[ 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
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?