Hey there, Rani! FitzSimmons + 35) things you said that made me feel real
Hi, Jane!! How’ve you been? Just super intimidated to write something for you, but here ya go haha. Set towards the end of season 2, but no Maveth or “maybe there is.”
“You’re not here,” he whispers to himself and then shuts his eyes, knowing when he opens them she’ll be gone. This has never happened before—he’d never allowed it to happen before. Mostly because it seems disrespectful to her, to force her into a relationship she’s never wanted, even if it all exists within his imagination. But partly because he knew crossing this line would turn her from a supportive crutch into a weighted stone around his neck.
Imagining her eyes shining with affection and longing and…love? Love. Imagining the feel of her in his arms, in his bed. All it will do, in the end, is drag his body back down to the ocean floor where his soul has dwelled for a lifetime.
“What?” she asks, voice tight and small, and his eyes flicker open to find her still here, sheet tucked around her, makeup smeared, hair mussed beyond recognition. He’s never seen her like this before and she’s beautiful.
“I-I uh…nothing,” he says, turning away from her because staring at her too long is like staring into the sun.
So, does this mean he is living in a universe in which Jemma Simmons barged her way into his room, told him “enough, Fitz,” and then kissed the words right out of his mouth?
And if that’s all true, how is it possible that she’s still here, drawing on his body heat? Why didn’t she escape in the middle of the night when she had the chance?
“Fitz,” she says softly and rests a hand on his chest, right over his thudding heart. He should be embarrassed. He is embarrassed, but it’s far enough down on his list of emotions that it barely registers.
“Are you okay?” she asks, when he doesn’t respond. Tears catch at the corners of his eyes and now he’s properly mortified. He can’t answer her. What could he possibly say? He’s not brain damaged enough to believe this is anything but physical comfort for Jemma, still reeling from betrayals and deaths and her own trauma.
And it’s not that he minds, truly. He’d given her his last, most important breath—what is one night of making her body thrum with pleasure? But why couldn’t she have just left? Why did she have to stay and program his brain to think waking up next to her was normal?
She loves him, in a way, but this, the hands and the mouths and the aching of a want finally sated, this is not real. She’s not real. Maybe, after everything, he’s not either.
“Oh, Fitz, I’m so sorry,” she sighs, and her breath warms the side of his neck in a way that makes his whole world shatter.
“It’s okay,” he says, and he thinks these might be the first words he ever spoke, as if his sole reason for existing is to reassure her. “It’s okay, I underst-I uh, I get it.”
“No,” she says sadly, “I don’t think you do.”
She leans her head against his shoulder, burrowing into his side. He can feel her cool skin against his and his entire body tenses. So that part, at least, hadn’t been a desperate fiction. There’s no way his brain could conjure up precisely how she feels fitted against him with no barriers remaining.
“I’m sorry for…springing this all on you. I’m just so tired of wasting time. And I’m not…so great with expressing myself either, you know. I thought I could just show you.”
Her echo of his own words causes something to catch in his lungs and he struggles to remember that this time he has all the oxygen he needs.
Jemma slides her hand down from his heart until she can grasp his hand, and she holds on tight. “Talk to me. Please.”
“I can’t do this,” he says, finally turning to look at her. This act might be the most courageous he’s ever been. “I can’t pretend that…I mean, I’m happy to make you feel better. I’m happy that we’re friends again. But I can’t pretend that this is just…” He tries to pull his hand away, but she’s strong and won’t let him.
“Just what, Fitz?” and she’s looking at him like she truly doesn’t know and he can’t understand it.
“I’m in love with you,” he finally chokes, the words falling from his mouth like bullets and he hates that because his love for Jemma is not a warzone. Despite the hurt that clawed at his limbs when she returned, despite the lies between them, his love for her has only ever been a carefully tended, wildly overgrown garden. He loves all of it—the wildflowers sprouting up where no one has planted them, the crisp apples and inexplicable tropical fruits, sweet mango juice trailing down his chin, the weeds that refuse to be killed, the roses he yearns to touch without cutting himself to pieces.