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They stumble through the door, each with laughter in their eyes and a smile on their lips.
“Can you believe he called it centrifugal force?!”
Fitz spills into the dark living room as Jemma gropes for the light. His voice has become increasingly garish throughout the evening, the collection of empty shot glasses on the table having increased as the confidence in his own opinions had escalated.
Jemma has no clever retort. Language had become useless to her on the walk home, replaced entirely by giggles and overblown grins. She had instead used all her remaining focus to slip an arm in that space between Fitz’s elbow and ribs, pulling him close as an anchor against the spinning skies and traitorous sidewalk.
She is laid out on the counter now, face pressed against the cool surface while her fingers drum against the cupboard below. Fitz stops in his tirade momentarily to register her listless form and he notices her eyelids have slid shut and her breathing has slowed.
“Let’s get you to bed, Simmons.”
It’s with great effort he is able to pull her into the support of his shoulder and flounder toward her bedroom. She is petite, but her weight has somehow been magnified by alcohol, and he has to throw her leaden arms around his neck to prevent her from slipping to the floor.
“Hmm?” Jemma murmurs into his ear and her breath is hot and moist against his skin. It makes his cheeks flush and his heart race. He thinks back to the space between them at the bar and how it slowly closed, the whisper of her skin against his as their shoulders brushed. Her cheeks had flushed flatteringly in the soft light as she’d scooted past him to retrieve another round, red lips bright against the delicate porcelain of her skin.
Jemma topples gracelessly from his back onto her bed, erupting in a laughter that shakes the mattress and paralyzes the arms and legs she has bent and suspended in the air like a frightened beetle. She is reaching for him. Her hand wraps around his wrist, pulling him down beside her and then they are both cackling, belly up and panting with the exertion, with fingers having forgotten to untangle. When Fitz finally rolls to face her, she is watching him, sleepy eyes twinkling in the darkness.
“Goodnight, Fitz,” she says tenderly. Her hand is running up his arm, fingers searing his skin as they make their way to curl around the curve of his jaw. Fitz can hear the sharp staccato of his breathing, the way it rattles in his chest as his lungs constrict against the accelerating beat of his heart. She’s closing the distance again - she is the intoxicating smell of lavender and tequila and something mysterious he cannot place - and her soft lips rest against his forehead, lingering as her fingers stiffen at his jawline. There is no air left for his eager lungs, she has stolen it.
It’s over and Jemma is tucking herself into him, burrowing into the circle of his arms. Fitz is wiggling them both under the blankets but she is already snoring, soft and steady into the pillow. Running his thumb against her hairline, he plants a kiss at it’s highest peak and finally lets the tug of exhaustion pull him under.
“Goodnight, Jemma.”