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buskidsburgade · 7 years

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A Little TLC

@buckysbears it’s finally done! Mama May taking care of her kids. This could honestly be at any point in the serries. Much needed at any point.

Daisy calls it The Plague (capital letters necessary), and the three of them are the only ones on the entire base that catch it. It’s miserable. Fever, chills, hacking cough, twenty thousand boxes of tissues, feel-like-you-were-hit-by-a-truck miserable.

Fitz and Daisy go down at almost exactly the same time and spend the entire three days they’re ouch-bound accusing each other of being patient zero, typhoid Mary, bringer of pestilence etc.

Jemma bounces between their bunks, fetching blankets and ice chips and charting temperatures and administering medicine, until Mack finds her propped up against a wall in the hallway ‘resting her eyes’ and has to carry her to bed himself.

All three end up camped out in the lounge, Jemma and Fitz curled up on either end of the sofa and Daisy nested in a pile of blankets in the recliner, suffering but at least not suffering alone.

May only comes in to check on them. Make sure no one’s in serious medical distress or ended up on the floor on their way to the fridge or something. The team’s been taking turns sticking their heads into the quarantine zone all day and she got the late shift.

Die Hard’s playing a little too loudly on the tv and it seems like they’re all pretty much passed out, so May goes to turn it off.

And then in the sudden silence, Daisy jerks awake and complains that it was ‘at the best part’ so May has to turn it back on and fiddle with the volume, and then Fitz is awake too and moaning that his throat is actually smashed up glass bits on fire and Daisy’s coughing so much May’s concerned she’s going to fall out of her chair and Jemma’s attempting to stand up to get her some cough drops and -

Well, May shepherds Jemma back onto the couch and tucks the blankets around her trembling shoulders. She gets the cough drops and some water and helps Daisy gulp it down. Then she gets an orange popsicle for Fitz (“Not grape, grape is gross”) and checks all three of their temperatures, and by that point she’s figured out she’s probably not leaving.

Daisy is the clingiest, her fever and exhaustion and general state of misery making her bolder than she ordinarily is in asking for physical affection. Her fingers catch at May’s wrist, pleading with her to stay. She leans into May’s cool touch, curls as close as she can to where May sits, on the floor beside the arm of the recliner. And May can’t help but indulge her, card her fingers through Daisy’s hair, scratch her nails lightly up her back, anything to make her feel a little better.

Fitz is the squeakiest wheel but May suspects this is because he’s squeaking for Jemma, too. “Why does it have to be so bloody cold?” he complains although May just grabbed an extra blanket for him ten minutes ago, and the quilt she finds in the back of her closet somehow ends up draped over Jemma instead. Griping seems to make him feel better though, and the girls don’t seem to mind so May just hides a smirk at the whine in his voice and finds whatever she can think of to help.

Jemma is by far the worst patient because she has yet to accept her patient status. May has to tell her what feels like every five minutes to get her butt back on the couch. “I just want to check her breath sounds.” “She’s fine, Simmons.” “You’re not a doctor,” but the objection is cut off by her own hacking cough.

May is a little worried though. A little more worried than she probably ought to be. They look unreasonably young like this, whining and sniffling. Jemma’s pajamas have little pink bunnies all over them and Fitz’s curls are sticking up everywhere and Daisy has a Disney princess blanket. And she wonders how much of this is really just a virus and how much is everything they’ve been through finally catching up, finally wearing them down.

Daisy can’t sleep. No matter how she tosses and turns, something aches, or fever dreams bring her jerking upright. So May puts in another movie (Back to the Future this time, by popular demand), makes her swallow some Nyquil, and while Jemma and Fitz bicker congestedly about the mechanics of the flux capacitor, May settles back down on the floor beside Daisy’s recliner to chase away the nightmares.

As Doc Brown starts ranting about twenty-one gigawatts, May hears a sharp sniff from the couch, and when she looks over to make sure they have enough tissues, sees Jemma’s face is soaked in tears. Jemma has no idea why she’s crying, she tries to explain through hitching sobs. May sits on the couch and lays Jemma’s head in her lap, holds her tight as she cries and promises, in her steady voice, that everything will be alright.

May worries when the complaining stops. Fitz isn’t asleep; he’s slumped against the arm of the couch and she can see the crescents of his half-open eyes, but he just shakes his head when she asks if he needs anything. She runs a washcloth under cool water and kneels in front of him to dab at his face, lays a hand against his cheek, and he mumbles something, the only of word of which she makes out is ‘Mum’. She stills with the washcloth pressed against his temple. He blinks at her, a little too exhausted to be properly embarrassed, and mumbles an apology that she quickly waves away.

She’d never admit it if it weren’t four a.m., if she weren’t kneeling in a mess of crumpled tissues and empty gatorade bottles, if her only wish weren’t for the three of them to finally get a little rest - but he’s not exactly wrong, is he?

It’s seven in the morning before all three of them are finally asleep. They’ve all ended up on the couch. Mulan is playing on Daisy’s computer. Fitz and Jemma are curled up on either side of May and Daisy has her head pillowed in May’s lap, her legs tangled with Jemma’s.

May smoothes Daisy’s hair because it seems to help her sleep, reaches over to adjust Fitz’s blanket and check if Jemma’s fever has broken yet. She’s been more tactile in the last few hours than the last year at least, but somehow it doesn’t feel strange at all.

This is how Coulson finds them when he comes to check in. May couldn’t move if she wanted to, but she doesn’t want to. Doesn’t even care that much when he snaps a picture. He offers to help her out of the heap so she might get some sleep herself, but she threatens him with bodily harm if he wakes any of them up, so he goes to make soup instead. She can sleep here just fine.

She wonders, as she lets her eyes fall closed, how long it’s been since they’ve had the opportunity to be taken care of. To have the luxury of being a forlorn mess and have someone else soothe their aches and wipe their tears. They’re probably long overdue.

#buskidsnet #aosficnet2 #mama may #bus kids #bus fam #my angels #christa is a writer sometimes

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florchis · 7 years

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Hi @everythinghappens-love! I was your partner for the @aosficnet2 Exchange, and finally your gift is here. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Take me away to some place real

[AO3]

Summary: After the Framework, Fitz decides to go see his mother for a few days and takes Jemma and a reluctant Daisy with him. Things are not easy, but helped by three late-night conversations, Daisy learns that they can choose to not make them hard.

Sneak-Peak:

Daisy doesn’t know the protocol, since she doesn’t have an actual, proper family outside the S.H.I.E.L.D. ranks, but in that instant she wonders if Mary knows. If Mary knows about her powers, about Simmons’s incursion in another planet and Fitz’s incursion in another reality. If she knows that Simmons pulled both herself and Fitz through ninety feet of water on a breath only meant for one. If Mary knows that Fitz stayed by her side when no else would. If Mary knows that Fitz brought Simmons back through space through a rock. If Mary knows that Simmons almost got herself killed trying to bring him back too. If Mary knows that both her and Fitz tried to kill each other at some point in time, and that both have sequels that feel like never will be healed fully. If Mary knows that she would gladly give a kidney for either of them. If she knows that they are her siblings and her friends and her lovers and her loves, and everything in between.

#net2exchange #fitzskimmons #bus kids #fitzskimmonsfic #buskidsnet #my stuff #florchis writes things #everythinghappenslove

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inactiveagentpolarbear · 7 years

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Learn to live with the unimaginable

#aosedit #agents of shield #buskidsnet #bus kids #jemma simmons #daisy johnson #leo fitz #our kids #hamilton #lyrics #quiet uptown #aos #fitzsimmons #fitzskimmons

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the-nerdy-stjarna · 7 years

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New fluffy Fitzsimmons fic

For the Fitzsimmons Fanfic Contest” Angst VS Fluff organized by @fitzsimmonsforlife.

[My angsty submission was posted yesterday]

If it ain’t broke…

Sneak Peek below the cut

Sneak Peek:

“Well, if it isn’t Jemma Simmons!” Daisy exclaims loudly from the front desk, tilting her head in Fitz’s direction, her eyes rolling so far to the side that Fitz can barely see anything but the white.

“Daisy. Lovely seeing you again.” Her smile, as usual, is wide and beaming, her voice laced with the beautiful English sing-song Fitz had become so accustomed to over the past few months since she’d started coming to the store.

Fitz gets up from his desk, tucking his hands in his pockets and smiling shyly at the biochemist from the laboratory three blocks down. “Hi, Jemma.”

“Fitz.” She tucks a strand of her wavy brown hair behind her ear and the ceiling lights catch her eyes just right, causing them to sparkle brightly.

Tagging @agentcalliope, ‘cause buskids.

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aosrewatch · 7 years

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AOS REWATCH CHALLENGE!!

Apologies in the delay in weekly challenges/slow reblogs, we (I, as this blog is run by one person) hope to be more on top of things from here on out!!

In case you may have missed it, @consoledacup has been absolutely incredible in launching the Positivity Tag Chain! This activity focuses on highlighting one moment/scene/quote/plot device - whatever - you enjoyed about the day’s episode in a simple text post! It has been such a success so far, and we’re thrilled that it is so popular and positive! To learn more about it, be sure to check out the post here! We hope to see more of these, and we can’t wait to continue sharing them with everyone!!

The second part of this post is to introduce our first weekly challenge for this week’s episodes: 1x15, 1x16, and 1x17!

The theme of this week is: BETRAYAL. We encourage you to participate in this challenge by creating anything (text/gif/edit/fanart/fanmix/whatever) that fits this theme and tag it with our tag, #AOSREWATCH! Below are some other stances to consider when creating your works:

What are ways that the betrayal in these episodes shaped future episodes and future seasons?

How does the betrayal in these episodes shape each individual character? How does it mess with the relationships both in season one, and later seasons?

If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ASK! Also, if you have any ideas for future weekly challenges, please SUBMIT them!

Have a great week!

#aosrewatch #thefitzsimmonsnetwork #philindanetwork #buskidsnet #Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.#queue

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creacherkeeper · 7 years

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Heart Wears Thin

fitz struggles to come to terms with what happened with aida. daisy is there to help

tw's for complicated feelings about past abuse, discussions of abuse, guilt, and one small scene with minor self harm (head hitting). please heed the warnings and come talk to me about it if you need to

2797 words

read on AO3

He stares.

He stares because it hurts. He stares because if he doesn’t stare, he’ll pace. He’ll grind his teeth. He’ll wring his hands. He’ll be nothing but movement, coiled and anguished, and he’ll move and move until he screams and then he’ll keep going until there’s nothing left to move. He’ll wear himself down until he’s no more than a tread in the ground.

So, he stares, carefully still. Lets all the movement happen internally, only things he can’t help. Things that won’t stop, even if he asked nicely. The slow expansion and disinflation of his lungs as he breathes. The beating of his heart.

He wishes it would all stop. He wishes he’d just turn to stone. He feels like he should turn to stone, looking into her eyes like this, even if it is just a photo. A photo of before she turned. When she was little more than stone herself. Stone, and wires, and electricity.

Is he made of anything more than that?

Yes, he figures. Blood and tissue. Soft flesh. That’s what keeps getting him into trouble.

Even after the knock on his door comes, he keeps staring, barely even registers it. The sound floats in one ear and out the other without fanfare. He doesn’t lift his head when the door creaks open, and then shuts. He doesn’t look over when someone sits on the bed next to him.

“That … really doesn’t seem healthy,” Daisy says.

Once the words make sense in his brain, a few seconds later, he almost laughs. She’s right, of course. But only in the sense that nothing that’s happened these last few weeks have been healthy. And really, what’s a photo going to do to him that the real person hadn’t?

Daisy plucks the tablet from between his fingers and tosses it to the foot of the bed. He doesn’t fight her. Ophelia—AIDA, at that time (should he still call her AIDA? Would that make a difference? Does it matter?)—stares up blankly toward the ceiling.

Daisy reaches over and flips the tablet so the screen is facing the bed. “Better,” she remarks.

Fitz crosses his arms, squeezing his hands into fists and squeezing his fists against the sides of his rib cage. He can still feel the sting on the back of his hand from when he slapped Daisy. It wasn’t real, technically, but he’ll never forget the feeling. He knows neither of them will.

“Haven’t seen you all day,” Daisy says, like that hadn’t happened, like everything is fine between them. Like she can’t fathom the reasons why he might be avoiding her. Avoiding all of them. “Have you eaten anything?”

Slowly, he shakes his head.

“Have you even left this room?”

He shakes his head again.

She pats the bed next to her—near his leg, but not touching. “Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich or something.”

“Can’t,” he manages to choke out.

“Can’t what?”

“Eat.”

He doesn’t look at her, but from his peripherals he can see her studying the side of his face. “Okay,” she says easily. “How ‘bout a smoothie?”

“Why—” He reaches up to rub at the spot of tension between his eyebrows. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t mean to sound antagonistic, he just honestly wants to know. Why she came, why she cares.

“I was worried.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I know you’re not okay right now. And you’re my best friend, Fitz. I can’t just sit by while you’re feeling like this.”

He still doesn’t look at her. “I- I let you get tortured. I hit you.”

“I choked you. I threatened you. So, we’ve both done some bad shit when we weren’t ourselves. That makes us even.”

Finally, he looks up, and almost flinches back from the sight of her honest face.

“Is it that simple for you?” he asks.

She nods.

He sighs, looking away and squeezing his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that simple for me.”

Daisy shrugs next to him, settling back against the pillows and stretching her legs out, wiggling her toes. “You’ll come around.”

He huffs a laugh, disbelieving, not sure how this can make so much sense to her.

“Why were you looking at that anyway?”

His eyes dart back to the tablet, then away, at the wall. He picks at the fabric of his pajama pants, which he never bothered to change out of.

“Dunno,” he mumbles.

Daisy watches him. “I feel like you do.”

His next breath comes out a little shaky. He’s supposed to be talking about this kind of thing with the SHIELD psychiatrists. With a professional. Coulson mandated that he see one after Ophelia had finally been taken down, and the team had relocated to one of the few still-standing SHIELD bases. But … it’s not like they’d understand. It’s not like they’d get it. They’d give him platitudes with no real understanding behind them, just as fake as the Framework had been. So he’d gone to a session, because Coulson had asked. But he hadn’t spoken. Just stared down at his hands.

He stares down at his hands, now. Down at his hands which did so much. Did things he never thought he would be capable of.

“I just—” His fingers tangle together. “I was trying- I guess- I- I was—” He sighs, short and frustrated. “I was trying to figure out why.”

“Why what?”

“Why she did it.”

“AIDA?”

He nods, stomach curling at the name, at hearing it out loud.

“Well, I can tell you that.”

Fitz’s head whips up to look at her. She stares back at him.

“She was just like Hive. All she wanted was control. She couldn’t control the circumstances in which she was created, couldn’t control her own life, so she had to control other people’s.”

“But why me?” he asks, and then darts out of the bed, no longer able to tamp down the need to move. He starts to pace, just like he knew he would. His teeth grind together. His hands lift to tug at his hair. “Why did she have to control me?” And then he continues, “She said she cared about me. She said she cared, but she- she still did all those things.”

Daisy watches him pace back and forth at the foot of the bed. “Hive said the same thing. Neither of them cared. Not really. They just wanted the power. And there’s no greater power than manipulating someone else.”

“But she chose me to manipulate. Me to control. That means something.”

“It means she had the opportunity.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head fiercely. “No, it means something.”

“Like what?”

His hands drop, and his arms wrap around his middle. He stops pacing, staring at the ground, mouth slack. “I was weak.”

“Hey,” Daisy bites, rising off the bed as well. “You’re not weak.”

He stares somewhere near her feet as she approaches him. “No, I- I am. She knew she’d be able to control me. Bend me however she wanted. She knew she could manipulate me, she knew I’d be compliant, and she knew exactly how to change me.”

“Because you’re a person, Fitz. It’s because you’re human like the rest of us. That’s why you’ve got weak spots. That’s why you’re able to be used. It doesn’t make you weak.”

“I think it’s me. It’s not because I’m a person, it’s just me.”

“Being abused doesn’t make you weak.”

His gaze shoots up to meet hers, and he quickly looks away, tears stinging behind his eyes. “Don’t call it that.”

“Why? That’s what happened. That’s what she did to you.”

He shakes his head, pressing the balls of his hands into his eyes, something wretched building in his chest. “Don’t call it that.”

“That’s what happened, okay? It’s a scary word, I know. And it sucks ass, it really does. But that’s what happened.”

He can feel vomit in the back of his throat, and he swallows it down. His eyes find the dresser, and find the frame sitting there with the stock photo behind the glass, and without hesitation he picks it up, cranks his arm back, and flings it at the wall, as hard as he can. It hits and shatters with a crash, raining down to the floor. Still, the nervous, chaotic energy courses through him. His head feels too full, too panicked.

He needs to calm down.

He hits himself, once, palm to his forehead, a solid thunk, and feels the energy abate somewhat, head clearing. So he does it again, on his temple. And then again in the middle of his skull, pounding with both hands again and again, the pressure and pain keeping him some semblance of calm. Keeping him from going off the edge.

“Hey,” Daisy barks, and grabs at his arms. “Hey, stop that.”

Stop that.

He does. But only because his mind has grafted onto a memory. Not a real memory, but one from the Framework. It feels real all the same. Can a memory really be said to be ‘not real’? Isn’t the act of remembering the thing that makes it a memory?

His father is standing in the doorway. Something’s happened, and Fitz is upset. He was hitting his head. His father doesn’t like it when he does that.

“Stop that,” his father says. And then, “It’s pain you want? You don’t give it to yourself, son.”

His father had given him the belt after that. Fitz had been horrified and relieved all at the same time.

Now, he jerks away from Daisy, eyes wide and tearful. “Stop,” he chokes out. “D-Don’t- Don’t—” He reels back, and ends up on the ground, tailbone aching from how he landed. He digs his fingers into his hair, tugging softly against his now sore scalp. His breath comes in shaky gasps.

Daisy kneels in front of him, hands raised. “Okay, I won’t touch. I’m sorry. I won’t touch.”

“It- It—” He bites hard on his lower lip, but a sob escapes anyway.

Daisy just watches him carefully, hands still raised.

“It happened again,” he manages.

Daisy sinks to the ground, slowly lowering her hands to her lap. “What did?”

“W-With my dad. And Ward. And then my dad again. A-And then Ophelia—AIDA.” His lips twist, fighting back against another sob. This one, he manages to keep contained. “It keeps happening.”

Daisy’s face crumples, just a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“That means something,” he says, though he knows he’s just echoing himself from earlier. But the sentiment weighs heavy on his chest. Surely, surely, this all must mean something. There must be a reason.

“It means you got dealt a shitty hand,” Daisy says.

Fitz shakes his head.

“That’s all it means. It means you’ve had some bad people in your life. That’s it.”

His head is still shaking. He presses his hands against his eyes, and they feel wet and puffy. “It means something. I- I must’ve done something. Must be doing something. There’s something about me.”

“Well—”

Fitz’s head shoots up.

Daisy looks like she’s thinking hard. “You believe the best of people, Fitz. You always have. You believe that people are good and you believe in them with everything you’ve got.” Daisy’s eyes blare into his own. He’s shaken by her gaze. “And that’s not a bad thing. Hell, Fitz, that’s not a bad thing. It’s such a good, brave, kindhearted thing and that’s what makes it worse. Because that’s what people are taking advantage of. Your goodness. Your loyalty. That’s ‘the thing’ about you. It’s not a weakness, it’s a goodness that people know how to use against you.”

Fitz sniffles, and looks away. Something settles in his chest. “Dad would’ve said it was a weakness.”

“Well, that’s how you know it’s not.”

He wrings his hands together, looking down at them as they shake. “I … I feel like I deserved it, still. All of it. Like I was inviting it, like it was all my fault.”

Daisy, cautiously, rests a hand on his leg. He doesn’t blame her, she’s always been tactile, so touch-hungry herself. “Fitz, you know that’s not true.” And then after a moment of consideration she continues, “But there’s a difference between knowing and feeling, right?”

He nods, glad she understands.

Her thumb rubs over his leg, touch heavy enough that it doesn’t ache him. “What would you have said to me? After Hive? What did you say?”

“That it wasn’t your fault.”

“And did you believe that, or were you just saying it?”

“I believed it.”

“Then you’ve gotta believe that for yourself, too.”

His brows furrow. “I don’t know how.”

“You start by telling it to yourself—that it wasn’t your fault. You say it ‘till it makes sense. Then you tell it to other people. Then you tell it to yourself again. Say it until you believe it.”

His mouth opens, shuts, and opens again, and she’s quick to continue.

“You don’t have to tell me now. Not if you’re not ready. You know I already believe it. Say it to yourself until it gets easier, then come tell me.”

“I can’t see this getting easier.”

“It won’t. Not for a while. And that—” She shakes her head. “-absolutely sucks. Okay? It does. No getting around that. But it does get easier. Eventually. And until it does, you take all the help you can get.”

“I can’t ask that of you.”

“Well—” She removes her hand to knock it against his knee. “Too bad, ‘cause I’m already here.”

He wipes his face, and is only mildly surprised to find his cheeks wet, though he’s not sure when the tears fell. “After everything I did to you—”

“Like I said, we’re even.”

He watches her, but she just smiles at him, calm, understanding. Her smile is honest, but he can see the weight of it behind her eyes. These aren’t empty platitudes. She understands. Maybe better than he thought she did. Maybe better than anyone else could.

He still doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t think he could be ‘even’ with anyone, not now, not after everything. But she seems to believe it. That’ll have to do for now.

“Okay,” he says, swallowing hard.

She hefts herself up, and then stretches. “Alright, let’s get you some food. Smoothie sound good? I’ll make it with extra bananas. And peanut butter.”

Cautiously, he stands, and wrings his hands as he stares at the closed door.

Daisy follows his gaze, then turns back. “Step one to feeling better is getting out of this fucking room. Step two is food—and maybe a shower, no offence—but step one comes first.”

“I …” He shakes his head.

Daisy’s lips twist as she thinks. “Okay, you know what? Where’s your suitcase?”

He blinks at her. “Under the bed. Why?”

“’Cause we’re having a pajama party. I’m borrowing some stuff ‘cause most of my clothes got kinda toasted.”

“Oh.”

She tugs his suitcase from under the bed and starts going through it until she finds what she’s looking for. A t-shirt from the Academy, and a pair of cotton boxers.

“You’ve got boxers with trains on them,” she says, holding them up to her waist, “that’s adorable. I’m definitely wearing these. Although, beware, ‘cause I have not shaved since we went into the Framework, so my legs are sprouting some small forests at the moment.”

He huffs a laugh, and then turns away as she strips her shirt off.

“You’ve seen me in a bathing suit,” she says as her jeans hit the floor. “I don’t see why you look away when I change.”

“Principle.”

“Whatever,” she says, laughing.

When she’s done changing, she grabs up his hand, tugging him into the hallway. She doesn’t let go until she has to, once they’re in the kitchen and she’s gathering supplies. They drink them at the small kitchen table, and Fitz only manages to drink half of his, but she grins at him anyways. He’s only somewhat surprised when she follows him back to his room.

There’s light coming in from under the door, but he leaves a lamp on anyway. They lie together on the small bed, both on their backs, pressed together out of necessity (and maybe just because they want to be), staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

Eventually, long after they both should’ve been asleep, Fitz asks, “How long did it take for you to forgive yourself? After Hive?”

“Still working on it,” Daisy admits.

Fitz reaches over, and finds Daisy’s hand with his own. She clings back fiercely. They lie in the bed, side by side, and don’t sleep for a long while.

#aosficnet #buskidsnet #me ????? project onto fitz ???? NEVER #what a blasphemous thing to say #yikes #anywho yeah come talk to me if you need to #this is ........ heavy #please heed the warnings #also tagging #autistic fitz #cause that is v present in this #leo fitz #daisy johnson #daisyfitz #aos #abuse cw

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ughfitz · 6 years

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S1-S5

#aosedit #maosedit #buskidsedit #buskidsnet #agents of shield #Honestly just wanted to gif the top one again and they look good in the bottom #You know making gifs just cause #AOS Spoilers #My gifs

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theclaravoyant · 6 years

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when you’re born hell-bound

Fitz can't stop worrying about the trajectory his Framework experience has put him on, and what it all means. Fortunately, he's with the one person in the world in perhaps the best position to allay his fears.

AN ~ Bits of this kept trying to force its way into What We Make (my much fluffier Secret Santa gift fic), but since they speak to some of my fears and hopes for this storyline of Fitz’s I decided to work them into something presentable. I quite like it in the end, but it is quite angsty (though with a strong hurt/comfort leaning), so enjoy and/or appreciate it as is appropriate.

TW: discussion of themes of domestic violence pertaining to Fritz. If you want more detail before deciding whether or not to venture forward, let me know.

Rated T. Fitz. FitzSimmons. Vague 5x05 spoilers. Read on AO3 (~3000wd)

when you’re born hell-bound

“You’re up early.”

Fitz started, and turned toward the sound. It was Jemma, standing just beyond the treeline of this little clearing he’d found. She had her hiking boots on – laces still untied - under her pyjamas, and was frowning at him in concern.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he confessed, and invited her out onto the hillock he had found. He’d watched the sun rise a few hours ago from here, and the sky was now a pale and cloudy blue, the sunlight a haze across it. Jemma jutted out her chin, as if to soak up the rays even as Fitz pulled her close and tucked her under the wings of his jacket. He kissed the top of her head, which he often did when feeling pensive, and Jemma’s attention dropped back down to earth. She turned to face him.

“Anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s just- you know, the usual. Existential dread. Dark side of the Force. That kind of thing.”

“The Force.” Jemma snorted. “You make it sound like the Doctor is this… alternate personality you’re doing battle with in your head.”

“Sometimes it feels like that,” Fitz confessed.

Jemma lifted his hands from around her waist, and folded them into her own.

“You know that’s not what he meant, right?”

“Hunter.” It still hurt a little to think about him – it would probably never stop – but a sorry excuse for a smile touched Fitz’s lips. “I think he meant that it’s like what he did, or you did, or Daisy… you know, levelling up in Badass or whatever. It just doesn’t feel like that to me. You all chose to take up arms and– and fight against your demons. The Doctor is my demons. I can’t fight him, he’ll kick my ass.”

“I have to disagree with you there,” Jemma pointed out. “I had to defend people I love. Violence was the way to do that at the time, there wasn’t a lot of choice to it, and I may have taken to it better than I might have liked, but even you have to admit it’s been useful.”

“That part, I know. I mean, I’ve hurt people, I’ve killed people, I’ve – I’ve done a lot of scary, violent things that I don’t regret,” Fitz agreed. “But this is different. This feels… out of control. It’s wrong, Jemma. I just know it.”

He pulled away from her then, and strode back into the forest, itching to get away from her all of a sudden. It felt like the Doctor was a shadow creeping up the back of his neck, just waiting to take him over, and he was struggling to make the others understand that without sounding like a villain claiming possession; claiming brainwashing; claiming it wasn’t my fault, when it was. He clenched his fists and stuffed them into his pockets.

Jemma, for her part, didn’t make the quip she’d been thinking of to lighten the mood about Fitz’s gut feelings and overdramatic antics. Nor did she remind him of the psychology of conscious and subconscious, or any of the several schools of philosophy that might have helped him. In truth, none of these things came to her mind in the moment. She simply followed him, ignoring the branches that thwacked back in her face and feeling helpless as she watched Fitz’s whole body bristle with anxiety.

“Fitz,” she called, once she realised he didn’t know where he was going.

He stopped dead, but didn’t turn around.

“Fitz,” she repeated, softer. “Please. I want to understand what’s happening to you. I want to help. Come back to camp, have some breakfast. Talk to me.”

With some effort, Fitz pulled his hands out of his pockets, and trailed her back to camp in silence. He sat by the fire as Jemma set it up, lost in his own head until she nudged his arm and pressed a cup of tea between his fingers. He took it, and she smiled encouragingly up at him. It hurt to see him so lost and in pain, but bringing him out here felt like a step in the right direction. Hopefully, they were about to make another.

“I know, it’s not…” he explained slowly, trying to capture what it felt like in his head, and translate it somehow. “It’s not like a real… switch. I’m not Hulking out, or anything. That Dark… side, or whatever it is, it’s still me. I know that. But in a way, that sort of makes it worse. It makes it… my fault.” He swallowed hard, and clenched the cup, approaching the confession. “I couldn’t sleep last night because I had a dream that I was strangling you. I don’t remember why. I don’t even know if there was a reason. I was just so angry.”

He kept his eyes on the tea, shaking slightly as his hands trembled with the nerves. Jemma bit her lip, trying not to make a sound. Trying to process what that must have been like, even as her hand gravitated up toward her neck. She remembered the Framework, as much as she didn’t want to – and so did he.

“I woke up,” Fitz continued, “and- and you were there, sleeping so peacefully next to me like nothing happened. You were so beautiful, and all I could think about was what I did in there. To you. To – to make you kneel like that, and beg me, and I – I shot you Jemma. I shot you.”

“I was your enemy,” Jemma reminded him, ignoring the tears pricking at her own eyes. She’d sorted this out long ago, rationally, in her head, and she was determined not to be pulled back under by the fear, or by the memory of those cold gunmetal eyes. She stared intently at Fitz’s face, keeping her attention on the man he was now: his own eyes full of emotion, and brimming with tears at the thought of having hurt her, even in a nightmare. “I killed your father, in there. You had every reason to hate me.”

“Then why didn’t I just shoot you?” Fitz returned. “Or break your neck. Or poison you. Why didn’t I have somebody else do it? Why did I feel the need to order you down on your knees and make you cry? What kind of sick bastard needs that level of power? Why make the situation so- so– “

“Loaded?” Jemma supplied. “I confused you, I humiliated you. It was revenge. You might have been a bit theatrical about it, but it was just revenge.”

“It was disgusting,” Fitz insisted. He choked up with an ugly, snotty sob before Jemma could object, and buried his face in his hands as best he could, trying to catch his breath and hide his face and not spill his tea all at the same time. Jemma rested a hand on his shoulder as gently as she could, and eased the teacup from his grip before he lost hold. Her resolve strengthened as his faltered.

“What are you saying, Fitz?” she pressed carefully. “That you abused me?”

“That I could,” Fitz clarified. “You had utter faith in me, even in there, and I used that as a weapon against you. Even after watching my father do the exact same thing – “

“That wasn’t real -”

“I still watched it. And I feared it. But I did it. And now I know I have it in me to do it again and I hate it more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life. Anything, Jemma. Do you understand that?”

“I think I’m starting to,” Jemma promised. “I’m certainly trying to. And I’m sorry for what you’re going through. You’re a good man and you don’t deserve to be so afraid of yourself.”

“How can you say that to me?” Fitz demanded, breathless, beating his chest as if he could rip the agony out somehow. “How can you believe that, after what h-he did to you – knowing that he’s inside me, knowing that he’s part of me. How can you feel safe with me after that?”

“I love you. I trust you,” Jemma assured him. “And I know that you don’t want to hurt me. Look at yourself. You had a nightmare and now you can barely even look at me. You’re beating yourself up – literally. That’s not a man who thrives on the power of abuse.”

His hand curled and lowered like a frightened flower and he looked at her with wide eyes. There were still questions on his lips. But at least he was no longer hitting himself.

“Fitz,” Jemma insisted. “I’m under no illusions that you don’t have an aggressive streak, or a dramatic one, and you shouldn’t be either, but that doesn’t mean you’re a Hydra ringleader who tortures puppies in his spare time! I promise. Not as a doe-eyed woman in love with you, but as your friend, and as an agent who has served by your side during the best and most difficult ten years of our lives. I promise, you are a good man. You are struggling with a violence that was trained into you by a life that you don’t even have, but I believe you can overcome it, and find balance.”

Fitz shook his head. “I don’t want balance. If balance means embracing the Doctor, I don’t want it.”

“I don’t think you can be rid of him entirely. He’s not a cancer,” Jemma warned. “You can’t cut him out, burn him out, or rip him out. You have to come to terms with him somehow.”

“Not like this,” Fitz growled.

“Then how?”

He clenched a fist, infuriated and stressed by her challenge, and Jemma felt a shot of fear run, ice-cold through her veins. She hated herself for it immediately, but a flinch was a flinch.

Fitz stood up. She’d half expected her flinch to send him into a panic, and maybe it had, but he didn’t get as flustered about it as he used to. He paced the small space between her and the tent, massaging his hand like he used to even though his cramps were much more rare these days.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he insisted, near frantic. “I did not train for this, I was not born for this. This comes from the memories of a complete bastard of a man, who I hate with every fibre of my being. It’s not a bloody superpower, Jemma, I’m not finding the good in something potentially dangerous. You’re asking me to accept abusive behaviours trained into me by an abusive man and a para-bloody-Nazi organisation. To use them when I think it’s necessary. Like when, hm? Like when I get a little too curious? Like when my best friend is beaten to a bloody pulp and I think it’s worthwhile to hit her again. MY BEST FRIEND- ”

He reined in his voice and his hand movements, but the tears were streaming freely down his face now. He remembered more from the Framework than he ever cared to think of again and the fact that he’d spent so long in his own head about it, never daring to speak to the others, had only made it worse.

Watching the anguish pour out of him in such raw form, Jemma couldn’t help but cry too. Between remembering what Fitz was talking about, and watching him tear out his own soul, and noticing the line in the sand he had formed while pacing and dared not cross – for fear, no doubt, of being close to her while this explosively angry – it was almost too much.

“I beat Daisy,” he continued desperately. “I tried to kill you, I tortured our friends to death. I know I didn’t know them, or you, or whatever, but I shouldn’t be able to do that. And apparently, I did it all because I was as in love with Aida as I should have been with you. What would I do if you asked me to then, hm? And believe it or not I don’t actually want to destroy the whole world to save your life. Which, knowing our luck, might actually happen one day - that’s a real choice that I might actually, non-hyperbolically have to face!”

“… Fitz…” Jemma shook her head. It was all she could say. She could hardly breathe – her whole body felt numb. She was even a little bit grateful that she’d started this conversation sitting down, because she wanted to run but she was sure her legs wouldn’t work at this point. God, she wanted to run. Away? To him?

Yet she could only watch him pace.

“And – and what kind of man would I be to let a woman with that mind, with those desires, control me?” Fitz fretted. “The Doctor was a horrible, horrible man, and if he wasn’t me, you would’ve let Ward take the shot, wouldn’t you?”

Sharp eyes pierced through Jemma’s shaken numbness. She remembered pleading with Ward to save him. A torturing, murdering, scum of the earth Hydra crime lord with Fitz’s face. And Fitz’s soul, or so he seemed to believe. How astoundingly awful it must be to believe that.

“I…” she stammered, helpless. “I…”

“Well?” Fitz curled his arms into his chest, gesturing to himself with such passionate contempt it made Jemma’s stomach turn. “I am me, so what guarantee do I have that you would stop me?”

“Fitz!” Jemma yelped, her voice cracked with tears as the numbness fell away. She stood up – on shaky legs, but she stood. And jabbed a finger toward him for good measure. “STOP IT. You are not that monster and do you know why? Because in there, you didn’t have a choice. Aida forced you down a path that brought out the worst in you because it was convenient for her, but you’re free of that now and you have a choice and you would always choose not to hurt me. That’s why. You’d rather die than hurt me. Or Daisy. And as for the world? Well, I’m sure you’d make the right choice if it really came down to it and you have my blessing. I’m not worth the world. In fact, if you destroy the world to save me I shall be quite put out.”

Neither of them laughed. Or smiled. Or anything.

Jemma clenched her jaw, trying to ride this wave of determined concerned fury until it’s very end before she softened.

“You are not destined to be an abuser,” she continued, “whether your father was one or not. You’re not destined to fall down a slippery slope, back to the ‘Dark side’ or what have you. You and your bloody fatalism Fitz will you just think for a moment and believe in yourself!”

“That’s not what you said about Ward,” Fitz replied darkly. “Why am I different?”

There it was, the fury faded. Burnt out like a match in the wind. Jemma’s eyes scanned the snow for a moment, as she fought all the flooding memories back until she could remember one thing. Just one thing.

“You want to know why I couldn’t forgive Ward?”

“Yes. I do.”

“There’s a lot to it –“

“I know –“

“But I suppose it comes down to something you said.”

Fitz blinked, and the stormclouds in his eyes seemed to clear. He still had a heaviness, a sorrow to him, but the seething self-loathing had been knocked off kilter for just a moment.

“You gave him a choice,” Jemma continued. “You said –“

“You can choose right now to be good.”

The words spilled from Fitz’s tongue as if he were right in the moment all over again. He remembered the fear in those words, and in watching Ward betray them, but he also remembered what he’d been hoping would happen. That Ward would put down his gun, sneak him and Simmons off the plane, give everything back and apologise. Come home, set it right, have dinner and be welcomed back into the fold – the prodigal son. It seemed so fantastical now, knowing what Ward had become, but the severity of that fork in the road was enough to give Fitz hope. If he could be a man as horrible as the Doctor, what lay down the other extreme? What about all the paths in the middle?

“Ward knew what path he was walking down,” Jemma continued. “And you know the Doctor’s path now. Plus, Aida should serve as a warning about hidden traps along the way, too. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, isn’t that what they say? But I believe you can, and you will, choose to do good, and whatever role the Doctor does or does not play in that is up to you. I’ll support you if you want to pull out of the field, or even out of Shield and go work in a toyshop or something for the rest of your life. I don’t mind if you never want to raise a hand against anyone ever again. But I also know that we’re fighting a good fight here and a little extra firepower wouldn’t go amiss. It’s up to you. Not me. Not Aida. You.”

With her last words, she took three great steps toward him, and he was so transfixed that he barely moved except to hold his breath when, at the end of it, she put a hand over his heart. Face streaked with tears, Fitz blinked down at her, hardly able to believe the tender touch and how aggressively he’d been denying it to himself for so long.

“You have no idea how much I want to believe that,” he whispered.

“One day,” Jemma promised, “you will.”

#leo fitz #fitzsimmons #fsfic #thefitzsimmonsnetwork #aospositivitynet #buskidsnet #clara's fic tag

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unlessimwrongwhichyouknowimnot · 7 years

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How to Make a Friend

Summary: A missing moment from episode 1x02. Fitz and Simmons were using their Very Best Social Skills while introducing Skye to the Bus; this is what happened right before she walked up.

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“Fitz, no!” Simmons cried as Fitz started to put a box of glass beakers into one of the upper cupboards. “B is for Breakable is for Bottom Shelf!” she reminded him, pointing to the appropriate location.

“Sorry,” Fitz muttered as he moved the box.

“FitzSimmons.” Coulson’s voice interrupted their organization of the lab.

“Yes, sir?” Simmons said, turning around and smiling brightly at her new boss.

“You remember the girl we brought in, Skye?”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons confirmed, sharing a look with Fitz.

“I’ve invited her to join the team as a consultant, and she’s accepted,” Coulson announced. “She’ll be getting here in about 10 minutes, and I want you two to make her feel welcome. Show her around the Bus, answer any questions she may have, explain about life as a SHIELD agent. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” FitzSimmons said together, nodding.

Simmons turned to Fitz, briefly bouncing on her toes as she reached out to nudge his arm, an excited grin on her face. “Oh, isn’t this exciting?”

“Yeah,” Fitz agreed, his tone glum.

“Just think, Fitz!” Simmons continued, turning away to adjust the position of the microscope on the lab table. “She’s much closer to our age than any of the others on the team, and she was very helpful on our first mission. Maybe we can all be friends?” Simmons looked at Fitz, expecting him to be just as excited as she was, and was surprised when she noticed the frown on his face and how he was twisting his fingers together. “What’s wrong?”

Fitz sighed and untangled his fingers to rub the back of his neck. “It’s just-I’ve not even got used to Coulson, May, and Ward yet, and now we’re adding another new person! And there’s only one bunk left, Simmons, right next to mine! What if she snores? I won’t be able to sleep! You know what I’m like when I’ve not slept!”

“Breathe, Fitz,” Simmons reminded him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We have had rather a lot of change lately, haven’t we?” Fitz nodded in agreement. “But, we knew going into this assignment that change would be something we’d have to deal with, so let’s focus on the positives and what we can control.”

“Focus on the positives,” Fitz repeated. “Focus on the positives. Focus on the positives.”

“For example, Skye is a nubile woman.”

Fitz grinned a small grin and scratched at his face as a blush crept over his cheeks. “That is a very good point, Simmons.”

“And if she snores,” Simmons moved across the lab to open a drawer, “I have plenty of earplugs right here.” She picked up one of the packages and tossed it to him.

Fitz fumbled a bit as he caught it, but managed to hold on. “Thanks, Simmons.” He slipped the earplugs into his pocket.

A van pulling up next to the open cargo ramp caught Simmons’ attention. “Oh, I think she’s here.” Simmons shut the drawer and walked back over to Fitz. “Now, remember, we want to make a good impression. That means eye contact and smiling, and-”

Fitz scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Simmons, I know. I’m perfectly capable of passing as neurotypical, thank you very much.”

“I know, I’m just nervous. Oh, here she comes!” Simmons rushed out of the lab leaving Fitz to hurry after her.

“Agent Coulson told us the news!” Simmons greeted Skye. “What a wonderful surprise! Isn’t it, Fitz?”

“Yeah,” Fitz agreed, trying his best to smile.

“No, it’s wonderful,” Simmons reassured Skye.

“Yeah, a surprise.” Fitz continued.

“You must be very excited.”

“Yep,” Skye said, handing her box over to Fitz. “First day of school.”

“Okay, so--just--sorry,” Simmons said, awkwardly making her way around Skye to lead her up the stairs.

“Fitz, tell her about the plane,” Simmons instructed as they walked into the common area.

“Officially, it's an airborne mobile command station. But we call it the Bus. We find it best to use shorthand when in the field. But everything has to be just so, you know, because of the danger.”

“Yeah, I've been up here before, but I didn't see much because of the bag that Agent Ward put over my head.” Skye said.

“Yes, so sorry about that,” Simmons said, squeezing her hands as she tried not to let her annoyance at Ward show. If the specialist had ruined their chance at friendship because of how he’d treated Skye, Simmons would be very cross with him. She spotted bottles of water sitting out for them to take. Perfect! Sharing a drink was one way to bond with others, right? She grabbed a bottle and handed it to Skye. “Water?”

“Wheels up in two,” May’s voice sounded over the plane’s intercom. “Lock it or lose it.”

“What’s that mean?” Skye asked.

“No backing out now,” Simmons told her. “Let’s find a bunk for our guest,” she said to Fitz.

“Oh,” Fitz said. “Oh, yeah, there’s only one left, and it’s right next to mine!” He put the box on her bed and tapped the door frame to point out the side where his bunk was. “Sorry,” Fitz said, realizing he was in Skye’s way. “You can…” He hurried out of her way and left with Simmons to go back downstairs and buckle in for takeoff.

“I think that went very smoothly,” Simmons commented as they buckled themselves in.

“I concur, Simmons,” Fitz said. They high fived, each feeling satisfied with how well that had gone.

#thefitzsimmonsnetwork #aosficnet2 #buskidsnet #engineering vs biochem #team engineering #fanfiction #agents of shield #leo fitz #jemma simmons #skye #autistic fitz #autistic jemma simmons

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accio-the-force · 7 years

Text

(Not a) Sacrifice Play

Summary: With their mission accomplished in the Framework, Jemma and Daisy are ready to go back to the real world and save their friends. But when their plan (predictably) goes up in flames, their lives are on the line, again.

Rated T. Framework AU. Word Count: 1768

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Anon prompted: When Jemma told Daisy that dying in the framework would mean death in their world, it felt like a clue that something awful is gonna happen before they make it home. Could you write something where Daisy is mortally wounded just before the team arrives at the backdoor? Thank you!!

A/N: Who’s ready to enter the Framework on Tuesday? One last spec fic before the hiatus ends. Was also meant to be a fill for @aosficnet2‘s M is for Mates March monthly prompt, but a day late and a dollar short ;).

Excerpt:

Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Murphy’s law might as well be SHIELD’s unofficial motto at this point. They were the living embodiment of situation normal, all fucked up, so really, Jemma should have expected this latest snafu.

Daisy and Jemma had managed to navigate this upside down world, with Hydra, appearances by old friends and foes, and the fact that the people that they were trying to save were living completely different lives, with seemingly completely different personalities.

Read the rest on AO3

#thefitzsimmonsnetwork #aosficnet #buskidsnet #fitzsimmons #bus kids #fs prompt fill #mine #my writing

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buskidsburgade · 7 years

Text

Stand in the Rain

A/N: Skimmons, brotp or otp you can pick. Three times Jemma has a panic attack after the pod. Trigger warnings for panic attacks and ptsd.

~1900 words

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Her breath comes in sharp, wheezing pants that echo like the clatter of needles against the pristinely white bathroom tiles. High-pitched, uneven, searing in her collapsing chest. The metal shower knobs bite into her palms. They’re turned all the way off, but she feels that if she lets them go, the deluge would crash down on her again.

Jemma doesn’t know how long she’s been curled up on the damp, squishy shower mat. Long enough for her hair to dry in matted clumps that stick to her shoulders, for streaks of soap to crust over in sticky stripes down her arms. She scrambles for purchase, but there is nothing in this room to hold onto. White walls, white sink, white porcelain. Rough blue towels from Walmart, off-brand toothpaste, no pictures, no texts waiting on her phone for her, nothing personal.

She drags in another gulp of air that doesn’t seem to hold any oxygen. It’s water in her lungs, in her mouth. She’s drowning again, she is always drowning, why can’t she stop drowning?

What if Hydra found her out? What if they burst in and find her like this and this is how she dies? Drowning in an empty tub, too afraid to make it through a shower. Her chest is so tight and her stomach churns and her pulse roars in her ears like the surf, like wind as she falls, like –

There are footsteps in the apartment above hers. Someone laughs in the stairwell on the other side of the wall. A door rattles open down the hall. But her door is locked, and the bathroom door is locked, and nobody knows she’s here. Nobody’s coming unless it’s with bullets raining, and she has to keep holding back the deluge or she will drown.

She has to keep reminding herself that it’s over. That Agent Morse – Bobbi – saved her, and H.Y.D.R.A. is not going to murder her in her sleep. Probably. And yet, it doesn’t feel over. It doesn’t feel like she’s home. It doesn’t feel like she’s safe.

If she closes her eyes, though, sometimes she will catch familiar scents and know a moment of peace. Skye’s shampoo. Trip’s favorite take-out. The polish Coulson used on Lola. May still buys the same lilac dish soap, and Jemma is concentrating on that and not the sound of water streaming from the faucet as she rinses the mug of tea Fitz hadn’t drunk.

She inhales the scent of lilacs and tries to block out the sound of Trip and Mack and Hunter hooting over video games in the rec room. Trip caught her eye as she lingered in the doorway, trying to find her bearings in this strange place with these strange people. He’d gestured for her to join, but she’d glanced at Mack and shook her head, offering a smile that stretched too tight as she’d retreated down the hall.

She breathes out and pretends not to notice the way Skye skirts around her, grabbing a bowl and a box of cereal and the milk carton and going somewhere else to eat instead of staying in the tiny kitchen with her.

She breathed in and tries to wash Fitz’s voice, demanding an explanation for her disappearance, from her thoughts. Tries to wash away Mack’s hard words, looming height, cutting eyes, turning himself into a human shield in defense of her best friend. Against her.

She breathes out and thinks of Coulson’s hand on her shoulder and May’s relieved eyes and Bobbi standing between her and one of her worst nightmares come to life.

But the water is so loud.

Jemma slams the faucet handle down. The tinny patter of water against the metal basin stops abruptly. She presses the handle down with all her might, leaning into the sink, letting her forearm resting on the lip of the counter bear all her weight. She tries to get a hold on her stuttering breath, tries not to let it echo in the kitchen as it comes high and jagged.

There’s nothing in this room to hold onto. It’s cold and dark and unfamiliar. The mug slips from her fingers and cracks in the sink. She closes her eyes and tries to slow her hammering heart, but everything is spinning. The boys are whooping down the hall and Skye’s loud, boundless laughter reached her from somewhere and there is the ever-present hum of an active base that comes from all around, but no one’s coming . There’s not enough air in her lungs to scream even if she wants to.

Gunshots from the video game ricochet around the kitchen and she feels the whiz of Hydra bullets inches from her cheeks. Their eyes, hungry like wolves, bore into her, their smiles dripping blood. Their stained hands touching her shoulders, her arms, the small of her back. No, this alloy will hold up better … that chemical compound won’t work…I’d like to think I’m on your side . How much damage have her words done by now? How bloody are her lips?

She presses down harder on the handle, but the rushing still fills her ears, and Donnie Gill’s body is crashing into the water and he’s drowning and she can’t breathe.

III

She should have thought about it but she didn’t. Should have checked the weather. Noticed the pearly gray of the overcast sky. Made an excuse not to go, not risk putting herself here in this position. But she’d been too caught up in the mission, in what she was supposed to do, in what good could come out of her time at Hydra.

She doesn’t think about it until the first raindrop hits her face. Sharp and cold. An electric shock.

She’s kneeling in an alley, waiting for their Hydra target to appear, flash bomb in hand, ready for a drop of the right substance to set it off. Waiting until she sees his face. Skye and Trip and Hunter are in her ears, talking about the mark, talking about the mission. Trip says something and Skye laughs and she doesn’t follow because little shining droplets have started dappling the cement around her and the soft patter is all she can hear.

Her breath snags in her chest.

It’s just rain .

She forces her grip to ease on the delicate glass tube in her fist.

It’s just rain .

Rivulets trickle down her scalp like icy fingers.

It’s not just rain. The sky is bursting open, dropping cubic tons of water on top of them. The air is thick with moisture in her throat. Her heart is pounding hard and she would like to run, to seek shelter, to pull the covers over her head like she did in her hydra apartment the few times thunder rattled the windows, but the weight of all that water pins her where she kneels in the alley.

“Simmons, that our guy?” Hunter’s asking, and she tries to see, tries to squint into the storm, but all that’s there are sheets and sheets of water.

“Simmons?” Trip’s voice and she can’t answer, can’t pry words from her lips for him.

“Simmons, report,” Skye, anxious, concerned.

She can tell them nothing. Cannot ask for help. Cannot wave off their worry. Doesn’t know which she’d do anyway.

“Fuck, it is him - could really use that bomb right about now,” Hunter, breathless, probably leaping into combat.

It wouldn’t work well with the moisture even if she could see which way to throw it. She presses her back to the cold brick wall and drags in breath after breath, listens to the sounds of fighting and the others’ voices, all slowly drowned out by the rush of the rain.

There is nothing to hold onto. Nothing to stop the flood. She’s going to drown here.

Her skin has gone numb from the cold and possibly the hyperventilation when movement catches her eye. She doesn’t turn to look, can’t actually respond at all, but she sees the shape of a person emerging from the mist. And then suddenly Skye is kneeling in front of her, biting her lip anxiously.

“Jemma? Hey, can you hear me?”

Her voice comes from a long way away, but Jemma can hear it. She just can’t say so.

Skye slips her icy fingers into Jemma’s. “You don’t have to say anything, just try to squeeze my fingers if you can hear me, okay?”

Jemma tries. She really does. But it’s like the tether between her brain and body has been cut. She can’t even twitch a finger.

“Okay,” Skye says again, rubs her hands up and down Jemma’s arms as though she’s trying to warm her up. “Okay. It’s gonna be okay, alright? It’s gonna be fine.”

She pulls off her leather jacket and leans forward so she can tent it over both of them. Their faces are inches apart and the water has stopped hitting Jemma’s face and she can feel Skye’s warm breath mingling with her own and this is something to hold onto.

And eventually Jemma starts to thaw. Can move, first just to rub her thumb over the pads of her fingers, then enough to squeeze Skye’s knee, and somehow they stand up, and make it into a coffee shop down the block and the rain still coming down but in the back they can’t hear it over the soft rock and the sound of orders being called and she can take her first real breath in who knows how long.

“Dark Cloud says it’ll let up in ten minutes,” Skye reports. Her jacket is over Jemma’s shoulders and somehow there is a steaming cup of tea pressed between Jemma’s palms. She flips her phone around so Jemma can read the radar herself, see the proof that it’s not going to last forever. “The boys are gonna pick us up once it clears up.”

Jemma nods, tries a sip of the tea, blows out a shaky breath. Her stomach is still tight and her chest is still buzzing, but she can move and she keeps moving to remind herself. Drums her fingers on the cup, scrapes the toe of her shoe over the tile floor, jiggles a knee under the table. The clouds are going to pass and they are not going to drown.

Skye’s watching her. She leans forward, her face like she is going to say something, but then she changes her mind and looks over Jemma’s shoulder at the pastry shelf, leans back again, fidgets with hem of her soaked shirt, then the sugar packets.

“Look,” she says finally, splaying her hands on the table between them. “We don’t have to talk about this here - now - if you don’t want to but… has this… happened before?”

Heat rises to Jemma’s cheeks and her insides squirm and she doesn’t want to do this. But it has been so painfully painfully lonely, and here Skye is offering her a hand, a way out of the isolation of her own head and - she nods, can’t help but nod. Her cheeks burn and she stares down at the top of her cup, and she is probably going to regret that, regret admitting what a mess she’s become -

Skye reaches across the table to pry one of Jemma’s hands loose and her grip is warm and tight.

“We’re gonna work on that,” she says, promises, and Jemma grips her hand back and holds onto that.

#aosficnet2 #buskidsnet #misformarch #skimmons brotp or otp #Christa is a writer sometimes #brotp: bad girl shenanigans

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