A/N: So, I'm sure many of you know of the 'Imagine your OTP...' posts that go around on tumblr. Well, one popped up the other day, talking about imagining your OTP having a fight and then being stuck in an elevator (or 'lift', as us Brits call it), and someone *cough*notapepper*cough* requested that I write it, so here it is. It's very late, here, and I've just finished this off during a video-less Skype call (naughty, but they couldn't see, and who says you can't edit and talk at the same time?), so if I've made any glaring spelling/grammar mistakes, please shout at me and get me to fix it.

Dedicated to the crazy lady named above.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Jemma hits the call button for the lift, jamming it hard with her thumb, as if doing so will make it move faster. "What is taking this thing so long."

Fitz eyes her warily, perplexed at her sudden impatience. They'd extracted what they'd needed to know efficiently and quickly, and were now making their way back to the team. Easy-peasy. "What's the matter with you?"

"Come on!"

"Jemma." He touches a hand to her arm, only to have her shake it off, and he can't pretend that doesn't sting a little, because she's never done that before.

She rounds on him, eyes blazing, and he automatically steps back, shocked at the force of her gaze, and then at the harshness of her whispered as she sounds off at him.

"That took far too long, much longer than necessary. We are in a hurry, you know. If you hadn't been making heart-eyes at Dr "Please, call me Ginger" Gleeson - and really, what kind of a name is 'Ginger'? -"

"-I'm sorry - heart-eyes?"

"Oh, please, don't pretend you didn't know she was flirting with you. And you were just as bad."

Fitz furrows his brows in annoyance at her accusation, his hands planting firmly on his hips. "Woah, woah, woah, hang on - I wasn't flirting!"

"No, of course not. "Oh, Ginger, that really does sound fascinatin' - I'd love to see it sometime". You were completely unprofessional."

If Fitz hadn't been so taken aback by what Jemma was saying, he'd have told her that he was pretty impressed by her attempt to impersonate him, given that in the past, it hadn't been very good. Instead, he does one of the worst things to do during an argument - he brings up the past just so that he can throw her words back in her face. "Unprofessional? I was just bein' friendly. And oh, okay, so what was that with Mike Peterson, that time you were measuring him up? And then swooning over Trip like a schoolgirl when he came along. That was completely professional, was it?"

"Excuse me?!"

"Oh, don't give me that. You and I both know you're not innocence personified."

"And what is that supposed to mean?!"

"Exactly what it sounds like!"

The lift doors ping open, and Jemma stomps inside. "Ugh, finally!"

Fitz follows her in with a scowl on his face. The bloody cheek. "Are you seriously tellin' me that that's what's bothering you?"

Jemma stabs the button for the ground floor, and leans against the cool, metal surface, ignoring him until the doors have slid shut, arms folded across her chest. "Why would I be bothered that you were flirting with each other?-"

"-I told you, I-

"-What bothered me was your complete-"

"-wasn't flirting with her!"

"-lack of professional conduct. We're on a mission, Fitz."

Fitz backs himself up against the opposite wall to Jemma and glares at her. "Funny, me bein' poli-"

The lift suddenly jerks to a stop, knocking them both off-balance, and they lurch forward, almost crashing into each other before steadying themselves.

"What the hell?!"

"Oh, well, this is just great. See? If we'd left-"

"-Oh, don't you start with that." Fitz crosses to the wall panel and presses the alarm. A tinny voice comes through the crackly speaker.

"Sorry, folks, looks like there's an electrical fault. We'll have it sorted as quickly as possible. You both good?"

"Yeah, fine," Fitz replies, feeling anything but. He's pissed, pissed for not knowing why Jemma is laying into him all of a sudden, and pissed because she's it for him, so he really, honestly wasn't flirting. But so what if he had been? Where does she get off telling him who he can and can't flirt with? Why does she care? It's not like she's his-

"What was that? You cut out."

"Top-class research facility, and their lifts are shite," he mumbles.

"Fitz!"

Fitz looks up towards the security camera and gives the guy watching them a rather sarcastic thumbs-up.

"Great. We should have you moving, soon."

The static of the speaker cuts out, and the lift is suddenly eerily silent.

"If I had my tools, I could probably fix it in a jiffy."

"Yes, well, you don't," Jemma unhelpfully retorts, sliding down to the floor and sitting cross-legged. "And if you needed to get through the hatch... Well, your lack of ever doing a pull-up certainly isn't going to work in your favour."

"Wha..." Fitz stares at her in surprise, his mouth wide open. What the hell has gotten into her? She's only ever this mean when she's being defensive, and what has she got to be defensive about? For once, he can't think of anything clever to say, so he drops down as well, against the back wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. He lets his head bang gently back against the metal panelling, and stares up at the ceiling with his lips pursed together.

It hurts. They've had silly fights like this before, have let fright take over in the form of sniping at each other, but neither of them are in danger, right now, neither of them have done anything stupid, and so he's at a loss, and the tightness in his chest is far too great, like he's trapped in a vice, one that's being turned agonisingly slowly.

He looks down at his hands, turns them over, then over again to study his nails. Then he shifts a little and glances sidelong at her, wanting to know if she's looking at him, or if she's avoiding catching his eye the way he's trying to avoid catching hers.

Her eyes are glued to the floor.

Fine.

Fitz sighs wearily. He doesn't want this. He wants to fix it, and fast, because he can't stand her being mad at him, especially as he doesn't even know what he's done wrong, because he's one hundred percent certain that it isn't because she thought he was wasting time. He takes a deep breath, then addresses her calmly. "Jemma, please, just tell me-"

She huffs, and rolls her eyes, so over-exaggeratedly that she looks like a cartoon character, and he'd laugh if he wasn't so upset with her. Sometimes her eyes go so wide, she looks like one of those anime girls.

His face morphs into a glare, one that shoots daggers at her. "Whatever." He pulls his knees up under his chin, and fidgets with the end of his tie. He wishes he had someone else to talk to, but because of the tight security checks, they'd had to go in without comms - a huge risk, but they'd had no choice. If anyone else had gone in and not understood the scientific information they were being provided with, not known which questions to ask, the whole thing would have been blown. If they're stuck here for much longer, they might get uncovered, anyway - there's no way Coulson won't attempt an extraction if he thinks something's gone wrong, which obviously they're grateful for, but Fitz doesn't want them to fail. They can do this. They just need to get out of this bloody chicken coop.

Jemma puffs out a breath of air, the movement of her hair blowing away from her face catching in Fitz's peripheral vision. He risks turning his head towards her, and is met with glowing, slightly pink skin. She's impossibly beautiful, despite looking unhappy and much too warm, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe, before he shakes himself out of it and lifts his hands to the knot in his tie, because yes, it is getting rather hot in here. However, as he does, she looks at him, and he freezes, staring back at unreadable eyes like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

After a few seconds, Jemma's focus shifts, and as if someone has hit 'play', he moves again, his fingers working the knot and loosening it enough so that he can pop the top two buttons of his shirt, and through it all, he tries very hard not to think about the fact that whilst Jemma might not be looking right at him, she is very much watching him as he tries to make himself a little more comfortable, and 'try' is all he can do, because her attention is making him feel feverish.

Could she... No, no, that's impossible. Fitz squeezes his eyes shut for a second in order to gather himself, then he exhales loudly. "How much longer is this goin' to bloody take?" he mutters, more to himself than anything. Jemma doesn't reply, anyway. He busies himself with rolling up his sleeves, then runs his hands through his hair. Maybe his curls don't do him any favours, maybe he should get them straightened or something, get his hair cut really short. As he ponders this, Jemma sits forward slightly and shrugs off her blazer. His eyes are immediately drawn to her, completely without his permission, but she's staring at him again, too, and the longer they stay like that, the harder it becomes to look away.

Fitz swallows heavily. He can't fathom the look she's giving him - she doesn't look angry anymore, but it worries him that he can't read her. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was 'sultry', and the thought makes him blush, even though he knows that's ridiculous. But whatever it is, he wishes she'd stop, because it's not helping. He can't even get out words - he's completely forgotten words. Oh, crap.

She sighs, from the heat or what, he doesn't know, but he's completely hypnotised as her fingers wrap around the little pearl buttons on her blouse, and she loosens one, two, three of them, and if this is a test, he's failing miserably. Her newly exposed skin is just as flushed as her face, and he blinks away rapidly as soon as he realises that he can see the swell of her breasts. His eyes linger on her lovely neck, instead, and he swallows again, feeling like a lion in a cage. He wants to escape, to run and be free from this... Hell, he doesn't know what 'this' even is.

Jemma's tongue darts out to wet her lips, and he has to turn away, quickly. His head's a complete muddle. He knows she wouldn't purposely mess with him like this, no matter how mad she might be, but he can't work her out. Confusion doesn't sit well with him - it makes him uneasy. He may have found courage in the past, may have pulled bravery from some deep, dark place in the centre of his soul, but right now he feels as weak as a dog lost in the desert, and he hates himself for it, internally screams at himself, even as his gaze is yanked up without his say-so, back to Jemma's face.

Jemma chooses that moment to sweep her hair back, her fingers combing through silky strands as she tilts her head, stretching out her neck, and he can't help but follow the elegant curve of it.

"Do you have any water?"

Her voice shocks him, unexpected in the prolonged silence, and huskier than he's ever heard it. It coils his insides, and he breathes out a slightly strangled "Huh?"

"In your bag?"

"Oh. Um..." He lifts open the leather flap of his satchel, glad for the distraction. "Yeah, here." He hands the small bottle to her, wondering why he'd forgotten about it, considering how parched he's feeling. His fingers brush hers as she takes it from him, an electric shock against his skin, and he hears her sharp intake of breath over the top of his own.

"Thank you," she says, glancing away from him to unscrew the cap.

Fitz tries not to notice how her throat bobs as she swallows. Really, really tries.

Jemma wordlessly hands him his bottle back, and he swigs from it, defiantly not thinking about the fact that she's just had her mouth around it. He nearly chokes when she pulls the top of her blouse open a little wider, her chest rising and falling rapidly, heavy puffs of air falling from those delicious lips...

Fitz shoves his water back in his bag. If they aren't freed, soon, she'll end up completely mortified, because his body is starting to react to her, betraying him in the worst possible way, and he tries desperately to fan back the flames before he ends up in a really embarrassing situation. He keeps his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms tight around them, lest his legs move of their own accord and give him away. He feels awful for not being able to control himself properly - part of him wants to cry. He can smell her perfume, her pulse throbbing against her warm skin and sending out waves of a fragrance which is usually pleasantly delicate, but it's now making him dizzy as it mixes with the heavy air, sweet and cloying, with a tension he doesn't want to believe is there, if only because he's certain that it's false hope that's tugging at his heart, that her behaviour can be explained away by the rising temperature.

He's going to hyperventilate, he can feel it.

Jemma sighs again, and he's drawn back to her lips without a second thought. He wants them on his, wants her to burn him with them, wants to feel the stickiness of her hot body flush against his own. He can't help it. He's fighting a losing battle, and no matter how much he digs his fingers into his legs, no matter how much he bites down on his tongue, he can't stop the images that start to march through his brain like a Christmas parade. What would she think of him if she knew? Fitz likes to think he's a gentleman, but what he's thinking isn't very gentlemanly at all, and he feels horribly guilty for it.

No, no, no. Mathematics. Complicated equations... Shit. Just as words had not that long before, numbers are now failing him as well.

He's done for.

Fitz turns fully towards his best friend, and she's right there, closer than he'd expected, focused completely on his mouth, and then she looks up at him through heavy eyes, through long, dark lashes, her pupils blown wider than they should be given the lift's lighting, and a switch flicks in his brain. He takes hold of his tie again, tugs the knot slowly until it comes undone completely, and slips it from his neck, all the while keeping his gaze trained on hers as she watches him intently. Her breath hitches, and then, quick as a flash, before he has time to register that she's even moved, she grasps his collar and yanks him towards her, her mouth crashing against his. His hands grab at her, unable to settle in any one place as he kisses her back with the type of wild abandon that he'd thought only existed in movies, but it comes so naturally, and he's so wound up, and he just needs her, all of her. Jemma slides her hands under his shirt, moving up over his stomach and across his chest before skimming them round to his back. He pants into her mouth, and she whimpers into his as he pulls her onto his lap, and in his desperation for her, he doesn't remember the little problem he has until she's straddling his thighs and pressing herself to him, and a moan escapes unbidden from his lips before he has a chance to stop it. He freezes, his eyes widening as he waits for everything to come crashing down, but Jemma just whimpers again, and he lets out a sigh that's equal parts relief and barely-controlled pleasure.

His hands moving to her waist, and he finds a patch of skin from where her blouse has ridden up, and he runs his fingers over it, delighting in the way she shudders against him, at the goosebumps that form there, and he needs more of it, so he smooths his hands beneath her top and up her back, relishing the softness of her, like silk against his fingertips.

He can't believe this is happening. At all. He wishes he'd had more of a bloody clue - the signs have been there for a while, he'd just chosen not to see them out of fear of rejection, and worse, ruining their friendship.

Jealous. Jemma had been jealous. At that realisation, he kisses her harder, and she responds in kind, and it's hot and messy, all teeth and tongues, but it's the most amazing kiss he's ever had in his life. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he frees one hand from her back and slides it into her hair, and he's not quite sure how he does it, but somehow he manages to curl his legs underneath him and push himself up to kneeling, all the while holding Jemma tightly to him. Then in one, swift movement (one he's certain that he'll never be able to pull off ever again, because he's not that smooth, and he can't even figure out how he's managing to do it in the first place), he tips her back, cradling her head so she doesn't bang it on the floor, and settles himself between her legs, barely breaking their frantic kiss. Jemma wraps her legs around his waist, and drops her head back with a moan as he kisses down her neck and then sinks his teeth gently into the soft curve where it meets her shoulder...

Without warning, the lift rumbles back to life, and they both yelp, startled by the jarring movement. Brought back to the here and now with a crash, they stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed and panting heavily, and then they scramble to their feet, hurriedly straightening their clothes, and Fitz has only just shoved his tie into his bag when the lift stops with a 'ding!' and the doors open to a small crowd of people, who stare at them as if they've just climbed out of a hole in the ground. Fitz holds his bag strategically in front of him, and, acting as nonchalantly as possible (which isn't that easy to do with mussed hair and red faces), they step out, only to be stopped by a security guard.

"Sorry about that, sir, ma'am. You both okay?"

Fitz knows that the guard knows exactly what went on just by the tiny smirk on his face, and then he feels himself going even redder at the thought that they'd completely forgotten about the security camera.

"Yes, quite all right, thank you," Jemma says, throwing a closed-lipped smile at the guard, all prim and proper (and Fitz will address just what that does to him later on), and she steps forward, walking purposefully away. Fitz nods sheepishly at the guard before hurrying after her, and once they're outside, he pulls Jemma behind a pillar with him, so they can make themselves a bit more presentable before meeting the team a couple of blocks away. They say nothing, and Fitz tries not to think about how only a couple of minutes ago, she was wrapped around him with her tongue in his mouth and her fingers grasping at his hair. He puts his tie back on, and she slips on her blazer before smoothing her curls down. He looks at her, then, and she stares back at him, a hint of bashfulness colouring her features. Her lips are bruised and swollen, her make-up smudged, her cheeks pink, and his heart is suddenly in his throat. She's always perfect to him, but seeing her now makes his stomach flip the same way as it does on those days when he bumps into her first thing in the morning, when her skin is make-up free and dewy, her eyes are sleepy, and her hair is piled messily on top of her head. He doesn't know how she manages to look both adorable and sexy at the same time, but she does.

God, he wants to kiss her again, but slowly, sweetly, taking his time to discover every inch of her. However, it's too dangerous to think about that right now, so instead he smiles softly at her, and then points to just below her left eye. "Mascara."

"Oh..." she rubs a finger under both eyes, then glances back at him and reaches a hand to his face. His breath sticks as her thumb swipes the skin around his mouth. "Lipstick." She pauses, then lets her arm fall. "How do I look?"

Breathtaking. "You're fine," he nods, then hesitates with what he wants to say next, but there's no point hiding from this, now. "Jemma..."

Her smile is shy and expectant, her usually honey eyes glinting amber in the sunlight. "Later?"

The relief that washes through him nearly knocks him off his feet. Part of him had been so certain that she'd want to forget about it, would dismiss it as a moment of madness, but her face says it all. He grins back, unable to help the deliriously happy stretch of his mouth. "Later."