[ does she worry? of course she worries. she can't help but worry, panic only held at bay by the trust that runs bone-deep in her body. but by the time the end of the next workday rolls around, she doesn't want to wait any longer to find out that she's right and he's okay.
much easier to duck out a little early, to offer a believable excuse to her boss; it's easier to just show up, batting eyelashes at the security guard at fitz' office, explaining her unexpected (and unapproved) arrival as a surprise for her newly reconciled love until he sighs good-naturedly and adds a visitor entitlement to her neural id for the rest of the afternoon.
do you need me to show you — he'd offered, but daisy had waved him off. easier to just walk through the halls, making small talk and offering gentle hellos, and to duck into an unused conference room when no one was looking. ]
i thought you might be hungry. your delivery is waiting in room 18A.
[ and by delivery, she means deliver yourself. don't keep her waiting. ]
[ someone (another lab tech, strolling past the front desk with a ping of his neural id) tells him his girlfriend's just checked into the building, "bit late for a cheeky birthday surprise, isn't it?" teased at him like it's nothing, and for one heartbeat, fitz actually, stupidly, thinks that it might be jemma — that two days after his birthday, when a photograph of her emerged from his chest — the cosmos had seen fit to bring her back to him.
wouldn't that be fate?
but daisy texts him hardly a minute later, and he comes back to reality. new amsterdam, 2511. eight months without jemma, his first birthday spent apart in years, struggling against their greatest adversary yet, and fresh off dick slipping through his window, injured and uneasy. fitz still has people who matter to him, those loyal few showing him how much they trust and care. daisy, bobbi. (dick, markus, connor, ciri — everyone who helps him stay rooted in this world.)
and that daisy would be the one to arrive like this, after all they've been through in the last month (and what she now knows he's capable of wielding against her and others, civilians), it makes his chest ache. that's more than he expected from anyone, let alone daisy, when she'd taken off weeks prior. he doesn't text back, can't find the words to say thank you; this means a lot to me — you mean a lot to me, just waits the agonising minutes before his shift ends and strides past the darkened windows to the conference room, sleeves rolled and hands shoved in his pockets, rucksack slung over one shoulder. dick's likely off sick, so there's no need to tell him to walk home without his lab partner, either.
the door automatically slides shut behind him. ]
Y'know, we might need to think of a better cover — [ a lopsided smile. ] — preferably before my coworkers start thinking I'm some sort of playboy.
[ a huff of air, nearly a laugh. As if anyone could think that about him, even though he's constantly mentioning jemma, daisy and katelin. ]
[ the smile that greets him in kind is fond, soft even — especially so for daisy, who so often deals in sharp barbs of sarcasm, rough around the edges. she's been quiet, sitting one leg crossed over the other on the edge of the conference table, a moderate selection of quasi-indian cuisine splayed out next to her buffet-style. perhaps not quite fit for a king, but fit for a man of good taste in any case.
she hadn't been kidding when she'd said he might be hungry. fitz in the lab was the same no matter the universe; he was all too likely to conveniently forget a meal in the search for answers. ]
Is it a cover? [ she's smiling, but there's a wistfulness to it. there's some comfort in their closeness here, a sturdiness to him that she's come to appreciate more in the last few weeks than ever before. fitz is a constant in all universes. ] I'm just keeping Jemma's seat warm, you know.
[ the joke. daisy johnson, the jemma simmons stand-in. ]
[ between the question and the joke (and the gesture), fitz feels a little off-balance, once against struck by kindnesses he doesn't deserve and a complex implication. it's one that he feels ill-equipped to navigate, too, still only beginning to cope after the framework and unsure of where he stands with daisy, after she left (the one thing he can't abide, the thing she's done before —). only she returned, too. in theory, her slipping back into his life and coordinating this meal, particularly in the face of his pseudo-false alarm, well, it should clear things up for him, put them back on the path of friendship, relying a little more on each other every day.
fitz always gets caught up in uncertainties, however. ]
If it's not a cover, it's you teasing. [ smile slight, tone gentle but firm. he can't, won't allow any other explanation. not in this moment. ]
C'mon, don't do that, you know you're a — you've got your own seat at the table.
[ said as he sits beside her, but doesn't reach out, overthinking both of her turns of phrase. it makes him uneasy to equivocate jemma and daisy, in any way (and it shows in his sudden hesitation). daisy isn't a replacement for jemma (never could be), but that's not something fitz would ever ask of her, either. wouldn't that be an insult to the both of them? what each person offers, what they mean to him — it's not exchangeable; it's impossible to replicate. daisy has value in her own right. beyond everything she adds as a teammate and a hero, she makes him laugh until his eyes crinkle and pushes him out of his comfort zone.
he wishes she wouldn't underplay her worth. ]
Thank you. [ a steady gaze, utterly grateful. then, softer. ] Sorry if I worried you.
[ they can't talk freely here, but he can allude to the truth of yesterday's coded warning. ]
I'm not doing anything, Fitz. [ a tone matching his own, a little sharp at the end of the syllable of his name, as if bitten off to prevent something else from being said instead. she pauses, then, pushes a plate of imitation chicken korma his direction (red chilies on the far end of the platter, easy to be ignored or avoided as per preference). considers the cuticles on her right hand for a staggeringly long moment before continuing: ] I wasn't trying to — you know what, never mind, it's not important.
[ the words, whatever they might be, aren't coming out. she can't quite figure out what she wanted to say, not with the aftertaste of worry still fresh in her mouth, not with the swirl of fear and mild panic still heavy in her stomach after a night of questions without answers. she knows he won't tell her everything — whether here or at home, she expects there to be something withheld, or she'd have been present from the start. but maybe he could tell her something, if only to ease the tide. ]
You should eat something first. Tell me about it later.
[ he doesn't know what else to offer her, then, or even understand exactly where he misstepped. he knows he worried her and bobbi, but he will tell the truth about dick at home, ensuring they're both aware of about the potential danger on their doorstep, because that's the truth, and they deserve to know it not only as his housemates but as his friends — and fellow members of the SHIELD family. he starts to eat, though, offering a muffled compliment through a bite and hand over his mouth.
the thing is: any entanglement with fitz is inevitably coloured by jemma, impacted by how much he loves her and misses her desperately. he carries all her beliefs about the cosmos (and having hope, despite the enormity of the universe) with him. almost everyone knows jemma by name, by profession, by her role in fitz's life as the partner, the girlfriend, the epic love. vanessa heard he took the long way to the future to find her; connor learned he dove through a hole in the universe for her; markus knows she's the reason he and ophelia, ah, separated violently; even dick has seen the new picture at his bedside table, with her smiling face.
oh, the picture! if anyone understands what it's like to miss her, to go through the cycle of thinking she might be here (as fitz did, moments earlier), it's her best friend. it's team shield. ]
Oh, Christ, I'm so thick. I forgot to tell you — [ flapping one hand. ] — on my birthday, the, uh, stomach ache happened again. [ chidi... jk he means the chest ache, but can't say so here. he'll have already shown her his multi-tool that arrived a month ago. ] We keep this picture from our first day on the bedside table, y'know. [ none of them would know, actually, unless they snooped in the bedroom during fitz and simmons' housewarming. ] And now it's here. First time I've seen her face in, God, [ his voice tightens. ] eight months. Should've shown you earlier.
[ the moment — that one, undefined, impossibly tangled moment — is gone as quickly as it comes. the fleeting irritation is swallowed away by interest, by her own eyes catching on his hands flapping in the nonexistant breeze, and daisy's jaw relaxes as her mouth curves up in a knowing smile.
that's the thing, isn't it? it'll never be "fitz and daisy", in any combination — even here, even amongst this futuristic hellscape where all they have is each other (and bobbi, bless bobbi, they'd both be lost and horribly worse off without her) — even here, the conversation is "fitz (and jemma) and daisy", a triangle with one part out there somewhere in the cosmos.
(they hope. neither of them dare to even think she's nowhere at all.) ]
Has it really been eight months? [ her tone softens, quiet concern smoothing out over the edge; it bleeds into touch as her hand curves over his shoulder and across his back, fingertips skimming open skin on the back of his neck. reassurance in touch, a shield specialty. ] I'm sorry, Fitz, I didn't — we never talked about ... the timelines.
[ what a ridiculous sentence. there's a pause, as his free hand settles, now free of food; daisy takes advantage of it to pull him into a hug, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. ]
[ when daisy first touches him, he leans into it, the soft buzz of appreciation for the comfort lighting up the bond. as she speaks and moves to hold him, however, he turns rigid, very different from the way he would have reacted before these eight months. it's partly because they're in his place of work, an inherently compromised space. what can he say six months in a black site, locked up alone apart from the agents on his case on top of a lifetime in the framework and two months here? no, that won't do. and he can't become emotional either, not as much as he would have prior to the trauma of it all (a voice tells him to straighten up, always; whether that's his father or the other fitz, it's hard to say).
eventually, he loosens a touch. the bond will make it obvious that his emotions have been gathered and packed tight, locked beneath a hatch to keep from spilling out of his person. even still, a terrible ache persists, longing for jemma. ]
For me, it has been. [ admitted quietly, a hand hesitant around her. ] I sort of implied... [ when she arrived, he provided her with as thorough an information dump as he could offer: I'm ahead of you, Bobbi is behind us both, and you've all been missing for a while, taken to the future without me, even if he hadn't put a number on it. ]
We'll just have to get back to her soon, won't we.
[ offered with a faint squeeze and a confidence he doesn't feel, still stiff in her arms. fitz lacks the hope that lights many heroes from the inside, but he compensates with an indefatigable determination. even after his brain trauma, when everyone but mack gave up on him, he kept going. and when everyone gave up on simmons, he knew better than to do the same.
leopold fitz will stay the course, regardless of whether he loses grip on himself along the way. ]
[ fitz leans in and fitz pulls away — as he does, as she nearly expects him to do, and so daisy leans back in turn. give and take, push and pull, a dance they do around each other as they relearn their friendship for the umpteenth time. it's her fault — but it's his fault, too, isn't it? the other fitz? and yet it's no one's fault at all. it's just the nature of time, changing them both in ways they never expected.
but even so, eight months without the yin to fitz' yang. it's a sobering thought, and so daisy doesn't begrudge him the compact handling of his feelings. a man has to do what he has to do, after all, and a conference room in his workplace isn't really the place for an emotional outpour.
better to trim the conversation short, as fitz does. ("won't we", murmured so crisp and clean, daisy nodding quietly along in agreement as if discussing the weather.) better to straighten up, to smooth her hands out over her lap, to adjust her shirt — and to find the cord, tangled up underneath, that leads down to something small tucked away neatly between her breasts. something she should have shown him too, come to think of it.
fitz, of course, has no reason to know it's there. (what reason would he have for looking?) he has no reason to follow her hands, either, so daisy naturally takes prime opportunity to yank it up, splaying out the three small pieces across her palm in offering. the red cord is muted, the bronze etchings rubbed away over time, but there's no mistaking the heritage of the piece. it's old. perhaps immortal. ]
Hey. [ muttered, softly enough; just to get his attention; just to pull him back into the here and now and not whatever timeline his mind is wandering back into. ] You got a picture frame, I got these. What gives?
Edited (i went to that much effort to upload the cap and then never linked it) 2019-01-09 03:53 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
much easier to duck out a little early, to offer a believable excuse to her boss; it's easier to just show up, batting eyelashes at the security guard at fitz' office, explaining her unexpected (and unapproved) arrival as a surprise for her newly reconciled love until he sighs good-naturedly and adds a visitor entitlement to her neural id for the rest of the afternoon.
do you need me to show you — he'd offered, but daisy had waved him off. easier to just walk through the halls, making small talk and offering gentle hellos, and to duck into an unused conference room when no one was looking. ]
i thought you might be hungry. your delivery is waiting in room 18A.
[ and by delivery, she means deliver yourself. don't keep her waiting. ]
no subject
wouldn't that be fate?
but daisy texts him hardly a minute later, and he comes back to reality. new amsterdam, 2511. eight months without jemma, his first birthday spent apart in years, struggling against their greatest adversary yet, and fresh off dick slipping through his window, injured and uneasy. fitz still has people who matter to him, those loyal few showing him how much they trust and care. daisy, bobbi. (dick, markus, connor, ciri — everyone who helps him stay rooted in this world.)
and that daisy would be the one to arrive like this, after all they've been through in the last month (and what she now knows he's capable of wielding against her and others, civilians), it makes his chest ache. that's more than he expected from anyone, let alone daisy, when she'd taken off weeks prior. he doesn't text back, can't find the words to say thank you; this means a lot to me — you mean a lot to me, just waits the agonising minutes before his shift ends and strides past the darkened windows to the conference room, sleeves rolled and hands shoved in his pockets, rucksack slung over one shoulder. dick's likely off sick, so there's no need to tell him to walk home without his lab partner, either.
the door automatically slides shut behind him. ]
Y'know, we might need to think of a better cover — [ a lopsided smile. ] — preferably before my coworkers start thinking I'm some sort of playboy.
[ a huff of air, nearly a laugh. As if anyone could think that about him, even though he's constantly mentioning jemma, daisy and katelin. ]
no subject
she hadn't been kidding when she'd said he might be hungry. fitz in the lab was the same no matter the universe; he was all too likely to conveniently forget a meal in the search for answers. ]
Is it a cover? [ she's smiling, but there's a wistfulness to it. there's some comfort in their closeness here, a sturdiness to him that she's come to appreciate more in the last few weeks than ever before. fitz is a constant in all universes. ] I'm just keeping Jemma's seat warm, you know.
[ the joke. daisy johnson, the jemma simmons stand-in. ]
no subject
fitz always gets caught up in uncertainties, however. ]
If it's not a cover, it's you teasing. [ smile slight, tone gentle but firm. he can't, won't allow any other explanation. not in this moment. ]
C'mon, don't do that, you know you're a — you've got your own seat at the table.
[ said as he sits beside her, but doesn't reach out, overthinking both of her turns of phrase. it makes him uneasy to equivocate jemma and daisy, in any way (and it shows in his sudden hesitation). daisy isn't a replacement for jemma (never could be), but that's not something fitz would ever ask of her, either. wouldn't that be an insult to the both of them? what each person offers, what they mean to him — it's not exchangeable; it's impossible to replicate. daisy has value in her own right. beyond everything she adds as a teammate and a hero, she makes him laugh until his eyes crinkle and pushes him out of his comfort zone.
he wishes she wouldn't underplay her worth. ]
Thank you. [ a steady gaze, utterly grateful. then, softer. ] Sorry if I worried you.
[ they can't talk freely here, but he can allude to the truth of yesterday's coded warning. ]
no subject
[ the words, whatever they might be, aren't coming out. she can't quite figure out what she wanted to say, not with the aftertaste of worry still fresh in her mouth, not with the swirl of fear and mild panic still heavy in her stomach after a night of questions without answers. she knows he won't tell her everything — whether here or at home, she expects there to be something withheld, or she'd have been present from the start. but maybe he could tell her something, if only to ease the tide. ]
You should eat something first. Tell me about it later.
no subject
the thing is: any entanglement with fitz is inevitably coloured by jemma, impacted by how much he loves her and misses her desperately. he carries all her beliefs about the cosmos (and having hope, despite the enormity of the universe) with him. almost everyone knows jemma by name, by profession, by her role in fitz's life as the partner, the girlfriend, the epic love. vanessa heard he took the long way to the future to find her; connor learned he dove through a hole in the universe for her; markus knows she's the reason he and ophelia, ah, separated violently; even dick has seen the new picture at his bedside table, with her smiling face.
oh, the picture! if anyone understands what it's like to miss her, to go through the cycle of thinking she might be here (as fitz did, moments earlier), it's her best friend. it's team shield. ]
Oh, Christ, I'm so thick. I forgot to tell you — [ flapping one hand. ] — on my birthday, the, uh, stomach ache happened again. [ chidi... jk he means the chest ache, but can't say so here. he'll have already shown her his multi-tool that arrived a month ago. ] We keep this picture from our first day on the bedside table, y'know. [ none of them would know, actually, unless they snooped in the bedroom during fitz and simmons' housewarming. ] And now it's here. First time I've seen her face in, God, [ his voice tightens. ] eight months. Should've shown you earlier.
no subject
that's the thing, isn't it? it'll never be "fitz and daisy", in any combination — even here, even amongst this futuristic hellscape where all they have is each other (and bobbi, bless bobbi, they'd both be lost and horribly worse off without her) — even here, the conversation is "fitz (and jemma) and daisy", a triangle with one part out there somewhere in the cosmos.
(they hope. neither of them dare to even think she's nowhere at all.) ]
Has it really been eight months? [ her tone softens, quiet concern smoothing out over the edge; it bleeds into touch as her hand curves over his shoulder and across his back, fingertips skimming open skin on the back of his neck. reassurance in touch, a shield specialty. ] I'm sorry, Fitz, I didn't — we never talked about ... the timelines.
[ what a ridiculous sentence. there's a pause, as his free hand settles, now free of food; daisy takes advantage of it to pull him into a hug, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. ]
I miss her too.
no subject
eventually, he loosens a touch. the bond will make it obvious that his emotions have been gathered and packed tight, locked beneath a hatch to keep from spilling out of his person. even still, a terrible ache persists, longing for jemma. ]
For me, it has been. [ admitted quietly, a hand hesitant around her. ] I sort of implied... [ when she arrived, he provided her with as thorough an information dump as he could offer: I'm ahead of you, Bobbi is behind us both, and you've all been missing for a while, taken to the future without me, even if he hadn't put a number on it. ]
We'll just have to get back to her soon, won't we.
[ offered with a faint squeeze and a confidence he doesn't feel, still stiff in her arms. fitz lacks the hope that lights many heroes from the inside, but he compensates with an indefatigable determination. even after his brain trauma, when everyone but mack gave up on him, he kept going. and when everyone gave up on simmons, he knew better than to do the same.
leopold fitz will stay the course, regardless of whether he loses grip on himself along the way. ]
no subject
[ fitz leans in and fitz pulls away — as he does, as she nearly expects him to do, and so daisy leans back in turn. give and take, push and pull, a dance they do around each other as they relearn their friendship for the umpteenth time. it's her fault — but it's his fault, too, isn't it? the other fitz? and yet it's no one's fault at all. it's just the nature of time, changing them both in ways they never expected.
but even so, eight months without the yin to fitz' yang. it's a sobering thought, and so daisy doesn't begrudge him the compact handling of his feelings. a man has to do what he has to do, after all, and a conference room in his workplace isn't really the place for an emotional outpour.
better to trim the conversation short, as fitz does. ("won't we", murmured so crisp and clean, daisy nodding quietly along in agreement as if discussing the weather.) better to straighten up, to smooth her hands out over her lap, to adjust her shirt — and to find the cord, tangled up underneath, that leads down to something small tucked away neatly between her breasts. something she should have shown him too, come to think of it.
fitz, of course, has no reason to know it's there. (what reason would he have for looking?) he has no reason to follow her hands, either, so daisy naturally takes prime opportunity to yank it up, splaying out the three small pieces across her palm in offering. the red cord is muted, the bronze etchings rubbed away over time, but there's no mistaking the heritage of the piece. it's old. perhaps immortal. ]
Hey. [ muttered, softly enough; just to get his attention; just to pull him back into the here and now and not whatever timeline his mind is wandering back into. ] You got a picture frame, I got these. What gives?