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)
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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?