Jemma dozes off only minutes after they depart, her chin tilted up and the back of her head pressing into the headrest. In the seat next to hers, Fitz is keenly aware of the rise and fall of her chest, and her quiet snoring. He can't help but wonder if this is a new development or if he's been that conscious of her all along, and is just allowing himself to sense it now.

It's 2:00 AM and it's been an eventful day –the most eventful of days– but he's too amped up to sleep, his head spinning with flashes of what happened merely an hour ago. It's probably wrong to be so damn happy when Daisy's been enslaved by an evil force, and they very well might be on the edge of a catastrophe of unprecedented magnitude, but there's no helping it, not when he remembers everything so vividly he can almost feel it.

He's fairly confident that it isn't a fluke, either. She has to know that this is it for him –all or nothing, no way back, no one else– and she wouldn't toy with him if she didn't feel the same way, would she? They still haven't talked, not really, and he has a feeling talking might be the furthest thing from their minds the next time they manage to steal a few moments alone.

They don't get a chance to catch up once they touch base; Coulson and May want to debrief them immediately, and assess the threat Radcliffe's capture might pose in the waging war against Hive and his growing army. Once they're done, Coulson commands Fitz to have his neck checked for injuries from Daisy's Vadar choke, and no amount of protestation achieves to change his mind.

The conversation with Lincoln is rendered somewhat awkward by the fact that the poor guy just had his heart broken to pieces and lost his girlfriend to an evil spirit, while Fitz and the love of his life finally found their way to each other. There isn't much Fitz can tell him about Daisy's state of mind other than assure him she could have easily killed him but didn't. There's still hope, albeit not very much.

By the time Fitz is finally allowed to retire in his quarters, dawn has risen and he still hasn't slept a wink. His shirt is crumpled, his tie long gone, and exhaustion is catching up with him.

He brushes his teeth, kicks off his shoes and fully intends to collapse face down on the mattress in his wrinkled clothes and sleep for as long as he can get away with, when he notices an unforeseen complication.

Jemma's in his bed.

Not just in it, but from what he can tell from the bumps of the cover, she's sprawled across it diagonally, leaving him no chance to slip in without waking her. Fitz sits on the edge of a mattress and nudges her arm, hoping she might roll over without waking entirely. Instead, she opens her eyes and, a moment later, looks straight to him.

"Somebody's been sleeping in my bed," he says softly, a smile creeping in his voice.

"Well, fell free to join in, Papa Bear," she replies in a exaggeratedly flirtatious voice that's quite impressive, given she just woke up.

For a moment, he's stricken speechless, and then all he can do is laugh out loud and bask in awe of her sleepy mirth.

As for joining her, he isn't about to put up a fight about that, and instead sets about to undress in front of her for the second time in a matter of hours.

"After tonight, I just wanted a chance to wake up next to you," she says when he settles down beside her, and there's not a trace left of humor in her voice. "I hope you don't mind?"

"I'll live," he says with his heart in his throat.

She scoots over and shifts until her back is resting against him, and his arm can wrap tightly around her waist. She's warm with sleep, all solid curves against him.

This thing between them, it better work out, because there's no coming back from it for him.

"So I take it Bucharest wasn't a one time thing, then," he says, because it's easier than asking straight up exactly how serious she is about this, about them, and if he can expect to find her in his bed every night from this day on.

"Are you disappointed?" Jemma quips. "Were you hoping for a no-strings-attached hookup?"

"You got me," he breathes into her hair. "Everything that's happened in the past decade was just part of a conniving long con to have my way with you and never call you again."

"So Machiavellian," she exclaims, delighted. "I'm astounded."

"You better be," he mutters, tightening his hold on her frame.

"You always astound me, Fitz," she murmurs, turning to catch his mouth, but his kisses are sloppy and his head swims with weariness.

"You should get some rest," she says, taking pity on him. "We can play Goldilocks and Papa Bear later."

"You're a weirdo. I should have known," he says with great dismay and a theatrical shake of his head, before he falls asleep, the sound of her laughter filling his ears.