Writer Things

Six months. Six months of stolen kisses in the break room, the occasional double date with their respective best friends, and countless inquiries from small children (the best of which, Jemma was fairly positive, was when one of the five year-old’s asked if Mr. Fitz kept his face ‘prickly’ because that’s what happens to boys when they have a girlfriend. Fitz took this as a sign he should shave. Jemma told him not to). A summer of working together on articles about classroom learning techniques and marathoning Doctor Who. Getting Jemma’s science classroom ready and preparing for new students. And, of course, co-babysitting, from time to time. 

Yes, Jemma had never been happier, she thought, daydreaming while she cleaned up after a thrilling (and messy) class that involved both first graders and earthworms. 

Which was when Skye barreled into the room. “I’ve decided to marry Trip,” she announced. 

“Antoine Triplett? I thought you were getting married to Grant Ward?” Jemma asked. 

Skye shook her head. “It turns out he has cooties. But Trip loves me. And he gave me pink flowers.”

Jemma looked over from her desk. The little girl was simply nodding, as though what she said was a big deal. 

“Pink flowers means you are engaged.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Jemma said, trying to keep her tone serious. “It must be an American custom.”

Skye nodded. “They were for pretend. Cause only grownups give each other real flowers and get married for serious,” she paused. “What was it like when you got married to Mr. Fitz?”

Jemma practically choked. “We arent. Skye, sweetheart, we’ve only been dating for six months. We aren’t married. Not even engaged.” 

Skye thought about this for a moment. “You mean, Mr. Fitz hasn’t given you pink flowers yet?”

“Definitely not.” 

Skye’s little brow furrowed, as though she was thinking this over, before heading straight out of the room. And walking to Fitz’ class. 

“Mr. Fitz,” she started. “I need to teach you about flowers.”