Chapter Text
Fitz carefully balances two steaming cups of tea in his hands, one Earl Grey for himself and a chai for Jemma. Slung over his shoulder is a bag containing sea salt popcorn and Cadbury milk chocolate. She’d probably admonish him over the sweets since she’d seen him gorging on peanut butter cups after lunch. However, Cadbury was her favorite and she rarely resisted it when offered. He figured if she indulged herself, she’d have no choice but to let him do the same.
Fitz would probably be skipping as he heads off to Jemma’s room if he didn’t think he’d end up with second degree burns from hot tea.
‘Can we start over, back to where we began?’ He didn’t know what she’d meant by that. He sort of did, but not exactly. Minds as multi-layered as theirs don’t easily forget.
What he does know is they had a two hour conversation about artificial nervous systems for prosthetic limbs in the lab that night - her posture at ease and her smile bright. He knows she made him a buffalo mozzarella & prosciutto sandwich with homemade pesto aioli for lunch the next day (and twice since) - every time a relishable mmmmm escaped him, she’d stop eating her own meal to smile and watch him, her honey-brown eyes sparkling. He knows when they took a long walk on a wooded path near the base last weekend, when his knuckles accidentally brushed against hers she intertwined her fingers with his - they held hands as they strolled among the budding spring trees and only let go when they returned to the base. And he knows they’ve started to exchange kisses to the cheek each time they part and last night was lips to lips - quick, close-mouthed, but lingering long enough to not be classified as merely friendly.
Still something was off. Whenever he’d close into embrace her, she’d bend forward slightly so only her shoulders touched his body. It was unusual for Jemma, who loved a good hug. He’d also caught her wincing and clutching the cloth of her shirts in front of her stomach at times. When he asked her what’s wrong, she’d say her stomach hurt and that it must’ve been something she ate or a bug. He didn’t pry further, just offered to get her something to settle any indigestion. She’d refuse and seemed to recoup quickly.
Last night as they chatted after supper in the dining area, she reached over the table to hold his hand. He tensed up at first as he glanced over to Coulson, who was just 15 feet away eating the last bit of his pepperoni hot pocket. But when he looked back to Jemma, who was smiling at him longingly, he decided fuck it. Fuck it. They’d given so much of themselves to S.H.E.I.L.D., they deserved these little moments of happiness. And people thought they were already sleeping together anyway - he’d even heard one rumor that they were secretly married. He leaned in closer and slowly stroked his thumb over her the backs of her fingers as they talked about the new technology museum that opened nearby.
He became so engaged in the conversation that he jumped when he heard Coulson speak Jemma’s name - now standing right over them.
“Jemma, tomorrow I’m going to need you and Lincoln to give me a update on the Inhuman research you’ve been working on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two o’clock, OK? In my office.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let Lincoln know.”
“And, uh…” Coulson stared at their intertwined hands for a moment, “why don’t you two take the following day off?”
They both looked at him stunned for a second before responding. “Thank you, sir,” they both said in unison.
“Goodnight, Jemma. Fitz.”
They both planned for a Dr. Who marathon the next evening and a trip to the museum the following day. However, when 2pm was nearing, May came to the lab to tell Jemma the meeting was delayed. The hours ticked by and it wasn’t until after 6pm that Jemma and Lincoln were called into Coulson’s office.
9:12pm is when Fitz got a text saying they’re done. He headed off to grab tea and snacks. At least they’d be able to fit in an episode or two tonight.
Unable to knock, Fitz yells her name when he’s outside her room. The door opens and he expects to be greeted with her bright smile and an ‘oh, thank you’ as she takes her tea as usual. Instead he sees her immediately rushing away, her back to him, as she ducks down to look under her bed and frantically searches in between the storage boxes beneath. Thunks can be heard as she shoves the boxes into one another and he hears several sniffles over that.
“Jemma?” He carefully sets their tea on her desk and plunks his bag on the floor as he takes in the state of her room. It’s a mess. Well, a mess for Jemma.
“Jemma, what…what’s wrong?”
She turns to face him. Her face is tense and pink, her cheeks wet with tears.
“Jemma?” He moves closer to embrace her, but she puts her hand up to stop him.
“I think…I think I left my bag in the lab.”
Fitz’s brows furrow in confusion.
“I have some…cuts…that got infected,” her hand waves over the her midsection, “and I have medicine in my bag. Can you…”
“I’ll go get it - I’ll be right back,” he answers before she can finish the question.
He heads towards the lab with a rapid gait. It makes sense now why she didn’t want to hug. She’s in pain. From cuts. But from where? From what?
And then it hits him like a punch in the gut…
Giyera.
The screams he heard when he was torturing her had been agonizing, but she came out with only a cut on her cheek. Anger surges through his veins accompanied by helplessness. The same helplessness he felt when he was tied to that chair hearing her pain filled cries as he tried in vain to struggle out of his bonds.
Bile rises in his throat and his head swims. He fights off the wave of nausea as he picks his stride up to a run, rushing into the lab towards her worktable. He grabs the bag beneath and runs back to her room.
“I got it,” he says through panting breaths as he stumbles through the door. Jemma’s sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped, hands folded in her lap, lips in a tight frown. He stops momentarily, taken aback by how small and defeated she looks.
When she reaches out to take the bag, he moves forward placing it in her hands and kisses her forehead. He lingers there as she places the bag in her lap, she frames his face with her hands and whispers to him, “Thank you.”
He grasps each of her hands in his own and shifts back to look her in the eye, “Water?” She nods and he goes to the mini-fridge to grab a bottle while she removes three pill bottles and a tube of ointment from her bag that she neatly places on the nightstand. She opens the drawer beneath and places a small first aid kit on the surface as well.
“I should have been taking an antibiotic from the start,” she explains as she takes pills from two of the bottles, “I mean, I’m a doctor,” she lets out a huff of a laugh, “I should know better. But I thought they would heal well enough.”
How very Jemma, Fitz thinks as he sits on the bed next to her and hands her the water bottle. And how very English attempting to grin and bear through it while putting on a pleasant facade. He tapers down the upset he feels that she’d ignore what could potentially become a risk to her health. There are in fact dozens of emotions he’s suppressing at the moment, but he focuses on what she needs from him now.
He notices she’s taken pills from the bottles labeled cephalexin and acetaminophen, but the third labeled codeine goes untouched.
“I’ve been taking the cephalexin for a few days, but I started using to the antibiotic ointment last night too,” she explains as she puts the first pill in her mouth and swallowing it with a sip of water, “I’ve been taking acetaminophen for the pain and only take the codeine at night if it’s so bad that I can’t sleep.”
“Maybe you should…right now.”
“Fitz,” she whines, “I’ll fall asleep.”
Jemma hardly ever whines. His heart feels full that she obviously wanted to spend time with him tonight - so much so that she was willing put up with the discomfort she’s suffering through.
He brings a hand to her face. “Jemma, I can tell you’re in a lot of pain,” he brushes a fresh tear away from her cheek with his thumb, “It’s almost 10 o’clock anyway and we have all day tomorrow.”
Jemma’s eyes drop downward and she frowns in disappointment, but nods her assent. He gives a quick kiss to her forehead before reaching around to grab the script, uncap the bottle and he hands her a pill. She momentarily grimaces at the tiny, white oval in her palm before placing it on her tongue and taking a swig of water.
Her body lifts slightly as she puts the water bottle on the nightstand and when she settles to sit again, she shifts so her thigh is glued to his own. Her arm goes around his back and she rests her head on his shoulder. He reciprocates, wrapping his arm around her, but it hovers over her back lightly. His fingers dance in uncertainty on her shoulder not knowing the extent of her injuries, “Is this OK?”
She nods and pushes her head against his chest. His hand grasps her shoulder and he pulls her in closer to cuddle against him. Her other arm comes across his body, fingers clutching the material of his shirt. He curls his right hand around her forearm.
He nuzzles his nose against the crown of her head. “Giyera?”, he whispers into her hair.
She trembles slightly before sniffling and nodding into his chest. He holds her tighter and sucks in his bottom lip while he struggles to hold back his own tears. He kisses her hair as he brings his hand up to soothe and card through the soft, dark threads.
They stay that way for he doesn’t know how long before he remembers the topical antibiotic sitting on her nightstand.
“Do you want me to leave while you put on the ointment?”
She trembles again and hugs him tighter. “Stay,” she says as her hand that’s gripping his shirt pulls at the material as if she’s hanging off the edge of a cliff and he’s the only thing she has to hold onto to prevent a fall. She pushes her face into his chest and repeats a quiet and muffled, “stay.”
“Okay…okay.” He’s unsure if she wants him to hold her longer or remain while she tends to her wounds or… “Do you…do you want me to help?”
She stills and he thinks for a moment she’s going to refuse because it seems like an especially familiar act. It would certainly be the most intimate they’ve ever been. Him tending her wounds that are obviously under her shirt. Wounds she sustained by torture. Tending to them in her bedroom. At night.
But she nods into his chest and disentangles herself from his embrace.
He expects she’s going to simply lift up her shirt, assuming that whatever infection she has is on her stomach from her actions recently. He’s shocked when completely removes her shirt. On any other occasion, he’d be instantly aroused sitting next to Jemma topless but for her cotton, sky blue bra. Eying her injuries for the first time overrides any arousal.
Two horizontal cuts that seem to be healing well mar her midsection, each are about two to three inches in length. She also sports two bandages where he’s assuming there are more slashes. There are also five circular wounds about a quarter inch in diameter that appear free of infection, but the damage and depth indicate they might remain as scars. Three are close to her navel and the other two to the inner side of her left breast. Anger boils up inside him once again and he makes a silent vow to kill Giyera himself if he gets the chance.
Jemma slowly removes the bandages from her torso with trembling fingers and tosses them in the trash bin next to her nightstand. The cuts beneath are wider in the middle and they glisten slightly with some tiny spots of red and beige. They’re not so infected that they ooze or steadily bleed, but the entirety of the injuries are raised and surrounded by shades of angry crimsons. He feels sick. Not from his usual squeamishness to blood and gore. He’s discovered in recent years how far he can push past his fears when it comes to Jemma - nearly jumping out of a plane; willing to drown for her; jumping through a hole in the universe to get her back…. He feels ill because she’s suffering. And she shouldn’t have to cope alone.
He looks up to her eyes and realizes she’s been examining his reaction. Her lower lip trembles and fresh tears start cascading down her cheeks.
“They’re so ugly…”, she sobs out.
Oh, God, no. Has she mistaken his pained look for revulsion? She’s gorgeous. Perfect. Beautiful inside and out. She always will be to him. He’d never…
“No, Jems, no,” he whispers as he frames her face with his hands, leans forward and places a soft kiss on her lips. “He’s ugly. What he did was ugly. Nothing about you could ever be ugly.”
She hiccups out a breath and smiles as she places her hands atop his and rests her forehead against his.
His thumbs brush her tears away from her cheeks. “Why don’t you lie back. Get comfortable.”
Jemma nods and he brings his hands around hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze as she lays back. He gets up and turns off both her desk lamp and standing lamp. He switches her nightstand lamp until its at its lowest setting. It’s bright enough for him to see, but the dimmed light provides a much calmer atmosphere.
He takes the first aid kit and bottle of ointment from the nightstand. He heads to the end of the bed in order to climb to her other side where he kneels next to her. After setting out everything he’ll need from the kit, he opens a packet for an antiseptic wipe.
Jemma flinches a bit as he brushes the wipe over the two infected cuts. The smell of alcohol wafts up through the air and threatens to cut through the atmosphere he was hoping to keep calm. The aura seems so much more clinical. Which was indeed the core purpose - treating her medically maladies. Fitz wants to give her more than that though and he pauses as he considers his approach.
He gently runs two fingers along the outside of the worst cut on her stomach close to her left waist. Her breath hitches and it causes the muscles of her abdomen to ripple. He feels the skin beneath his fingertips tremble and he glances up to catch her gaze searching for any signs of discomfort from his touch. Jemma gives him a small smile, but her mouth drops open when he leans forward and places a soft kiss to the skin he just caressed. He’s careful to angle his head so his nose or chin doesn’t brush any of her wounds. She lays her hand on the back of his head and her fingers trail around his face as he pulls away until she cups his cheek. The look she gives him is so full of tenderness it makes his chest ache. He doesn’t fret the new tears in her eyes as pain is not their source.
Taking her hand, he places a kiss to her palm before moving to gather the ointment for her cut. Carefully, he applies it to her wound, closely gauging her reactions to insure his touch is not causing her discomfort. Cutting a piece of gauze to the appropriate size, he places it over the treated wound and tapes it down.
He gives the same treatment to her other infected gash - soothing and kissing around it before putting on the ointment and bandage. When he finishes, his fingers trail to the outside of another. One that needs no treatment, but he caresses around it like the others. His fingers move lightly along her skin, trailing around the injured tissue while his lips follow the path he just stroked.
He moves along to the next cut, giving it the same attention. The same love. Her hands move to his head to gently card through his hair, occasionally drifting down to the sides where her thumbs caress his cheeks. He makes eye contact with her as much as he can. Her expression radiates a serene joy and fierce gratitude. She’s open. Placing all her trust in him.
He moves onto the burn marks farther down her torso and he decides there shouldn’t be a single moment of disconnect when his lips or hands aren’t on her body while he tends to her in this fashion. All of his movements are slow as if there’s no other concern he has in the world, nothing more important than taking care of her right now. And there isn’t.
It’s not sexual. Not for the most part. Not at this moment. True that reminding her that she’s desirable is a goal, but he wants her to feel safe and warm and cared for most of all. He’s not trying to convey that the scars don’t mean anything. He calls bullshit on anyone who says so. We all bear the weight of some trauma in our past. It’s how we move forward that matters, how we learn from our pains and sorrows. No one else in his life has pushed through the muck and mud and held their head higher for it than Jemma. She finds grace and wisdom in the worst imperfections. That’s life. That’s science. And as scientists they know that it’s often accidents that create the most beautiful constructions.
It’s only when he brings his fingers up to caress the skin around the injuries to her breast that he feels a stirring in his groin. He can see the outline of a hardened nipple poking through her bra. He thought the skin of her belly had been the softest he ever felt. He was wrong. The flesh of her bosom beneath his fingers is like fine silk. He licks his lips before pressing them to her skin. Because they should be soft and smooth for her here.
Her breath cascades over his cheek and her fingers tighten in his hair. He has to stop himself from opening his mouth to lick at her skin.
He’s not sure how long it is before he feels her fingers loosening in his hair, drifting down his head. He looks up to see that her eyes are closed. He moves to sit up, but her hands grasp his head and guide him towards her face.
“Stay,” she whispers against his mouth before kissing him softly.
“Okay,” he breathes against lips. Delivering a light kiss to her nose before getting up, he puts the first aid kit and ointment on the nightstand on his side of the bed.
Unfolding the comforter from the bottom of the bed, he brings it up over both them. He lays on his side next to her. He wishes he could put his arms around her, but he doesn’t want to put them across her injuries. He settles for grasping her hand in his.
It’s not long before he drifts off himself - easier with her there next to him. He wakes up briefly in the night when she turns towards him and loosely drapes her arm over his body. Still having the presence of mind to be concerned about her wounds, he doesn’t press up against her. He places his hand on her waist and mumbles, “That’s better.” She hums in response and they both fall back into sleep.
He wakes this way except their legs have also intertwined in during the night. It’s a lovely way to wake. What’s not lovely is the trill of his cell phone from his back pocket. The clock on Jemma’s dresser says 5:27am.
Still foggy with sleep, he fumbles to extricate the device from his pocket, “Yeah?”
Mack’s voice comes through the line, “Fitz?”
“Yeah?”
“You weren’t in your room. Are you on the base?”
“Yeah, uh…yeah, I’m here.” He disentangles himself from Jemma and sits up.
“Sorry, buddy, but we need you on the Zephyr as soon as possible. Coulson needs to take it out today and there are multiple issues we found in the preflight…”
Jemma stirs next to him. “Mmmm, Fitz?”, she groans as she weakly reaches up and trails her fingers along the hand that holds his phone, “Wha?”
“It’s Mack,” he rubs his hand up and down her forearm, “I gotta go work on the Zephyr.”
Jemma lets out a sleepy whine as he hears Mack go ohhhhh on the line.
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes, Mack.” Fitz frowns as he hangs up and puts his phone back in his pocket. Of course this would happen on their day off.
“Hey,” he leans down and kisses Jemma’s cheek, “I’ll let you know when I’m done. Maybe we can still get to the museum.”
She hums and falls back to sleep.
No matter that he got called in for Zephyr repairs as she was pulled into the lab anyway later in the morning. They brought in a new Inhuman with uncontrollable telekinetic abilities and Jemma was brought in to examine the poor young girl.
It’s not until after 4pm that they’re both free. Too late to go the museum, they ordered pizza and watched Dr. Who in her room. Snuggled together on her couch.
“Will you help me again?”, Jemma whispered from where she had her head nestled against his shoulder just before the fourth episode ended.
And thus they repeat the ritual tonight and the next two.
It’s this second night that it strikes him she’s in the exact position he’s envisioned her in so many fantasies. Lying back on the bed topless, her hair fanned out on the pillow as he hovers over her. His imagination didn’t do it justice. It couldn’t have. It couldn’t have imagined every delightful little freckle that peppers her arms, shoulders and chest. It couldn’t have imagined every spot where her skin would flush as he touched her. It couldn’t have imagined how she would look at him with such want. He could barely wrap his mind around it.
He seesaws between aroused and nurturing tonight. Or both combined. She touches him more - down the back of his neck, over his shoulders, up and down his biceps. She smiles less. Not from displeasure. Her mouth hangs open, her breathing accelerates, her pupils dilate. He’s half-hard by the time he reaches her breast. He should have thought to wear looser pants today. It’s not like he knew though that she’d ask for help again.
She’s fast asleep when he lifts his head from her chest. Damn that codeine. He kisses her cheek. He puts his cell and wallet on the nightstand on his side of the bed, brings the comforter over their bodies and snuggles in next to her.
In the morning they’re facing each other, tangled up together again and he mourns the loss of their connection the minute he sits up. But he has to move to cease the obnoxious blare of his cell once again. At least it was later this time - close to 7am. This time it’s May. Problems with the base’s computer servers.
She doesn’t wake as he leaves to shower and change in his room. May will most likely be pissed, but he takes the extra time to make her tea and grab a bran muffin to bring to her room. He quietly leaves them on the nightstand with a note.
She texts him shortly before noon inquiring about meeting for lunch, but he can’t. He can’t break for much and still hope to finish up in order to spend time with her tonight. He continues diligently working. Will she want him to help her again? He holds his breath at the thought of not being able to touch her again tonight. Not putting his lips on her skin. Not sleeping next to her or waking up tangled together. It’s stifling to think about.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of her voice from the door of the server room. “Fitz?”
She walks towards him with a paper bag in hand. “Jemma.” He knows exactly what’s inside and he smiles so wide that his cheeks hurt.
“Hi,” she says shyly, “I brought you lunch.”
He takes the bag with one hand and her hand with the other, “You’re the best, Jems.”
She ducks her head down. Her cheeks turn pink and she moves close so there are mere inches between them.
“If you get done in time, maybe we could watch some X-Files tonight?” She fiddles with his shirt collar and he suddenly feels hot all over.
“Uhhh…” X-files. Mulder. Scully. My favorite hot nerds she always says. “Yeah. I’d like that”
“And maybe you should bring some of your bedclothes with you since you fell asleep there the last couple nights?”
Wow. Just wow. He stares at her open mouthed for a moment before he can gather the words. “Yeah. Good idea.”
It’s after 7pm that he texts her that he’s finished. She texts back that she’ll get the tea if he grabs the popcorn. They snuggle on her couch again. It’s right after a doped-up Mulder confesses his love to Scully from his hospital bed that she shifts, winces and groans.
“Did you take your medicine?”
“I took Tylenol.”
The codeine. He means the codeine and she knows it. He tilts his head and gives her a hard stare. She lets out a sigh and heads for her nightstand. While she does, he grabs the nightclothes he brought with him and heads into the bathroom to change.
When he walks out dressed in his tee and sweats and sees her lying on the bed, looking so relaxed and content, he thinks, ‘This is home.’ Not this room, but any place Jemma resides. Some part inside him knows with unwavering certainty that he’ll be in her bed every night from now on. He knows it’s what they both want. What they’ll always want. As long as the universe permits it. And if it didn’t, they’d find their way back to each other. To this place. Home.
She propped herself up with more pillows tonight. He can only surmise she wants to watch him while he puts his hands and lips on her skin. The thought drives all the blood from his brain to his groin. He’s glad he chose baggy, long tees and loose-fitting sweats to wear to bed.
On this night, unconsciously, he finds himself caressing her hip as his other hand smoothes along the burn marks on her stomach. He’s encouraged to do more when she gently trails her fingers over the back of his hand. As he continues, his hands wander to new places. Up and down her thigh. Over her knee. Along the side of her breast.
It’s liberating to be able to finally touch her this way. It’s torture to have to stop when he realizes she’s drifted off. He sighs and readies himself to snuggle in and sleep himself.
She’s already gone the next morning when he wakes. Tea and a chocolate chip muffin are on the nightstand with a note saying she had to go to the lab. It’s early enough that he can take his time sipping his tea and eating his muffin, being extra careful not to get any crumbs in Jemma’s bed.
He changes back into his clothes from yesterday, not feeling comfortable trekking back to his room in his nightclothes. Of course, he runs into Hunter on the way back to his room, who takes the opportunity to tease him about being dressed the same as the day before as he leers at him and gives him a wink. He simply rolls his eyes and moves past him, but he grins as he’s walking away.
The fourth night is both agony and ecstasy. Little ah and oh noises pour from her lips as he caresses and kisses the skin of her stomach. The sounds are soft and almost tame, but they drift into his ears like booming crescendos from a symphony orchestra and flood his senses like he’s enveloped in a warm waterfall. Each ah makes his skin hot and tingly all over. Each oh travels straight to his groin where he grows impossibly hard. Encouraged, after each kiss he nuzzles his nose against her skin and before delivering another kiss.
As their ritual progresses, her nails lightly scratch his scalp. The image of her doing the same while his head is between her thighs comes unbidden to his mind. As he caresses her breast, his drive to push things further is stronger than ever. But her eyes are small slits. Breathing deep and even. Though she hovers on the precipice of falling into a deep pool of sleep, he allows himself one indulgence before settling in for the night. He kisses her breast like he’s done the last three, but he does so open-mouthed. Tongue peaking out to taste the sweet saltiness of her skin. Pressing the flesh gently. Marveling again at how supple and smooth this part of her body feels.
She breathes out a word and he thinks it’s his name, but he’s not sure. Her eyes are closed, head drifting to the side. Giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, he lays off to her side, pulls up the comforter and it’s not long before sleep takes him.
The next morning is much the same as the previous - she’s gone before he wakes. Orange juice and a croissant are on the nightstand. A note beside it saying she had to go to the lab. Meet me at noon for lunch is written on the bottom and a little heart ends the sentence.
It’s the same when he’s on his way back to his room. Hunter passes him again in the hallway and teases him about wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He’s not sure why he tells her about it at lunch. It doesn’t really bother him. In fact, he’s kind of proud of it. It’s like his admission ticket to the next level of the Boy’s Club.
Her response though…
“You could bring over some of your day-cloths and other things you need in the morning,” she says without looking at him before consuming another forkful of spanikopita.
Wow. That’s… huge. And wonderful. He thought they were moving in that direction, but hearing her ask…wow. If life were like musicals, this would be a moment where he’d break out into jubilant song and dance. Like Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain jubilant. Are there any umbrellas and brown fedoras around here for him to grab?
It’s astonishing to him that he keeps his cool. “Yeah. Good idea,” he says while looking at his sandwich before taking his next bite.
She responds with a coy, little smile that makes him shiver.
Life is good. Really good.