[ his faux interest in the food turns into a full fixation in an attempt to distract himself until she arrives. it works surprisingly well, 'cause he doesn't see her until she speaks, at which point he glances up, utterly disarmed, first by her easygoing tone — and then, by her attire. he doesn't often ponder daisy's appearance, as accustomed to her as he is, but after their time apart, it takes him aback to be reminded of how striking she is. ]
Just the starters — [ it's at that point that he just sort of... glitches. doesn't look away, even as she sits, tracing the twinkling patterns of her dress in the low light. a stray thought considers the effort that went into fireproofing the fabric of her dress. is it battery powered? led? how long do the lights last? ] Are you glittering? [ his voices ticks up. disbelief, maybe, or a little awe. he doesn't embrace the fashion of the future as much as others, being a grandad and all. then, quickly — ] You look. [ is that it... ] I mean, you look lovely.
[ help!! a beat. he inhales, lifting a finger like he means to say something. no, wait. ]
[ she doesn't quite know how to take the compliment. functionally, yes — she knows: say thank you, deflect with some self-critical commentary about the dress doing all the work, smooth out nonexistant flyaways with the back of one's hand while trying very hard not to laugh. but beyond that? no, not quite.
daisy's mouth quirks up a bit at the corners, and she laughs a little at herself for feeling so uncertain; it's only fitz' uncertainty back that puts her at ease. should i have worn a tie? ]
No. [ don't be silly. ] You didn't need to wear a tie, I mean. You look fine. [ not fine. ] You look great.
[ for somebody who nearly got the life choked out of them, he looks like a damn supermodel. the twinges of guilt that tug at her throat, though... it makes it hard to actually look at those cross lines peeking out from under all the fabric. her eyes prefer to skim around them, as if afraid that touching on them at all will render her incapable of pulling her gaze away afterwards. ]
I hope you still like red wine.
[ back when the bus had offered more than just cheap beer over plans to save the world, she remembers — he had always been so picky any time someone wanted white. fussing with jemma over which bottle to open with dinner, what might pair best with whatever was on the menu. the memory makes her a little homesick, but a good kind this time. warm. comforting. kind of like fitz, sitting opposite her, staring at her like she's something out of a daydream. ]
[ she is a little bit of daydream, isn't she? he spent over six months without her. after all that time, he finally got her back, here in this hellscape of a future, only to lose her again, slipping through his fingers as he collapsed on the floor of their apartment, gasping for air.
probably not what most people mean when they say someone makes them breathless, but, y'know. he blinks. once, twice, processing the compliment and the peace offering, recalibrating. the bandages hide the slight flush colouring his neck (thank god), and he clears his throat. ]
Yeah, 'course. [ he reaches out to grab the bottle, tilting it in hand and peering at the label. ] Daisy. This is well posh. You didn't have to — [ a sudden glance up and her way, brows arched in dry reproach. the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth is a tell: pleased, not judgmental. ] — you nicked it, didn't you.
[ she's halfway to protesting before she realizes he's just putting her on. giving her the mickey — no, that's not right. taking the mickey. that's it. hunter would say taking the piss, but that's a lot more crass than fitz ever really manages to be. such a bizarre thing, the subtleties of british slang. it's really a shame nobody ever sent daisy johnson undercover abroad, she clearly could have nailed it. ]
Yes. [ obviously. she's smiling too, though she does her best to hide it behind the lift of her water glass. at least those aren't holographic too. ] Of course.
[ a little mocking, but a little truthful too. ]
They had more than enough to get shit-faced on, they weren't going to miss a bottle. And... [ and! though it comes with a poignant delay! ] I needed something. To say I'm sorry for —
[ what i did, she almost says, but the waiter comes to check on them as the words form on her tongue. good thing she knows what they want, in order to send him away again. ]
[ as soon as she starts apologising, he leans forward, as if he might reach out to stop or comfort her, trying to find something to do with his hands — only the waiter shows up, and it's fucking dimples, saying something about how sparkling daisy looks tonight. and, okay, wow, he gets a stinkeye from fitz, if only because the guy had to be flagged down when fitz was here all by his lonesome. hence why he only ordered starters.
they also still don't have wine glasses, which, c'mon, buddy. ]
Reckon he'd have come over sooner if I'd grabbed some fairy lights and strung them 'round my torso.
[ blurted out as soon as the waiter turns his back and paired with a mime of the action. he's js. ]
Er, so. You were saying.
[ something that mattered far more than his whinging, yeah. ]
[ ah, there he is. rough and tumble leopold fitz, all that fight buried under pale skin, ready to lash out and wallop a man for the slightest injustice — even if he does mostly stay in his seat. daisy can only laugh, her head shaking side to side in half-hearted discouragement as the waiter stalks off to gather wine glasses and their accoutrements. ]
You'd probably look better than him in them, too.
[ and it's a much easier topic to talk about, especially in comparison to the purpose of her apology. especially when he's looking back at her, slightly mollified, as if he needs to apologize for derailing the conversation.
no, fitz. please continue to derail. it'll be easier for everyone. ]
I — [ but she was saying. so she should say it. ] I'm sorry, is all. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry. And not just write it on a cake or text you or — I wanted you to hear it from me.
[ in person, like this. the fancy dress and dare she say cozy atmosphere wasn't intentional. it just... happened. ]
[ the quip volleyed back at him does the trick, pulling his focus back to her. with only the slightest huff, he rests his chin on his good hand. ]
Yeah, well, got the eyes for it, haven't I.
[ get lost in the cool waters of his laser blue eyes babe xoxo
but daisy goes on, sincere and unsure (the latter so unlike her usual self). his features soften. an apology from her, when she wasn't herself, wasn't in control, while he knew exactly what he was doing and how to hurt her, well, it feels wrong. burns low in his chest. ]
Wouldn't have minded a cake. [ it's faint, stalling for time. ] I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have — [ indulged in framework roleplay without a safeword? ] — I was horrible to you, and I know you don't want me to apologise, but — it's too late now.
[ so there!! the waiter chooses that opportune moment to arrive with wine glasses, finally, so fitz lets him pass without complaint. thank you, dimples. ]
[ if this was a thai fusion restaurant tucked away in some small corner of los angeles, daisy might have pushed up the cork with a careful squeeze of her hand. seeing as how it's decidedly not, she very decidedly doesn't; the bottle is pushed just that much closer to fitz, who might be that much handier with the concept of a manual lever when used on a cork.
also, she's just really bad at it, so probably better if he does it. ]
I can't. You do it.
[ anything to distract from the fact that she's still trying to figure out how to handle the apology. the reference to the cruelty so purposefully put on display just to rile her up. even now, looking back, as she knows it was for a good reason — it still smarts. if she closes her eyes, she can still hear the coldness in his tone. ]
You've never been horrible to me, Fitz. [ his name comes out almost a whisper, soft and impossibly gentle. ] You don't have anything to apologize for.
[ you were just doing your best, and i deserved everything you did — a sentence they could both utter, for entirely different reasons ]
[ uh-huh, nah, fitz ditches the lever. while daisy was away, he had a bout of the "chest glow item portals", so he retrieves his multi-tool (with the number 17 carved into the side) from his pocket. comes with a proper corkscrew, among other things useful on the go. ]
Daisy. [ a firm counter, said with a level look before he pops open the bottle. she can't think him saying those things, easily flipping the switch from kind to cruel is fine. maybe it was necessary (it wasn't), but it was horrible, too, without question. that was all hydra, not a drop of shield. he can still hear the voice, crisper than his own, hollow. he doesn't want to be that person — daisy accepting him that way means he already is, to fitz. ] Don't say that. I can't.
[ he cuts himself off, a recurring theme these days. he can't be that person, he can't excuse it, or he just can't. their struggle put him one step closer to unravelling. his mouth thins, and he pours them each generous glasses. ]
You couldn't ever deserve that. [ said so simply. there are some consistent truths out there in this great big multiverse, with daisy deserves better being one of them. ]
[ daisy's chest portal had offered something a little less conspicuous. at first, she hadn't realized it'd even come from something so bizarre — she'd just assumed it had been tracked in with her upon arrival, a found object perhaps lost in the safehouse or in the city and returned to her by some good samaritan. but after talking with others, she'd realized the nature of the reveal, and so she'd clutched her newfound item a little closer to her chest.
it hangs there now, actually — it being jiaying's necklace, its chinese runes now little more than ancient history tucked underneath her clothes, resting in between the swells of her breasts on a long chain as to avoid detection. one day, she might show fitz, but that day is not today.
today, as it turns out, is a day for picking up a glass of posh wine, and for bringing it to her lips for a much-needed sip. alcohol, good alcohol, is a treat. a blissfully mind-numbing treat. one they probably very much need if they're going to get through this dinner. ]
I deserve a lot of things. [ it's not quite self-deprecating, no hint of daisy's usual bitter dark humor. it's just honest, and quiet, and soft. vulnerable. ] I... [ a sigh, fingertips bringing the glass back down, her hands palming out over the tabletop only to clasp back together. fidgeting isn't her normal modus operandi, but neither is genuine honesty either. ] I fucked up a lot, you know. Before here. I abandoned the team, I ran away, I — I pretty much destroyed everything we worked for, all because I was having an identity crisis and wanted to find my mommy.
[ daisy scoffs a little, under her breath. it sounds ridiculous, but it's true. ]
Turns out, she was a murderous, petty bitch, hell bent on destroying the world. Which is where I get it from, I guess.
[ she doesn't want fitz to contradict her. she's not asking for forgiveness or for absolution. this time, she knows. ]
And — I don't know, I thought... I thought here, maybe, it might be different. Not being Quake, not being SHIELD, I might get to figure myself out while we were here. But I just keep doing the same shit, and I keep hurting you ... and Katelin, and everybody else too.
[ so. ]
So I probably do deserve it, you know? And maybe that's okay.
Hey, hey, no, don't — [ shaking his head, searching for the words. ] Don't do that. Even if you think you deserve it, know that we all — I don't think that.
[ he said some nasty things when she left, stands by them, too, but she doesn't deserve the same judgment now. he reaches out, covering her hands on the table with one of his own, thumb brushing over her skin, an intentional push at the empathy bond. it conveys a swell of something more than the usual earnest fondness and admiration for one daisy johnson. ]
You are a good person. [ he really believes it, too, the sincerity and passion radiates from their point of connection in waves. ] With your parents, without your parents, that's on you 'cause you've proved you were a hero time and again. You exposed Ward, you found and trained people like you, [ the caterpillars. their sweet inhumans. ] you fought to drag us all out of the Framework. [ his voice cracks. ] And even if you don't feel up to it now, you have to choose to be that way, anyway. [ he believes this world needs SHIELD. their touch sharpens, his feelings resolute. ] So, it's not okay.
[ a rare concession: it's not okay for either of them to wallow in this, to give in to their lesser impulses when people are suffering and disappearing and flung far from home. ]
[ as a rule, daisy johnson doesn't weep. she's never really been the kind of person to give into melodramatic crying fits. after all, rage was much more her style, anyway; explosions have always been far more expressive than floods. plus, the window table at a dimly lit restaurant doesn't seem quite the place.
but when fitz's thumb brushes against the back of her hand, and the tidal wave of their connection threatens to capsize her, daisy very nearly does. it's an overwhelming swell of emotion — all of fitz's own hope and trust and care, buoying her up even as moisture pricks at her lashline, solitary drops of saltwater threatening to spill down onto the apples of her cheeks held at bay by the gentle smile she gives him in thanks.
and then, just when she thinks she might soldier through it, comes five words: you are a good person, said as simply as his own name, a truth that requires no thought behind it. the lump in her throat swells, and daisy chokes on it; the jostling shakes loose the tears lingering at the corners of her eyes, and then from the broken dam come so many more, rivers of them streaming down her cheeks and pooling in the fabric of her dress, leaving damp spots and streaks in their wake. ]
Oh, Fitz. [ it's said on a sigh, a hiccup in between choked back cries, and for a moment daisy hears someone else's voice coming out of her mouth. sad, yet grateful; she can only imagine what he feels as her hands grip tightly to his own. ] I don't know if I can.
[ be better than this, that is. how can she be better than the broken person she already is? ]
[ oh, fitz, she says, and he's already maneuvering around the table, awkwardly keeping their hands linked until he can get to her. no hesitation or preamble, when he can press a kiss to her forehead, soft and reassuring (like he'd do for jemma, though that doesn't occur to him now) and wrap his arms around her shoulders, unafraid of closeness, not with her.
the heartache and gratitude wash over him, while he puts considerable effort now into thinking beyond himself, grasping at memories of jemma and coulson and mack and the rest of the team telling him how to go on, that they'll carve a new path together. the recollections help bring calm and warmth to the table, where he might otherwise allow himself to sink into the dark, alongside daisy. ]
[ faintly, ] Well, I don't know if I can, either. [ he thinks of markus, too, unwilling to accept fitz as the guilty party. fitz can be better. he has to be. when he continues, his voice has grown firm. ] But we're not doing it alone, are we? I'm with you. All the way.
[ his lips brush against the crinkles in her forehead, pulling away just as her head lifts up to peek at him. a second earlier on his or later on hers might have met their mouths somewhere altogether different, but as it stands, her face buries into the crook of his neck, his own arms wrapping tight around her shoulders as she does her best to quell the cries that have come forth.
the waiter comes — with the worst timing, with a sharp pang of irritation from fitz flooding through the empathy bond — and goes, murmuring softly in concern about the 'pretty couple'. there's a moment where daisy wonders what fitz told them, what white lie he spun to allow them to have their own wine at dinner tonight, but the thought's gone as quick as it comes. ]
Okay. [ his voice is firm and reassuring, the way hers often is for him, a reminder that brooks no room for argument; in turn, daisy's is soft, a little ragged around the edges, but compliant. ] Okay, okay.
[ a deep breath, hot exhales brushing against the crease of his collar. ]
I'm sorry, I — I don't know — what I'm... crying for. [ stumbling over an apology that's more embarrassing than the actual tears, daisy can't help but wince. ] I just. [ what!!! ] I don't know what I'd do without you, Fitz.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Just the starters — [ it's at that point that he just sort of... glitches. doesn't look away, even as she sits, tracing the twinkling patterns of her dress in the low light. a stray thought considers the effort that went into fireproofing the fabric of her dress. is it battery powered? led? how long do the lights last? ] Are you glittering? [ his voices ticks up. disbelief, maybe, or a little awe. he doesn't embrace the fashion of the future as much as others, being a grandad and all. then, quickly — ] You look. [ is that it... ] I mean, you look lovely.
[ help!! a beat. he inhales, lifting a finger like he means to say something. no, wait. ]
Should I have worn a tie?
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daisy's mouth quirks up a bit at the corners, and she laughs a little at herself for feeling so uncertain; it's only fitz' uncertainty back that puts her at ease. should i have worn a tie? ]
No. [ don't be silly. ] You didn't need to wear a tie, I mean. You look fine. [ not fine. ] You look great.
[ for somebody who nearly got the life choked out of them, he looks like a damn supermodel. the twinges of guilt that tug at her throat, though... it makes it hard to actually look at those cross lines peeking out from under all the fabric. her eyes prefer to skim around them, as if afraid that touching on them at all will render her incapable of pulling her gaze away afterwards. ]
I hope you still like red wine.
[ back when the bus had offered more than just cheap beer over plans to save the world, she remembers — he had always been so picky any time someone wanted white. fussing with jemma over which bottle to open with dinner, what might pair best with whatever was on the menu. the memory makes her a little homesick, but a good kind this time. warm. comforting. kind of like fitz, sitting opposite her, staring at her like she's something out of a daydream. ]
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probably not what most people mean when they say someone makes them breathless, but, y'know. he blinks. once, twice, processing the compliment and the peace offering, recalibrating. the bandages hide the slight flush colouring his neck (thank god), and he clears his throat. ]
Yeah, 'course. [ he reaches out to grab the bottle, tilting it in hand and peering at the label. ] Daisy. This is well posh. You didn't have to — [ a sudden glance up and her way, brows arched in dry reproach. the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth is a tell: pleased, not judgmental. ] — you nicked it, didn't you.
[ not a question. ]
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Yes. [ obviously. she's smiling too, though she does her best to hide it behind the lift of her water glass. at least those aren't holographic too. ] Of course.
[ a little mocking, but a little truthful too. ]
They had more than enough to get shit-faced on, they weren't going to miss a bottle. And... [ and! though it comes with a poignant delay! ] I needed something. To say I'm sorry for —
[ what i did, she almost says, but the waiter comes to check on them as the words form on her tongue. good thing she knows what they want, in order to send him away again. ]
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they also still don't have wine glasses, which, c'mon, buddy. ]
Reckon he'd have come over sooner if I'd grabbed some fairy lights and strung them 'round my torso.
[ blurted out as soon as the waiter turns his back and paired with a mime of the action. he's js. ]
Er, so. You were saying.
[ something that mattered far more than his whinging, yeah. ]
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You'd probably look better than him in them, too.
[ and it's a much easier topic to talk about, especially in comparison to the purpose of her apology. especially when he's looking back at her, slightly mollified, as if he needs to apologize for derailing the conversation.
no, fitz. please continue to derail. it'll be easier for everyone. ]
I — [ but she was saying. so she should say it. ] I'm sorry, is all. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry. And not just write it on a cake or text you or — I wanted you to hear it from me.
[ in person, like this. the fancy dress and dare she say cozy atmosphere wasn't intentional. it just... happened. ]
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Yeah, well, got the eyes for it, haven't I.
[ get lost in the cool waters of his laser blue eyes babe xoxo
but daisy goes on, sincere and unsure (the latter so unlike her usual self). his features soften. an apology from her, when she wasn't herself, wasn't in control, while he knew exactly what he was doing and how to hurt her, well, it feels wrong. burns low in his chest. ]
Wouldn't have minded a cake. [ it's faint, stalling for time. ] I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have — [ indulged in framework roleplay without a safeword? ] — I was horrible to you, and I know you don't want me to apologise, but — it's too late now.
[ so there!! the waiter chooses that opportune moment to arrive with wine glasses, finally, so fitz lets him pass without complaint. thank you, dimples. ]
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also, she's just really bad at it, so probably better if he does it. ]
I can't. You do it.
[ anything to distract from the fact that she's still trying to figure out how to handle the apology. the reference to the cruelty so purposefully put on display just to rile her up. even now, looking back, as she knows it was for a good reason — it still smarts. if she closes her eyes, she can still hear the coldness in his tone. ]
You've never been horrible to me, Fitz. [ his name comes out almost a whisper, soft and impossibly gentle. ] You don't have anything to apologize for.
[ you were just doing your best, and i deserved everything you did — a sentence they could both utter, for entirely different reasons ]
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Daisy. [ a firm counter, said with a level look before he pops open the bottle. she can't think him saying those things, easily flipping the switch from kind to cruel is fine. maybe it was necessary (it wasn't), but it was horrible, too, without question. that was all hydra, not a drop of shield. he can still hear the voice, crisper than his own, hollow. he doesn't want to be that person — daisy accepting him that way means he already is, to fitz. ] Don't say that. I can't.
[ he cuts himself off, a recurring theme these days. he can't be that person, he can't excuse it, or he just can't. their struggle put him one step closer to unravelling. his mouth thins, and he pours them each generous glasses. ]
You couldn't ever deserve that. [ said so simply. there are some consistent truths out there in this great big multiverse, with daisy deserves better being one of them. ]
no subject
it hangs there now, actually — it being jiaying's necklace, its chinese runes now little more than ancient history tucked underneath her clothes, resting in between the swells of her breasts on a long chain as to avoid detection. one day, she might show fitz, but that day is not today.
today, as it turns out, is a day for picking up a glass of posh wine, and for bringing it to her lips for a much-needed sip. alcohol, good alcohol, is a treat. a blissfully mind-numbing treat. one they probably very much need if they're going to get through this dinner. ]
I deserve a lot of things. [ it's not quite self-deprecating, no hint of daisy's usual bitter dark humor. it's just honest, and quiet, and soft. vulnerable. ] I... [ a sigh, fingertips bringing the glass back down, her hands palming out over the tabletop only to clasp back together. fidgeting isn't her normal modus operandi, but neither is genuine honesty either. ] I fucked up a lot, you know. Before here. I abandoned the team, I ran away, I — I pretty much destroyed everything we worked for, all because I was having an identity crisis and wanted to find my mommy.
[ daisy scoffs a little, under her breath. it sounds ridiculous, but it's true. ]
Turns out, she was a murderous, petty bitch, hell bent on destroying the world. Which is where I get it from, I guess.
[ she doesn't want fitz to contradict her. she's not asking for forgiveness or for absolution. this time, she knows. ]
And — I don't know, I thought... I thought here, maybe, it might be different. Not being Quake, not being SHIELD, I might get to figure myself out while we were here. But I just keep doing the same shit, and I keep hurting you ... and Katelin, and everybody else too.
[ so. ]
So I probably do deserve it, you know? And maybe that's okay.
no subject
[ he said some nasty things when she left, stands by them, too, but she doesn't deserve the same judgment now. he reaches out, covering her hands on the table with one of his own, thumb brushing over her skin, an intentional push at the empathy bond. it conveys a swell of something more than the usual earnest fondness and admiration for one daisy johnson. ]
You are a good person. [ he really believes it, too, the sincerity and passion radiates from their point of connection in waves. ] With your parents, without your parents, that's on you 'cause you've proved you were a hero time and again. You exposed Ward, you found and trained people like you, [ the caterpillars. their sweet inhumans. ] you fought to drag us all out of the Framework. [ his voice cracks. ] And even if you don't feel up to it now, you have to choose to be that way, anyway. [ he believes this world needs SHIELD. their touch sharpens, his feelings resolute. ] So, it's not okay.
[ a rare concession: it's not okay for either of them to wallow in this, to give in to their lesser impulses when people are suffering and disappearing and flung far from home. ]
We have to be better than this.
no subject
but when fitz's thumb brushes against the back of her hand, and the tidal wave of their connection threatens to capsize her, daisy very nearly does. it's an overwhelming swell of emotion — all of fitz's own hope and trust and care, buoying her up even as moisture pricks at her lashline, solitary drops of saltwater threatening to spill down onto the apples of her cheeks held at bay by the gentle smile she gives him in thanks.
and then, just when she thinks she might soldier through it, comes five words: you are a good person, said as simply as his own name, a truth that requires no thought behind it. the lump in her throat swells, and daisy chokes on it; the jostling shakes loose the tears lingering at the corners of her eyes, and then from the broken dam come so many more, rivers of them streaming down her cheeks and pooling in the fabric of her dress, leaving damp spots and streaks in their wake. ]
Oh, Fitz. [ it's said on a sigh, a hiccup in between choked back cries, and for a moment daisy hears someone else's voice coming out of her mouth. sad, yet grateful; she can only imagine what he feels as her hands grip tightly to his own. ] I don't know if I can.
[ be better than this, that is. how can she be better than the broken person she already is? ]
no subject
the heartache and gratitude wash over him, while he puts considerable effort now into thinking beyond himself, grasping at memories of jemma and coulson and mack and the rest of the team telling him how to go on, that they'll carve a new path together. the recollections help bring calm and warmth to the table, where he might otherwise allow himself to sink into the dark, alongside daisy. ]
[ faintly, ] Well, I don't know if I can, either. [ he thinks of markus, too, unwilling to accept fitz as the guilty party. fitz can be better. he has to be. when he continues, his voice has grown firm. ] But we're not doing it alone, are we? I'm with you. All the way.
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the waiter comes — with the worst timing, with a sharp pang of irritation from fitz flooding through the empathy bond — and goes, murmuring softly in concern about the 'pretty couple'. there's a moment where daisy wonders what fitz told them, what white lie he spun to allow them to have their own wine at dinner tonight, but the thought's gone as quick as it comes. ]
Okay. [ his voice is firm and reassuring, the way hers often is for him, a reminder that brooks no room for argument; in turn, daisy's is soft, a little ragged around the edges, but compliant. ] Okay, okay.
[ a deep breath, hot exhales brushing against the crease of his collar. ]
I'm sorry, I — I don't know — what I'm... crying for. [ stumbling over an apology that's more embarrassing than the actual tears, daisy can't help but wince. ] I just. [ what!!! ] I don't know what I'd do without you, Fitz.