffeine simmer down in his mouth, and slowly swallowed, the heat sending shockwaves of soothing heat throughout his body. He smacked his lips, sighed, and then addressed the elephant in the room Jemma had brought up.
“What did I do?” Like a shamed dog Fitz had responded.
“What do you remember last?” Jemma playing coy was considerably alarming for Fitz. Why couldn’t she just spit it out, and put him out of his misery. That was another thing she did that mildly aggravated him. But his contention for Jemma’s ability to draw out information was thrown out the door, once he realized how close in proximity he was to her. He was suddenly very aware of the softness of her sweatpants against his half-bare thigh.
Cursing the new swarm of heat his body felt, and desperately wanted to react to, Fitz shrugged.
“I remember…,” Fitz tried to concentrate on his quite blank memory of last night to deter his body from taking over in other areas.
Now Fitz was playing the stalling game.
“I, uh, remember, getting to the bar,” he said after a long pause.
“Well, that is a great start,” Jemma enthusiastically responded. Fitz playfully elbowed her, to which she responded not as mischievous, but with a more spirited jab into the ribs.
“Alright, alright, no more messing around,” Fitz muttered. He freed up one of his hands from the coffee cup to rub the section of his ribcage Jemma had not been so kind to.
Jemma looked at him, her sunny deposition and patient eagerness beckoned him on.
“I remember getting to the bar, and ordering a beer. We sat at a booth and waited for Daisy, Ward, Trip, and uh, Hunter, Bobbi, Mack, Lincoln…,” Fitz was confused as to why it was so difficult for him to recall this. This was before he had become completely sloshed.
“So they all arrive by the time I have had my third pint, and then…” Fitz trailed off.
“Hunter ordered a round of shots,” Jemma filled in.
“Oh, did he?” Fitz turned to look up at her. He was slightly hunched over his coffee now, the steam giving his clammy from sweat skin a much-needed facial. Fitz knew the start of taking shots was never a good idea for him; he just never reacted from hard liquor positively.
Jemma smiled at him politely. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her oversized sweater hung half-zipped off her chest. In fact, on closer inspection, that was actually Fitz’ sweater.
“You know, for as intelligent as you are you don’t seem to grasp the concept of ‘liquor before beer, and you’re in the clear…’” Jemma instructed.
“And ‘beer before liquor, never been sicker,’” Fitz finished for her.
They have had this conversation before. Jemma was very simple with her drinks, if it wasn’t wine or just beer, then she would have vodka sodas. Fitz could hear her lecturing voice about how the sugars in most mixed drinks were the main cause of hangovers from hell.
“Which is why I don’t feel like death,” Jemma added, as if she read his thoughts about what kind of drinks she has.
“So, what did I do this time?” Fitz said, placing the half drunk cup of coffee on the floor next to his feet. He placed his head in his hands, ready to accept his shame and embarrassment.
“Well, you and Hunter had a few more shots after the group round, you both then jumped up on the bar and began singing God Save the Queen, when Coulson and May walked in the bar,” Jemma stopped there.
“Oh no, Coulson, and May?” the fright was very real in Fitz’ voice. They were, after all, their bosses.
“Coulson actually quite enjoyed your rendition, and even bought you a round of drinks. As for May, well, she kind of just rolled her eyes and stayed far away form the rowdiest of the bunch for most of the night, but don’t worry, you didn’t do anything else embarrassing in the sense to loose your job over. Coulson got quite drunk too,” Jemma was quick to lighten Fitz’ foreboding sense of fear. He sighed in relief.
Fitz could tell this wasn’t the end to the night either, singing God Save the Queen on top of the bar wasn’t the worst thing he could have done.
“Daisy has a video of you and Hunter singing on the bar, by the way,” Jemma chimed in.
“Great,” Fitz drawled out. He knew Daisy well enough to know that the video was probably drawing up the hits on Facebook. Daisy was basking in the glory and would not let that down for ages to come.
Jemma shifted on his bed. She recoiled a leg underneath her, and twisted her body so she more directly faced Fitz.
“That is… not all you did,” Jemma hesitated. The bad feeling Fitz had, swarmed over him again. Despite her leg no longer touching his, he was again reminded that he was in nothing but his boxer’s in front of Jemma. Fitz braced himself. Oh no, he thought to himself. Jemma looked down at her lap, she was suddenly playing with her fingers. She twisted her fingertips and bent them at her knuckles. She was nervous, and the nerves rubbed off on him.
“We left the bar at around 2:30, you were very, very drunk, so I’m not if you meant to say something like this,” Jemma said.
Here she was, playing the stalling game again. Fitz’ head began to throb like a tireless ocean crashing against a stone wall. He was tense, and reached for the cup of coffee again to have some sort of distraction.
“I thought maybe walking home from the bar would do you some good, the fresh air maybe would help alleviate your hangover symptoms – that doesn’t seem to be quite the case – but, anyway, we reached the park, the one across from the museum, and we took a little break from walking. You looked pretty tired, and my shoulder was bit for the same from having to help hold you up. But we sat on a bench, and you just started to talk and talk and talk. None of it made sense for a bit, and then you talked about the night I had the intruder break into my apartment and how you first thought I was a bitch, until you actually met me. You drabbled on for quite some time, but don’t worry, that was nothing bad you actually said, I’ve gotten that a lot during my life,” Jemma shifted nervously again, and paused to catch her breath. She had been talking very fast and disjointedly. Her sunny disposition was marked now by a serious tone.
“Did I hurt you, Jemma?” Fitz asked concerned. He was now terrified he said something that crossed the line and Jemma wouldn’t feel comfortable being his friend anymore.
“No, on the contrary you said something of the opposite,” a small smile tugged at the corners of Jemma’s lips. She realized she had been lying it on heavy that he had done something wrong.
"In fact, you actually said something I... was hoping to hear from you. Perhaps, yes, I would have liked to hear it when you weren't a bit of a drunken slop, but, I hope what you said is truthful, otherwise I would be the one quite embarrassed right now," Jemma followed up with.
Oh my goodness, dear woman, Fitz thought, could she just say it?
"Yes?" Fitz beckoned her on.
"You, you, sort of told me that you liked me," Jemma gushed. She averted her eyes to stare at the curtains covering his window.
Fitz set the cup of coffee back down. This time he turned to face her directly instead of his crouching over the side of the bed.
"Are you okay over that?" Fitz asked, softly. Suddenly his hangover didn't matter as much, and he wasn't secretly envious over her cleansed sobriety. He realized he put her in a very tough spot last night saying that, and yes, he made a damn fool out of himself, but he also wanted to be sure that she felt comfortable, because he would never want to cause her any harm.
"I'm better than okay over that, I wanted to kiss you right then and there. Oh, Fitz, I wish you weren't drunk for that moment so it could have been special for you, too," she turned to look at him. She was biting her lip. Fitz could see the blush well up in her cheeks. Her whole body seemed to lighten up. Fitz beamed at her. Drunk him had done a good job.
"Well, that's the nice thing about mornings, if that they are a fresh start," Fitz said. Fitz went to pull the move, a move in his head he had calculated since the moment he knew he was indeed infatuated with her. He reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Just be casual, he thought to himself smugly. He followed up his hand by inching closer, so that his bare chest was adjacent to his sweatshirt she was wearing on hers. The sweetness of coffee on his breath met hers, and soon they were fulfilling the very wish Jemma had wanted last night. The kiss was tender, the kind you give someone when you want to give them the world and yet not take anything away from them at the same time. In the back of his mind, Fitz hoped this would be special for her in some way. That it wasn’t two people exploring the truth of a drunken heart, but finding the answers that had already been there.
When they pulled apart, sharing the same ecstatic but dopey smile, they didn’t even need to speak. Jemma just grabbed a hold of his hand, clung on to it.
“I am very glad you don’t think of me as a bitch,” Jemma laughed.
“Oh, I am going to pay for that one,” and with confidence, Fitz pulled in for another kiss. Thanking too many drinks for having this bittersweet moment.