cries-about-it-forever

It’s April 1st.  I did not plan on finishing this today but I did.  There’s an obvious line about hitsuzen here for you to make, but I can’t because I’m busy caring too much about CLAMP ;…;  Put me out of my misery.  Or if you’re going to be at ECCC next weekend, come by tables C6-7 and come cry with me.  

Which Doumeki is this???  UP TO YOU.  This is obv. long-term Watanuki since he’s all fabulous and smoking.

(for those playing along at home, this is also my March Drawterry challenge, using the words glow, eyeball, cherry blossoms.)

my shop~~~

agent-85  asked:

Rani! I have a fic prompt, if you don't mind? Jemma asking Fitz: "Are you still mine?"

I never mind for youuuu! :) here’s a healthy dose of angst, haha. just what the doctor ordered? *cries about Fitzsimmons forever*

Up on AO3! Beginning below:

———-

Fitz thinks of all the evenings he longed for her, ashamed of both his lust and his love. He can still feel the ache he buried so deeply within himself it became part of his genetic makeup. He remembers lying on his bed in a cramped bunk, the quiet whir of the plane bleaching to white noise, thinking: I love you and I want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me. He remembers the traitorous prayer, washing over him each night as he faded into sleep, when he was at his most vulnerable and could no longer fight it: But please, please love me back.

He thinks of this and wonders how he could have been so naïve. He’d had so little experience of the world; he didn’t know it was possible to share a bed with someone you loved with your whole heart and still feel empty and alone. He didn’t know it was possible to receive everything you’d ever wished for, only to watch yourself slowly tear it all to shreds.

Maybe things would be different if they weren’t in some mysterious space prison. Maybe on Earth there could be therapy and indefinite leave to a cottage in Perthshire. He imagines it, sometimes, when he feels he deserves the extra punishment. Jemma would smile—like she used to, not this small brittle expression she gives him now, as if he’ll shatter at any moment.

Here they’ve all been separated. He hears murmurings from the guards occasionally, a whispered mention of “Coulson” or a sneering, contemptuous “Little Ms. Quake.” A part of him can’t wait until they’re free and Daisy makes their captors pay, but mostly he keeps his head down and hands Jemma the tools she needs.

As far as he can tell, the menial labor they do only serves to keep this ship/station/rock thing in space. Still, he can’t help the tremors that run through him at the idea that his work, however inconsequential, could be supporting something horrible and he has no idea. He had refused, at first, which landed him in solitary confinement with no food or water until Jemma had been allowed in his cell to beg.

“We’re just keeping ourselves alive,” she’d said. “I can’t find any evidence that what we’re doing in the lab is hurting anyone.”

At his silence she had grabbed his hand. “I promise, and if I’m wrong it’ll be my burden to bear.”

And when he still didn’t respond, she had forced him to look at her and she had cried. “You can’t do this to me,” she said. “You can’t kill yourself like this.”

So now his days follow a steady, unvarying rhythm he’s never before experienced: a shrill, station-wide alarm in the morning, a quick shower, toast and butter with Jemma and a ridiculous number of guards, mindless work in the lab, a thirty-minute lunch break, rotations to fix a keyboard or the wiring in a door panel, dinner with Jemma and a second group of guards, and then lights out in their room.

He has the side of the bed near the wall, and every night he curls as far away from her as he can manage. During the day, they work together seamlessly. Sometimes they even joke, and sometimes he looks at her and for half a second believes they’re back home in their lab, happy and in love, before everything fell apart.

But at night their bodies are too close and he’s never felt more alone. She cries when she thinks he’s asleep, silently, her body barely moving.

He wants to extend a hand and touch her. He wants to hold her and tell her everything will be okay. But he would be lying, and at any rate, he’s lost the right. So he listens to her cry and bites down on his knuckles, hard, to keep himself from reaching for her. Eventually, her shaking subsides into the tortured breathing of her nightmares, and he lets sleep force him under as well.

Every morning he wakes before her to find himself tangled up in her limbs, as if he’s drowning and she’s his life raft, and he hates himself for it.