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.
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.