happily ever after.

“Alright, I think we shall take a break for a moment or two, and then we shall come back.”

The exasperated, German-accented call comes from their dance tutor, who switches off the music and leaves the room before either of them can decide to argue with her. Since they have spent the better part of the past hour arguing with each other, it probably was a safe bet to assume that their ire was next to be turned on her. It’s a logical decision for her to make them take a breath, and for her to step away whilst doing so. Unfortunately, logic is the last of their considerations.

“Well, where’s she going?” Fitz fumes. “How’re we supposed to get better if she just abandons us!”

“She’s not abandoning us, Fitz,” Jemma scoffs, tossing her hair back like the princess she is. “She’s probably just sick to death of watching you stand on my foot every second step.”

“Oh, right, because you’re so perfect, Little Miss Grip-On-Too-Tight-Until-She-Draws-Blood.”

She comes close and flicks the spot on his shoulder where a small spot of blood has stained his white shirt. “It’s a little scratch, you can barely even see it.”

He points to the spot. “Blood.”

She has the good sense to look mildly abashed but turns away without saying anything else. The dancing lessons have set them both on edge. They were supposed to be a mild refresher before the wedding, just about ensuring everyone was on the same page. With the way they’re dancing, the almost-newlyweds don’t even appear to be in the same book.

“I don’t understand what’s so hard,” Jemma moans, and for a second Fitz is afraid that she’s going to stamp her foot. They would really be in uncharted territory there. “We’re usually brilliant at this. Everyone says so. Even my mother says so.”

The separation of Her Majesty from everyone else is not lost on Fitz, and he has to agree that usually, they are quite good at dancing. While he has never had the formal lessons that Jemma has - what with him being somewhat upper class but just not enough for him to require them – they always do quite well together. They flow, is the only way to describe it. When he holds her and she holds him in turn, they move together like nothing else. They are fluid, moving as one with the music as though they were born for this and only this. Even Hunter, seeing it occur once at a journalist ball, said it was ‘a bit of alright’. Coming from him, that was high praise indeed.

He supposes that’s why it is even more frustrating that they can’t co-ordinate their steps here. Or, more accurately, he can’t. They’re supposed to step left and he steps right, or he has to spin her but he does it with so much force that she gets tangled in on herself. Their tutor is patient, as much as she can be, but it only makes it worse. The thought of doing this at their wedding reception, in front of the hundreds of people who just had to be invited, sits like a rock in his stomach. There are going to be so many people there, and at the rate it’s going, they’re all just going to see him fail.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. The ballroom they’re practising in suddenly seems incredibly small. “It’s just not working.”

“You’re not trying, you mean. Honestly, Fitz, if you would just listen when Greta directs you then-”

“I am listening, Jemma, you’re the one that’s whispering in my ear, throwing me off.”

“Well excuse me for only trying to help you get there because I don’t see you doing it on your own.”

“I could do it if everyone just stopped bothering me.”

“Bothering you? She’s trying to teach you. It’s not her fault that you can’t-”

“-have a bloody degree and you’re going on and on about rights and le-”

“-so stubborn it’s like you don’t even want us to look like we know each other, never mind married-”