#questionable language

The past 36 hours had been a whirlwind, jumping around Europe and chasing the berserker staff. It had been interesting enough, a myth come to life, but having that damn Asgardian on the Bus had been another stressor. He was a letch, plain and simple, regardless of his race. Pretty as a peach, he thought to himself, disgusted. She had smiled for that weak compliment, too, bending easily to the charms of that slime. He winces at the memory.

How it was that a woman as talented and beautiful as Jemma Simmons would go for lines like that was beyond him.

His eyes skirt over to the mini-fridge tucked beneath the dresser. He’s sure there’s a fine selection of miniature bottles of liquor hidden behind the little black door. A few of those and he could be down for the count, and all on Director Fury’s dime at that.

He recalls his Uncle Steenie, how he would tuck himself into a chair before the hearth as soon as he came home from the factory and would proceed to drink himself into a stupor. He refuses to be that man, so he runs his fingers through his curls, shoves his key card in his pocket, and makes for the hotel bar. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her fingers distractedly draw patterns on the dark wood of the bar as she tunes out the prattling of the man who had sidled up next to her.

Jemma Simmons isn’t in the mood to be the target of some man’s ego boost; all she wanted was to come down to the bar, have a drink or two, people watch, and make her way back to her room for blissful, alcohol-induced, dreamless sleep. The man, some 6 foot, dark-haired, light-eyed local who apparently just broke it off with his girlfriend of four years, is handsome enough, she supposes. It’s just been so long since anyone other than a certain curly-haired, blue-eyed engineer has caught her attention, but the local's now smiling at her as if he expects her to react to something he just said.

She recovers quickly, flashing him a brilliant smile before swallowing the last of her moscato. The sweetness is cloying, and somehow makes it easier for her to fake an answer.

“That’s certainly a conundrum.”

She’s apparently said something that’s acceptable because he smiles back and signals the bartender. “Let me get you—”

Suddenly, there’s a warm hand low on her back, and a familiar brogue washes over her, stopping her would-be suitor in his tracks and sending chills racing over her skin.

"Tha’s all righ’, mate, I’ve go’ it.” She glances up to see the tight-lipped smile and steely gaze Fitz gives the man before turning to the bartender. “Another f’r th’ lady, an’ I’ll ha’e a Glenlivet, two fingers, neat.”

The man, she really hadn’t bothered to remember his name, mumbles an apology to Fitz and wanders to the far side of the bar as the bartender pours their drinks. She waits until they’re set before them before speaking.

“You know,” she states matter-of-factly, picking up her fresh moscato and taking a sip, “you, Leo Fitz, are really quite the cockblock.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He wishes she’d waited for him to swallow before speaking; it would have saved him the trouble of nearly choking on a €15 drink. Although, he reflects, there would be worse ways to go, choking on good scotch and hearing the word “cock” come out of his partner’s mouth. Still, he gives her a perturbed look before turning back to his drink.

Her eyes are innocent as they gaze up at him, betraying nothing in their dark amber depths. He suddenly finds that he’s incredibly annoyed with her. Her body language from across the bar had told of a bored young woman with little to no interest in the man speaking to her. He’d stepped in to help her, and all he’d gotten in return was the title of cockblock.

“Well, if ye’d prefer, I can ask him t’ come back an’ try again.”

His exhaustion doesn’t allow him to mask the waspish tone his voice takes on. He’s never had the patience to deal with all the men who found their way to Jemma Simmons’ side, and his patience was particularly thin at the moment. He goes to push away from the bar, but she stops him with a hand on his arm. Her palm feels incredibly warm through the thin material of his shirt. He stills and glances at her, only to be greeted with a wide smile.

“It’s fine, Fitz. I was only teasing.”

He settles back into position, leaning against the bar with his weight on his forearms, before taking another sip. It burns just the way he wants it to, its warmth spreading out in gentle tendrils through his chest, down his arms and up his neck. It works quickly, thanks to his empty stomach, but instead of relaxing him, Fitz finds that his head is buzzing with a million thoughts, most of them centered on the woman sitting next to him. She truly had no idea what she did to men, let alone him. His frustration with her and her apparent ignorance of the situation bloomed, fueled by the alcohol.

“Ye dinnae e’en realize wha’ yer teasin’ coul’ lead a man t’ do, do ye?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She’s surprised at his tone of voice, and she realizes that he’s angry, honestly angry, with what she said.

Typically, she’d be accommodating, would be patient and would talk Fitz down from whatever had piqued his famed Scottish temper, but today was far from a typical day. She had spent the past 36 hours gallivanting around Europe. A drink or two were in order, then sleep in a bed larger than the twin sized cot she occupied on the Bus. She does her best to keep her voice even, not wanting to start a fight in the middle of a crowded bar. S.H.I.E.L.D. earned enough bad press on its own without having its agents bickering in public.

“What teasing, Fitz? I was speaking to a man when you came down, yes, but there was no teasing. It was just a conversation.”

Her anger becomes a gentle fizzing in her chest, ready to boil over, when he scoffs at her and presses on.

“No’ a tease. Bloody likely.”

She elects to turn on her stool so she’s facing him and glares instead of responding to his comment. Fitz, for his part, decides to keep digging his own grave. He gulps down the last of his drink and signals for another.

“Ye really dinnae see how men flock t’ ye? I’s constan’, Jemma,” he pauses to take a sip from the fresh scotch that’s just been set in front of him, “an’ I hate it. I hated havin’ t’ watch tha’ ‘professor’ ogle ye an’ hearin’ ‘im tell ye tha’ ye’re ‘th’ mos’ beautiful thing’ he’s seen in a thousan’ years…” he trails off, staring into the amber liquid in his glass.

She thinks he’s done, is ready to forgive his outburst, blame it on alcohol and a long two days, when he starts back in again.

“An’ ye smile an’ accep’ it an’ encourage ‘em. Chris’, i’s fuckin’ annoyin’.”

It dawns on her exactly what this is about. Fitz is finally catching up with the rest of the class; he knows what he wants, but he doesn’t know how to go about getting it. Jemma is no such fool, and for as much as she tries to hide her feelings from the world at large, she’s very much in touch with what she wants, has known what she’s wanted for a very long time, and tonight is the night she takes it.

“Fitz.”

He continues staring downward, ignoring his name, apparently attempting to bore a hole through not only the bottom of his tumbler, but the bar itself.

“Leo.”

Still nothing.

“Leopold Fitz, you prat, if you won’t make a move yourself, you can’t expect me to ignore other men.”

That got his attention. He stands straight and turns towards her, mouth open, ready to unleash his own retort, but she’s faster. Before he can stop and realize what’s happening, she grabs hold of his tie, using it as a tether to bring his mouth to hers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her taste is saccharine, thanks to the moscato, and serves as a sharp contrast to the feel of her against him.

The kiss is anything but sweet, with years of pent up frustration on both their parts rising to the surface. Yet, despite the aggression behind her kiss, there’s genuine emotion there, even when Jemma takes his bottom lip between her teeth, nipping at it and drawing a low growl from his throat. He steps between her knees, and placing his hands under either thigh and pulling her flush against him, nearly toppling the stool beneath her in the process. He’s gratified by way she squeaks when she feels him pressed against her, and pulls away to look her in the eye.

Her anger is waning, giving way to lust, and he feels a heat bloom low in his belly that has nothing to do with the alcohol or the thought of another man touching her.

“Are ye really goin’ t’ tell me ye’re not a tease now?” He knows he’s risking life and limb to get the barb out, but he can’t resist. He scans her face, takes in her wide eyes, panting mouth, and the jumping pulse point in her neck. He locks his gaze with hers again to find honey-color pools laden with longing staring back at him. He’s absolutely entranced by her, cannot believe that he’s here and done this and she hasn’t murdered him yet.

Without loosening her hold on his tie or breaking eye contact, Jemma snakes her left hand into his front pocket, brushing against his rapidly awakening cock in the process, and pulls out his billfold.

“Pay the man,” she hisses, voice husky, “and take me upstairs.” She uses his tie to pull him closer, so her mouth is even with his right ear. She draws the lobe into her mouth, setting her teeth into it gently and making his knees shake just the slightest bit.

Fitz doesn’t need to be told twice, pulling out far more euros than he needs to cover their tab and slapping them down on the polished wooden surface before yanking her off her stool and leading her to the lift in the lobby.