[ Oh, Jesus, somehow Markus asking Fitz to consider it himself is worse. He's leagues away from the boy who was sixteen and achingly shy, but he's still, well. So handsome and so, so nervous is how Jemma would put it, kindly. Markus pushes him a bit more, firm in his appraisal.

Even as he moves to do as he's told, Fitz ducks his head. ]

Bit demanding, aren't you. [ amused, despite any lingering self-consciousness, 'cause he wouldn't have bothered with half of the fuss, without someone urging him on. ] Yes, sir.

[ a half-hearted mock salute at his escort. However, once he steps forward, Fitz takes the task seriously, scanning his mirror image with the same intensity he typically reserves for mechanical pursuits. Better to be thoughtful than embarrassed, isn't it? His expression settles into neutrality. The colour's one of Jemma's favourites — perhaps that's to do with him, actually, seeing how it brightens the blue of his eyes. Give him a moment to hum in thought, straightening the suitcoat, glancing down at his shoes, the oxfords of 2511. ]

Could do with a few centimeters off the trousers. [ which might give away that he knows more about this than he let on, when he'd asked for help. ] Suppose I've got time for a tailor, though. [ a glance over his shoulder, perked up and mouth quirked, soft. ]

It's well smart, Markus. You've got good taste. [ an understatement, definitely. ] Might even turn a head — just the one, mind you — and then I'll really owe you. Well, owe you again. Owe you thrice.

[ three times over, by Fitz's count of kindnesses, ever on the rise. ]