A G-rated hurt/comfort one-shot set post-framework.
Because Fitz and Simmons need to talk about it. And this time they actually do. So much has happened, but it can’t change one simple fact: their love. And they can’t let go of that, or they won’t have anything.
IDK… we never see Fitzsimmons talk this much. But sometimes I wish we did.
As his swirling, foggy consciousness awakens, he feels a tingle running through his heavy, aching limbs. Fitz faintly hears his name being called, but all that registers is the way the voice sounds. He doesn’t think about his name or her name, just way it feels hearing that voice. It feels like coming home.
The tightness across his chest loosens and he can breath again, except that takes too much thought. Instead he slumps forward like a sack of potatoes, and feels her arms catching him and holding him. While she gasps and quivers quietly beneath him, he clings to her instinctively like a sleeping child hugs a teddy bear.
At her repeated pleas and prompts, he leans on her shoulder and stumbles forward.
Getting on the plane is a blur. But when he wakes up again, this time in a bed, she is still there, her fingers entwined with his. She’s staring at their clasped hands when his eyes open.
His voice is raspy when he tries to speak, “J-Jem-”
“Fitz?” She grabs a glass of water and helps him drink, then resumes holding his hand. “Hey… I’m here.”
Her name is his prayer: let this be real. He squeezes her hand, hoping to be certain of her presence. Let her be real, here, and safe: that’s all he needs to know. He wishes he could know that one thing and forget everything else.
White regiments, black regiments, regulars and Rough Riders, representing the young manhood of North and South, fought soldier to soldier, unmindful of race or color, unmindful of whether commanded by ex-Confederate or not, and mindful only of their common duty as Americans.
Ever since Ghost Rider had purged the Darkhold’s influence, and possibly consciousness, from the ship, there had been no light and no gravity. Holden and Mak had rigged up a heat source from AIDA’s engines–the mechanics of the ship still worked, but with no interface and no control, she was basically on the barest of life supports. Somehow, somehow Mace was still alive in the medical area, a weak heartbeat thumping out what might be its last at every go. Dae-zi and Will were trying to essentially hardwire the basic computer coding to get basic systems up, but Fitz?
Fitz was in the dark. His planet never lost the light; if not for their sun, then for their twin moons shining down on them. Perpetual twilight was as dark as it got, unless there were violent storms about. So to ˈKl̪ˠas̪əxuegians, the darkness meant danger. It meant death. And right now, there was an awful lot of it, as he sat as curled up as he could, having strapped himself to the wall so he wouldn’t float around.
He was trying not to think of his dead offspring, the sac that had never grown to maturity due to AIDA’s genetic meddling, the wisps of protective fiber that remained, floating next to him in the dark. Trying not to think about that digital nightmare she’d cooked up for the crew while forcing herself into an alternate past. Trying not to think about how the emergency bulkheads wouldn’t shut if they had a hull breach, and how here, even in the center of the ship, he wasn’t safe anymore. Trying not to take up their precious air too much by freaking out.
Someone was there. He couldn’t see them, but he felt the little changes in air movement as they came closer, and he tried not to be afraid, knowing that literally everyone else had better dark-vision than he did, eyes scanning the dark for a face he knew he couldn’t see.