#fitzsimmonsweek

*

The second time Leo Fitz meets Jemma Simmons, she’s suspicious.

“Are you stalking me?” Jemma demands, shouting over the loud music.

“Am I stalking you?” Fitz repeats in disbelief.  “You’re at my house.”

“No, I’m not.” Jemma responds so quickly, with so much authority, that Fitz almost believes her.  She fills up her red Solo cup with beer from the keg and walks away.  Fitz follows her through the crowd of sweaty and drunk party-goers.

“No, seriously.  I live here.”

Jemma levels him with a challenging glare.  “No, because my friend Daisy lives here.”

Fitz has to laugh.  “It’s a big house.  You think she’s the only one who lives here?”

Jemma narrows her eyes at him.  “I’ll challenge you to it.”

“What?”

“I challenge you to beer pong.  If you win, then you live here.  If I win, then Daisy lives here.  I hope you’re prepared to lose, because I’m great at beer pong.  I’ve already won four games tonight.”

Well.  That explains things.

Fitz nods decisively.  “Okay.  No more beer for you.”

Jemma frowns.  “What?”  

Fitz grabs her hand and pulls her back to the kitchen so that he can get a bottle of water out of the fridge.  “Drink this.”

Jemma’s surprisingly compliant, considering that she was just arguing with him about where he lives.  As she chugs, Fitz rummages through the cupboards until he finds Daisy’s stash of Poptarts.  “Here.”

Jemma frowns at the silver package.  “You’re not even going to toast them first?”

Fitz rolls his eyes.  “Such a princess,” he grumbles, tearing open the package and dropping them into the toaster.

When they’re done toasting, Fitz wraps a paper towel around them and hands them to Jemma.  Jemma immediately hands them back to him.

“What now?” Fitz asks impatiently.

“They’re too hot,” Jemma complains.

Fitz runs a hand over his face.  “Jesus Christ.”  He grabs her hand again and tugs her down the hallway.  “C’mon.  Mack and Daisy are playing video games in the basement.”  He did not sign up to babysit Daisy’s friends for her.

When they get downstairs, Daisy is standing on their beat-up forest green couch, pointing down at Mack and Hunter, shouting, “Boom!  Does it hurt?  Does it hurt?!”

Jemma reaches over to squeeze Fitz’s arm with the hand he’s not holding.  “What’s Daisy doing at your house?”

Fitz ignores her in favor of flopping onto the couch next to Daisy.   He leans down to pick up the fourth controller.  “I found one of your strays upstairs.”

Daisy smirks as she watches Jemma climb onto the couch next to Fitz and nestle into his side.  “Looks like she’s imprinted.”

Fitz rolls his eyes.  “Excuse me for trying to be responsible.”

Jemma plunges her hand into Fitz’s pants pocket, and he wiggles away from her.  “What’re you doing?” Fitz asks incredulously.

“I want my Poptarts,” Jemma whines.  “Gimme my Poptarts.”

Fitz points to the side table on the other side of her.  “It’s right there, next to the lamp.”

“Oh.” Then she promptly drops her head onto Fitz’s shoulder and starts snoring.

Fitz and Daisy play Roshambo to see whose bed they’d put her in. (“She’s your friend,” Fitz complains.  “Why does she get my bed?”  “Because you’re a gentleman,” Daisy gloats as she pulls off Jemma’s shoes and covers her with Fitz’s blankets.)

Jemma wanders into the kitchen the next morning, messy-haired and red-faced.  

“How do you feel?” Daisy asks sympathetically from where she’s perched on the counter next to the stove, where Fitz is flipping pancakes.

“Like I got hit by a medium-sized SUV,” Jemma groans, sliding onto a barstool on the other side of the breakfast bar.  “Do you have any paracetamol?”

“I only speak American, Jem.”

“Aspirin.”

Daisy hops down from the counter.  “I might have some in my room.  Be right back.”

As soon as Daisy leaves the kitchen, Jemma blurts, “Look.  About last night...”

Fitz slides a plate of pancakes in front of her.  “What about it?”

Jemma runs her hand through her hair.  “Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

Fitz’s eyebrows draw together in confusion.  “About what?”

Jemma huffs.  “Oh my God, you’re going to actually make me say it,” she mutters, mostly to herself.  She straightens in her chair and looks Fitz bravely in the eyes.  “Okay.  Last night was a lot of fun.  Really.  You’re great.  And sweet. And obviously, really well-formed and symmetrical.”

Fitz can’t help the grin spreading across his face.  “Obviously,” he repeats.

Jemma looks down at her plate and starts attacking her pancakes.  “And even though I said last night that I wanted to have your babies, the truth is, I’m not looking for anything right now.  I’m moving to another city for grad school, and it’s a really bad time to start dating someone. I don’t really do long-distance.”

Fitz is really trying very hard to hold in his laughter, but he can’t help it.  It bursts out of him, loud and delighted.  “I’m sorry - I just - do you think we hooked up?”

Jemma freezes mid-bite.  “Did we not?”

Fitz shakes his head.  “No.  And you definitely did not say that you wanted to have my babies.  Though I am definitely filing that information away for later.”

Jemma looks askance, as though mentally rewinding through her memories of the night before.  “Oh.  Maybe I only thought it.”

Despite her initial embarrassment, Jemma stays long after breakfast is over, settling into the couch next to Daisy and playing Mario Kart with them.  (Fitz sits safely on the floor to avoid a repeat of last night.  The last thing he needs is Jemma snuggling into his side.  It’s bad for his sanity.)

And by the time Jemma leaves, Fitz finds that even though he wasn’t really looking to date anyone either, he really wouldn’t mind reconsidering for her.

*

The third time Leo Fitz meets Jemma Simmons, they’re both wearing stick-on name tags and eating vegetable crudités off of those clear plastic plates that are trying to pass themselves off as fancy crystal.

“Oh my God, you stalked me all the way to Boston,” Jemma says when she first sees him.  Because of course they would be at the same mixer for new graduate students at their school.

Though, if Jemma really thought he was stalking her, it must be something she’s into because Fitz doesn’t really know how else to explain the way they end up making out furiously on her couch later that night.

“So I know you said you don’t do long distance,” Fitz says into her neck, his hand creeping up her leg and under her skirt.  “So I feel like now is the time to tell you that I live all the way at the other end of the Green Line.  Hope that’s not a deal breaker.”

Jemma slides her hand from his hair to his cheek, guiding his mouth back to hers.  “I think we can figure something out.”