[ 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
[ 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?