Jemma blinks up at him, still trying to clear her vision, and she’s entirely certain she looks the part of a dopey in love woman but she doesn’t care. She nods her head at his question, letting her neck do most of the work as her hands trace random patterns on the back of his nape. Sighing, she lifts her head regretfully and leans back.
“I suppose I’ll have to move in order to go home, yeah?” She smiles when he grins at her and nods. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she pushes herself up and off him, missing the feel of him between her thighs immediately. Setting her feet to the floor, she hisses at the cold sensation against her bare feet but it’s her legs that are the real problem. Her legs are still weak and her knees are a bit sore and she nearly lands in Fitz’s lap once more before he catches her.
Even in his post-coital haze, Fitz is attuned to Jemma and is easily catches her, his hands banding around her biceps as she gets her feet back under her. He keeps his hands on her as he gets to his own feet, waiting to make sure she really can stand on her own before he begins pulling on his own clothing.
They dress quickly, shooting glances at each other and sharing secretive smiles when one catches the other at it. It’s an odd combination of feeling, the rush of something exciting and new with the steady assurance of a nearly decade long friendship. As he tugs his shirt back into place and cinches the kilt around his waist once more, Fitz watches Jemma, eyes catching on the curve of her arse as she bends over to slip her shoes back on her feet.
Fitz has the decency to blush when she catches him, and once he’s dressed, slips up behind her to wrap an arm around her waist. “C’mon, Jem,” he whispers, voice quiet and unwilling to break the mood. “Le’ me ge’ ye out o’ here.”
Nodding, Jemma slides her arm around him, the difference in their height barely noticeable because of her heels. It makes it easier to tuck into him and, as he guides her from the ballroom into the long hallway, her head drops to his shoulder. She’s tired now, still a little buzzed, and completely loose; she almost fluid-like as she lets Fitz take the lead.
They nearly escape the reception hall and parking lot without seeing anyone at all, which Jemma thinks may be a small miracle, but just as they make it to the car they spot David having a cig with a pretty girl in a pale dress. He’s caught up in flirting with the brunette, who’s clearly interested, and Jemma thinks they may just get away with sneaking off without being caught when David turns. So much for not getting caught. The only consolation is that it wasn’t Mary— for that, Jemma is utterly grateful. There’s no hiding the evidence of their actions; her hair is loose and in disarray, and her lipstick is now gone. Not to mention the look she knows she must be wearing on her face. David’s distracted enough by the girl he’s with that he doesn’t make a scene of it, opting instead to smile cheekily at Jemma and wink at Fitz, throwing in a thumbs up for good measure. Blushing, Jemma hides her face in Fitz’s shoulder and if they hadn’t been obvious before, she’s just completely given them away. Fitz doesn’t seem to mind though, his hold on her tightening and if he’s responded to David, she doesn’t catch it. Instead, he pulls the door open for her and helps her into the car, his hand steady on her elbow the entire time.
Once Fitz is behind the wheel, he reaches for Jemma’s hand and doesn’t release it until he’s pulled into his mother’s garage. He waits a beat as the garage door slides shut behind them, gives her a quick smile in the growing darkness and presses a kiss to her cheek before exiting the car. In the blink of an eye, he’s around to Jemma’s side of the car and helping her out of it.
They both move as though they’re in a daze, fingers knotted together as they slink up the back steps and into the house, trading kisses all the while. His fingers are clumsy, both with nerves and excitement, but he manages to get the buttons undone on her fine wool coat and slides it from her shoulders as he wraps an arm around her waist.
“Jemma,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her lips as he absentmindedly hangs her coat on a free hook. She’s soft, pliable against him, and Fitz feels himself melt into her bit by bit. Breaking away with a small groan, he leans his forehead against hers and gives her a happy, sleepy smirk. She looks just as pleased as he does, and that confirms everything he needs to know. Kissing her again, Fitz urgers her out of the mudroom, through the kitchen, and up the stairs.
He’s aiming them for his room, she can tell, but she has a different idea. Spurred on by the somewhat sticky mess lingering under her dress and the dried sweat on both of their skin, she smiles into his kiss and tugs him gently toward the loo, tilting her head in a soft command. He looks surprised for a moment but he lets her lead him into the small washroom, kissing him along the way. Once they’re inside, she locks the door for good measure —who knows when anyone else might be home— and turns on the shower, setting it as hot as it can go to heat up the cold room.
In some ways, she thinks the silence between them should be awkward. Maybe some of it is, but only because of the newness to what they’re doing. Mostly it’s just comfortable familiarity, neither of them feeling the need to fill up the space between them with unnecessary words. Turning back to him, she slips out of her heels and reaches for his jacket, pushing it over his shoulders and down until she can hang it neatly on the hook hanging from the door. Next comes his shirt, and she takes her time with the small buttons, the same way she had before, and lays it carefully on the vanity. He watches her the entire time, his eyes moving from her hands to her face and when she smiles up at him, he returns in readily. It makes a tender swell of affection rise up in her as she undoes the fastenings on his kilt and lets it fall to the floor.
It’s easy enough to slip out of her dress, a simple tug at her shoulders and a shimmy to get it over her hips, and she steps out of the satin fabric as she reaches to turn down the heat of the water enough that it’s tolerable to stand under. Reaching for his hand, she wordlessly pulls at him, and they climb into the tiny shower in a jumble of limbs. It’s a tight space in the first place, but Jemma finds that the solution to the cramped space is simple enough: she winds her arms around him and drops her head to his shoulder, settling into him as the hot, steamy water warms their chilled skin.