[ trigger warning for the whole thread: self-harm, disability struggles, etc. general s2 stuff. not that anyone but us should be reading this but in case someone clicks through from my thread track. hi stranger! ]
[ Nobody ever mentions Ward. They dance around his name like they do everything, in between the long, concerned glances and the treating him like a child. Fitz is the one who brings him up. The reactions are characteristically avoidant, and in the end it's Coulson who finally comes clean, says Ward's close. Coulson's the one who agrees to let Fitz speak to him. Skye's furious; May isn't happy either, in her stoic way, but they aren't the ones in charge.
Simmons is the only one who gets it. She doesn't agree, not even close, but she understands. She's with him up until the door to Ward's cell, but she doesn't go any farther; just gives his shoulder a squeeze and meets his eyes, says she'll be right outside.
That's fine. This is something he needs to do on his own, anyway. He still hesitates when the door closes behind him, looking back towards it, distracted, and there's a heavy pause before he even turns his focus to the other side of the room. The sight that greets him isn't right. There's nothing familiar about this Grant Ward: seated on the cot, head bowed, face unshaven, looking almost slovenly beneath the ill-fitting prison garb.
Fitz hesitates another second, waits for the image to click. Waits for words to come to him, something meaningful and real. Possibly something cruel. ]
[ ward hadn't really been surprised to see skye, when she'd come. he'd been hoping for it, planning for it, knowing the more uncooperative he was the more likely they'd be to send her when it was something they really needed. she's his weakness, but he doesn't mind having it used for hydra intel. not when it means he gets to see her, talk to her. ]
[ fitz, he isn't expecting. ]
Can't say the same.
[ as far as he was aware, fitz was in a coma. that's something he thinks about a lot — there's a lot of things he regrets, but choosing to eject simmons and fitz isn't one of them, and yet it's heavy in him. he hears them pleading with him sometimes, in dreams. ]
[ he pulls himself upright. he's unshaven because they won't let him have a razor, not after the stunt he pulled with the papercuts. ]
[ Okay. That earns a clipped, amused exhale of breath and the twitch of a smile at one corner of his mouth, but he doesn't get so far as sharing the joke. Fitz glances back to the door again, like he's waiting for some kind of cue. When his gaze settles on Ward's soon after it's steady, unblinking, though it's betrayed by the constant movement of his left hand as he rubs his thumb against his forefinger, fidgeting and uneasy.
He stills it a moment later by tightening his hand into a fist, but the anxious energy doesn't stop. He licks his lips, instead, then swallows, like someone working their way through a tangle of nerves before giving a speech. ]
You look terrible with a— [ And then he loses the word. It prompts the first real flash of anger, a hesitant flicker of it behind his otherwise guarded expression. He's gotten used to asking Simmons for help. He still hates it, more and more each time, and the idea of asking Ward strikes a nerve that's far more raw.
So he doesn't. He drops the sentence, gaze dropping to the floor at the same time, like he's intentionally changing tack. It's just a dumb observation, anyway, not worth finishing. When he lifts his gaze again, the walls are more intact than they'd been when he entered the room. ]
You're not, though. Okay.
[ Another observation, no trace of concern. You look like shit. You're a prisoner. You're a liar and a murderer. Take your pick. ]
[ the mission's straightforward: follow up on an unlikely lead, no hostiles. coulson still sends ward with fitz, just to be safe, and maybe that's the first sign that "straightforward" isn't really meant to be. their record for missions involving just the two of them isn't particularly great, between elaborate hub setups and getting trapped in giant freezers, but by comparison this one still ends up fairly tame.
it starts out fine, if slightly dull. it isn't until they've finished setting up that things start to go south. fitz's equipment begins to fizzle out like clockwork, but as far as he can tell it's a response to whatever anomaly they're here to study, not a threat; it's too irregular and inconsistent, like the power flickering out instead of an abrupt, alarming crash.
two of the drones are still functioning well enough to keep up the mission, even if communication with the team is becoming increasingly unreliable. he's standing outside of the tent and trying to get a signal now, irritation obvious in his expression as he holds his mobile up (using an actual mobile phone on a mission, how pedestrian). despite expecting no problems, they still erred towards stealth — one tent, three bags, the minimum. he draws the phone back down to fuss with a few of the settings, one hand on his hip as he does, not bothering to look at ward while he sorts through his bag a few feet off. ]
I hope you aren't expecting me to live off of those disgusting protein bars for three days. Odorless is just another way of saying flavorless, if you ask me.
[ technology is fitz's area of expertise and therefore tech problems are fitz's problem. ward's not that upset at being cut off from the team, appreciates isolation when he gets it — though of course agent grant ward is a stickler for checking in and therefore he has to play it a little more irritated than he really is, casting dark glances as he resorts their supplies for better access. ]
[ still. ward's movements are incrementally more relaxed out here, when the only person watching him is fitz. it's funny, to think he used to feel fitz was the most inscrutable and least swayed of the team. now that he's learned to pick up on fluctuations in that flat Scottish intonation, he's better at recognizing when fitz is waffling to himself because he's comfortable, or nervous, or when he genuinely wants feedback. he's learned that churliness doesn't mean dislike so much as withdrawal does. and they still haven't gone for pizza in any sense other than eating pizza on the bus with everyone else, ward giving it all time to settle, but ever since that kiss on their last mission it's like their gazes are thorny: the slightest brush and they catch and hold. ]
[ not that they're looking at each other right now. ward resists the urge to peg a protein bar at his head. ]
What, you prefer canned beans? S'mores?
[ ward rolls his eyes. ]
This isn't a camping trip. Our presence here needs to be completely under the radar.
Yeah, well, technically it is a camping trip, actually, seeing as we've got the tent and you're setting up camp. [ he's still fussing at his phone, expression taking on a look of more earnest concentration, verging on irritated.
the fact that the hardware's on the fritz is a problem for the mission, obviously, but it's also a problem in that it's affording him less of an easy excuse to keep busy, keep his eyes off of ward. they haven't spoken one-on-one since the last mission, and he's been fine with keeping it that way — chalking it up to near-death experiences, deliriousness brought on by extreme temperatures, whatever. talking about it means qualifying it, trying to figure out what exactly it means, and he's not entirely sure he's up to the task.
but things are different. despite the uncertainty of that one small detail, there's a strange sense of comfort that's settled in between them. ward's less intimidating in that all american, super agent sort of way, if more intimidating in the knowing exactly what it feels like to touch his bare skin sort of way. the latter's easy enough to ignore when they're surrounded by the rest of the team, back in the professional confines of the bus.
fitz finally glances over, catches himself watching ward's back as he digs through his pack for maybe a second longer than strictly necessary. ]
And I'd prefer being back on the bus. I don't see why we got stuck with sleeping in the woods while they get to go off and play dress up.
[ which is absolutely petty. he's well aware that he's not exactly the first choice for going undercover at a fancy party with the rest of them, though arguably ward would've been a better choice than may. not that camping with may sounds anything other than terrifying. before ward can point out exactly why that's a dumb complaint, he continues. ] We're going to have to move.
[ ward tunes back in to fitz' pointless griping in time to catch that, realizes why a second later. the reception. their camp is tactically in the best place possible, but that means nothing without communications. ]
Fine.
[ almost immediately he stops unpacking and starts repacking, before getting up to go take down the tent, glancing at fitz to see how much help he's going to get. his movements are fast and thorough: with the time it's taken them to get out here, they're going to have to move fast if they want the camp ready again before nightfall. ]
[ he has to fight the urge to pull away from the feel of ward's hand on his chin, and when he follows his lead the movement's more exact than gentle. the absence of the touch still feels odd. contact's a good thing when you're kissing someone, typically, but then again this isn't exactly that sort of kiss.
it's all off. familiar but wrong, just like ward. fitz had instigated the first kiss, too, with actions instead of words, pushed to the tipping point by circumstances. there's a strange echo of it here, just red lights instead of cold air. fitz should check his hand, see how the light's responding. he doesn't.
ward's holding back. the brush of his tongue over sensitive skin is just that, light and undemanding, so it isn't so much pushing back as just pushing when fitz steps forward, free hand reaching up to twist in ward's shirt and drag him deeper into the kiss. he wants clinical about as much as he wants gentle. it's just another outburst, anger looking for an outlet, but at least it's a chance to get the point across while still playing by the rules. ]
[ ward opens his eyes in the middle of the kiss, and looks at fitz all blurry up close, his eyes squeezed shut and his brow pinched like he's in pain. like this is just something he's got to get through. but then he's grabbing at ward and ward lets his eyes flutter closed again. his instinctual response to being pushed is to push back — it takes a lot to bring him to heel, no matter how much he likes it. this is no different, and the kiss turns savage, the hand that isn't tangled with fitz' sliding into his hair. the curls catch on his fingers, soft and lovely. ward clenches a desperate fistful and keeps kissing, hard enough now that someone's mouth is going to end up bruised. ]
[ he's also the one to pull back, because there's something shaky and uncertain in his chest, something that doesn't fit with everything he knows about himself. he wants to keep going, demand a familiar rhythm and slide his hand down, feel out fitz' body: it's been a long time. but he doesn't, just drags his mouth away and drops his hand from fitz' hair. ]
[ even as he watches the blue-green light gets more yellow, first shifting back to fully green and then continuing to rapidly fade back to a yellow-green. ward knows the color spectrum, knows soon it might go right back to red, and he doesn't know if it's going to tick back to non-access colors every time they stop kissing or if there's something they can do to change it personally. he's smart, but alien tech? not his area of expertise. ]
[ the frustration that builds up when ward's the one to pull back is different. insecure instead of angry, uncomfortably familiar. it's also embarrassing and not remotely what this is about, so fitz ignores it, tries not to look too breathless and refuses to look ward in the eye after he breaks the kiss.
his focus turns to his hand instead, the spectrum of colors that refuse to settle on green. ] It's not staying green. Why isn't it staying green.
[ not a question. not really talking to ward, either, more mumbled to himself while he considers it. constant intimacy isn't feasible — even aliens should know that much. he starts to pull on his hand, dragging it away from ward's, eyes on the light the entire time.
once the contact's entirely broken, the light doesn't go red. not completely, at least; it fades to a yellow-orange, then stops. ] Better. [ well. ] Not better, obviously, but it's... duration. Maybe.
The more intimate we are, the faster it increases.
[ ward notes, since when he takes fitz' hand again it gets yellower much slowly than the rapid rise through the spectrum kissing had got them. ]
But it has to be sustained.
[ he's thinking mostly about the way the body burns calories, how exercise can be slow for a long duration to slowly build up caloric loss or in faster bursts that fade rapidly if they're not sustained. he doesn't really think fitz would appreciate the analogy, though. ]
I'm going to touch your mouth.
[ he says, right before he does it, fingertips soft as they trace fitz' lower lip. he's studying the light, the increase in the rate of change: it's possible that this could work just as well as kissing, depending on how the nanites are processing the sensory input. ]
[ The statement sounds louder than it is, but that's only because the safe house is completely silent as they enter — it's isolated, too, off the back roads of an idyllic Italian town. Fitz ignores protocol entirely as he enters, doesn't bother listening to make sure the small house is as abandoned as it feels.
There are hardly three rooms between it, the main kitchen and a bedroom off to the side (and a bathroom hiding somewhere, presumably). He drags the duffel he's carrying off his shoulder and drops it on the bed with more force than is probably necessary, yanking the zip open to double check that the tech inside isn't damaged, a handful of hard drives and experimental models for some weapon or another.
The operation went quickly, if not smoothly. The man they'd stolen the tech from was hardly a saint, which made it easier; but now he was dead, and so were half the guards on his property. Fitz pauses abruptly in his inspections as he notices a streak of blood on the dark sleeve of his jacket, tracks it up his shoulder and touches a hand to the side of his neck. It comes away red — already drying, and not his, but he goes still anyway before abruptly pulling off his jacket, crumpling it up and throwing it into the far corner.
He turns on Ward, then, assuming he'll find him behind him, checking the windows, whatever. Protocol. ]
What's the point in stealing our tech if they're just going to keep using real bullets.
[ They've probably already turned ICERs into something lethal, as well, so it's likely a moot point. ]
[ ward's already done the sweep, fast and thorough. the safe house is small and blank, easy to check over, and he comes back into the room just as fitz is tossing away his jacket in disgust. ]
[ he smacks a jammer onto the wooden frame of the window, where it sticks. it might have been shield's too, been fitz's: he doesn't know. it's from his own personal collection, because if the place is bugged then they're hydra's, but he passes it off as protocol. if nothing else he can always say he didn't want fitz having network access to the outside world. ]
They saw us.
[ he says simply. ]
It had to be a ghost job.
[ he doesn't point out that coulson's team were maybe the only people in the entire world not using real bullets. he doesn't say he's fine with it, that killing doesn't touch him anymore. he only has two weaknesses and he won't let either of them crack open any more. ]
Here.
[ he's got much, much more blood on him, spattered over his gear, but he dampened a flannel in the bathroom and holds it out to fitz now. maybe the cold will help with the way he looks like he's on the verge of a panic attack, all screwed tight and pale. ward doesn't know what else to do for him. he doesn't have an instruction manual, just a deep visceral need not to lose any more of his team. ]
lmao i keep going back and forth with caps what have you done to me
[ he notices the jammer in his peripheral, recognizable only because the tech's familiar. it makes him wonder whether ward's trying to keep them out or keep him in; but he doesn't ask, and there's no real tell that he's even realized it's there.
ward's answer makes it seem so simple. fitz looks at him with the intent of arguing, but he's interrupted by the offer of the damp cloth, and his gaze catches on the blood splattered across ward's clothes as he accepts it. it's difficult to meet his eyes after that.
despite the temporary silence, his downcast gaze and brusque movements do plenty to voice discontent. there's a short hesitation before he presses the cloth to the side of his face, but when he realizes his hands are shaking he tries to make quick, deliberate work of it, drags it over the edge of his jaw and down his neck in a short sweep. it does more to smear the half-dried blood than clear it. ]
How long have we got to stay here?
[ the quiet words have a sharp edge of vitriol, making it obvious he's not just worked up about the extraction plans. he'd rather ask when this ends, when they drop cover and figure out where skye is, find the rest of the team. whether ward's cover is really a cover at all. instead he thinks of the jammer, and there's enough uncertainty there to keep him from laying it out clearly. ]
[ the 0-8-4 out in the baltic countryside is, it turns out, a real live audrey two. some kind of weaponized alien plant designed to grow incredibly big and then massively propagate. except when ward shoots it — with his real bullets, because it's a goddamn plant and he's here to play hero, not for photographs or samples or whatever shield is after — it explodes, which under the circumstances, isn't great. ]
[ ward lifts one foot, the stringy green gunk clinging between his shoes and the ground. but it's only a below the knee splash. the real problem is the dissemination of sparkling unfertilized pollen: ward must have hit one of the developing spore pods. it clouds thick in the air and makes him cough even though it's practically invisible, just a haze that is almost invisible on the skin. ]
[ invisible, but dangerous. there is no scenario where being coated in a fine silament of any alien substance turns out well. ]
So, just how poisonous is this stuff?
[ ward asks, attempting to wipe off his arm with his hand to no avail. talking to fitz, of course, far from help and equally covered. the last time ward saw him was in space, fitz heading to have a shower that ward really could have done with here. now they're on earth, and despite the intel and connections that got him here, he doesn't have the equipment necessary to do any decontamination. ]
[ shield being in shambles means the team gets split up far more often than they used to, when it's deemed reasonably safe — doing simple recon on an 0-8-4 without engaging is, theoretically, meant to be in the reasonably safe category.
then ward shows up. to his credit, "shoot it" was basically fitz's professional solution to dealing with the fully grown plant; it's the fact that he nicks one of the spores that's the problem. ]
Very, very poisonous.
[ it's nearly a yell, all anger instead of panic; but fitz's face is pale, same as when he'd shouted at ward for playing it fast and loose around dangerous components on their first mission out.
he should call it in. get back-up, a professional team in to clear it out — but the plant's isolated, at least, and the spores have a limited enough shelf life so long as they haven't settled on a host. it probably looks like he's frozen up for a moment as he struggles with the decision of calling in an emergency or not, hands raking through his hair in an agitated gesture while he weighs it.
then he lets out a frustrated noise and unlatches the metallic trunk of gear he'd just finished packing up, dropping to his knees in front of it to pick through the fragile contents. ]
Get out of your clothes.
[ said as irritably as he can possibly make it, just to make it clear this is all business and no pleasure. ]
writes ward undressing in literally every thread we do
[ it's pointed to near cruelty, but then, ward isn't in a great mood. maybe if shield would just work with him, fitz wouldn't be stuck doing dangerous 0-8-4 recon missions when he shouldn't be in the field, especially not alone. he's sick of encountering him on his own, like the bus has just left him behind now that he's not the right kind of useful. also, he's covered in crap that might kill him and getting yelled at. ]
[ still, despite the bitchiness, he obeys. what else can he do? he undresses fast — not careless, but not taking the time he normally would, to remove his inventory and keep everything neat and organized. his chest is flushed when he pulls off his bullet proof armor, skin already reacting to the pollen, leaving him hot under the collar and his body blushing in an attempt to cool itself. it makes himself look more embarrassed than he actually is about stripping to his briefs. ]
[ It'd be less embarrassing if he'd broken his arm doing something amazing. Falling wasn't particularly amazing, even if he had the excuse of a mission and slightly treacherous terrain, and Jemma had fawned over him all the same, but — still, incredibly embarrassing.
And hugely inconvenient, now that it's been an entire week and Fitz still hasn't quite mastered the art of using his left arm to optimal effect in the shower. The shower on the Bus is reasonably open plan, but it's still cramped — or maybe he's just impressively uncoordinated.
His elbow catches one of the small shelves, sending a bottle of shampoo crashing to the floor of the shower with an echoing thud; it hits his foot, of course, and the instinctive flinch results in him hitting his broken arm against the wall, which is absolutely not a turn on and also really, really painful. ]
Fuck—
[ That was loud. He freezes, tries to listen through the drumming of the water to make sure there was nobody around to hear. ]
[ Except then Ward opens the bathroom door all of five seconds later. ]
Fitz?
[ He doesn't walk in — he has better boundaries than that, especially when they're on the Bus, but he checks through the steam-fogged glass. ]
Okay in there?
[ Because while he doesn't make a point of listening in on other people's showers, he knows Fitz has been injured, and that curse sounded like it was pained and not — anything else.
Though, looking at the outline of him, maybe he was wrong. ]
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POST 2x1
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Simmons is the only one who gets it. She doesn't agree, not even close, but she understands. She's with him up until the door to Ward's cell, but she doesn't go any farther; just gives his shoulder a squeeze and meets his eyes, says she'll be right outside.
That's fine. This is something he needs to do on his own, anyway. He still hesitates when the door closes behind him, looking back towards it, distracted, and there's a heavy pause before he even turns his focus to the other side of the room. The sight that greets him isn't right. There's nothing familiar about this Grant Ward: seated on the cot, head bowed, face unshaven, looking almost slovenly beneath the ill-fitting prison garb.
Fitz hesitates another second, waits for the image to click. Waits for words to come to him, something meaningful and real. Possibly something cruel. ]
I knew they were keeping you here.
[ Instead it's that, short and a bit defensive. ]
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[ fitz, he isn't expecting. ]
Can't say the same.
[ as far as he was aware, fitz was in a coma. that's something he thinks about a lot — there's a lot of things he regrets, but choosing to eject simmons and fitz isn't one of them, and yet it's heavy in him. he hears them pleading with him sometimes, in dreams. ]
[ he pulls himself upright. he's unshaven because they won't let him have a razor, not after the stunt he pulled with the papercuts. ]
I'm glad you're okay.
oh my god you used the gifs scREAMS
He stills it a moment later by tightening his hand into a fist, but the anxious energy doesn't stop. He licks his lips, instead, then swallows, like someone working their way through a tangle of nerves before giving a speech. ]
You look terrible with a— [ And then he loses the word. It prompts the first real flash of anger, a hesitant flicker of it behind his otherwise guarded expression. He's gotten used to asking Simmons for help. He still hates it, more and more each time, and the idea of asking Ward strikes a nerve that's far more raw.
So he doesn't. He drops the sentence, gaze dropping to the floor at the same time, like he's intentionally changing tack. It's just a dumb observation, anyway, not worth finishing. When he lifts his gaze again, the walls are more intact than they'd been when he entered the room. ]
You're not, though. Okay.
[ Another observation, no trace of concern. You look like shit. You're a prisoner. You're a liar and a murderer. Take your pick. ]
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A/B/O
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all i can think of is that "artifact makes person think they are a dog" trope i hate you ]
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CAMPING!!!!!!
it starts out fine, if slightly dull. it isn't until they've finished setting up that things start to go south. fitz's equipment begins to fizzle out like clockwork, but as far as he can tell it's a response to whatever anomaly they're here to study, not a threat; it's too irregular and inconsistent, like the power flickering out instead of an abrupt, alarming crash.
two of the drones are still functioning well enough to keep up the mission, even if communication with the team is becoming increasingly unreliable. he's standing outside of the tent and trying to get a signal now, irritation obvious in his expression as he holds his mobile up (using an actual mobile phone on a mission, how pedestrian). despite expecting no problems, they still erred towards stealth — one tent, three bags, the minimum. he draws the phone back down to fuss with a few of the settings, one hand on his hip as he does, not bothering to look at ward while he sorts through his bag a few feet off. ]
I hope you aren't expecting me to live off of those disgusting protein bars for three days. Odorless is just another way of saying flavorless, if you ask me.
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[ still. ward's movements are incrementally more relaxed out here, when the only person watching him is fitz. it's funny, to think he used to feel fitz was the most inscrutable and least swayed of the team. now that he's learned to pick up on fluctuations in that flat Scottish intonation, he's better at recognizing when fitz is waffling to himself because he's comfortable, or nervous, or when he genuinely wants feedback. he's learned that churliness doesn't mean dislike so much as withdrawal does. and they still haven't gone for pizza in any sense other than eating pizza on the bus with everyone else, ward giving it all time to settle, but ever since that kiss on their last mission it's like their gazes are thorny: the slightest brush and they catch and hold. ]
[ not that they're looking at each other right now. ward resists the urge to peg a protein bar at his head. ]
What, you prefer canned beans? S'mores?
[ ward rolls his eyes. ]
This isn't a camping trip. Our presence here needs to be completely under the radar.
[ as if the radar would even be working. ]
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the fact that the hardware's on the fritz is a problem for the mission, obviously, but it's also a problem in that it's affording him less of an easy excuse to keep busy, keep his eyes off of ward. they haven't spoken one-on-one since the last mission, and he's been fine with keeping it that way — chalking it up to near-death experiences, deliriousness brought on by extreme temperatures, whatever. talking about it means qualifying it, trying to figure out what exactly it means, and he's not entirely sure he's up to the task.
but things are different. despite the uncertainty of that one small detail, there's a strange sense of comfort that's settled in between them. ward's less intimidating in that all american, super agent sort of way, if more intimidating in the knowing exactly what it feels like to touch his bare skin sort of way. the latter's easy enough to ignore when they're surrounded by the rest of the team, back in the professional confines of the bus.
fitz finally glances over, catches himself watching ward's back as he digs through his pack for maybe a second longer than strictly necessary. ]
And I'd prefer being back on the bus. I don't see why we got stuck with sleeping in the woods while they get to go off and play dress up.
[ which is absolutely petty. he's well aware that he's not exactly the first choice for going undercover at a fancy party with the rest of them, though arguably ward would've been a better choice than may. not that camping with may sounds anything other than terrifying. before ward can point out exactly why that's a dumb complaint, he continues. ] We're going to have to move.
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[ ward tunes back in to fitz' pointless griping in time to catch that, realizes why a second later. the reception. their camp is tactically in the best place possible, but that means nothing without communications. ]
Fine.
[ almost immediately he stops unpacking and starts repacking, before getting up to go take down the tent, glancing at fitz to see how much help he's going to get. his movements are fast and thorough: with the time it's taken them to get out here, they're going to have to move fast if they want the camp ready again before nightfall. ]
You're in charge of picking the site this time.
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here have grandpa sweater default
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'because i'm not a sociopath' chokes on coffee
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smut gold stars all around
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"fake married"................
[ he has to fight the urge to pull away from the feel of ward's hand on his chin, and when he follows his lead the movement's more exact than gentle. the absence of the touch still feels odd. contact's a good thing when you're kissing someone, typically, but then again this isn't exactly that sort of kiss.
it's all off. familiar but wrong, just like ward. fitz had instigated the first kiss, too, with actions instead of words, pushed to the tipping point by circumstances. there's a strange echo of it here, just red lights instead of cold air. fitz should check his hand, see how the light's responding. he doesn't.
ward's holding back. the brush of his tongue over sensitive skin is just that, light and undemanding, so it isn't so much pushing back as just pushing when fitz steps forward, free hand reaching up to twist in ward's shirt and drag him deeper into the kiss. he wants clinical about as much as he wants gentle. it's just another outburst, anger looking for an outlet, but at least it's a chance to get the point across while still playing by the rules. ]
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[ he's also the one to pull back, because there's something shaky and uncertain in his chest, something that doesn't fit with everything he knows about himself. he wants to keep going, demand a familiar rhythm and slide his hand down, feel out fitz' body: it's been a long time. but he doesn't, just drags his mouth away and drops his hand from fitz' hair. ]
[ even as he watches the blue-green light gets more yellow, first shifting back to fully green and then continuing to rapidly fade back to a yellow-green. ward knows the color spectrum, knows soon it might go right back to red, and he doesn't know if it's going to tick back to non-access colors every time they stop kissing or if there's something they can do to change it personally. he's smart, but alien tech? not his area of expertise. ]
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his focus turns to his hand instead, the spectrum of colors that refuse to settle on green. ] It's not staying green. Why isn't it staying green.
[ not a question. not really talking to ward, either, more mumbled to himself while he considers it. constant intimacy isn't feasible — even aliens should know that much. he starts to pull on his hand, dragging it away from ward's, eyes on the light the entire time.
once the contact's entirely broken, the light doesn't go red. not completely, at least; it fades to a yellow-orange, then stops. ] Better. [ well. ] Not better, obviously, but it's... duration. Maybe.
[ please let it be quantity and not quality. ]
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[ ward notes, since when he takes fitz' hand again it gets yellower much slowly than the rapid rise through the spectrum kissing had got them. ]
But it has to be sustained.
[ he's thinking mostly about the way the body burns calories, how exercise can be slow for a long duration to slowly build up caloric loss or in faster bursts that fade rapidly if they're not sustained. he doesn't really think fitz would appreciate the analogy, though. ]
I'm going to touch your mouth.
[ he says, right before he does it, fingertips soft as they trace fitz' lower lip. he's studying the light, the increase in the rate of change: it's possible that this could work just as well as kissing, depending on how the nanites are processing the sensory input. ]
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jettison fitzsimmons
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moo
MOO WITH ME
hydra au.
[ The statement sounds louder than it is, but that's only because the safe house is completely silent as they enter — it's isolated, too, off the back roads of an idyllic Italian town. Fitz ignores protocol entirely as he enters, doesn't bother listening to make sure the small house is as abandoned as it feels.
There are hardly three rooms between it, the main kitchen and a bedroom off to the side (and a bathroom hiding somewhere, presumably). He drags the duffel he's carrying off his shoulder and drops it on the bed with more force than is probably necessary, yanking the zip open to double check that the tech inside isn't damaged, a handful of hard drives and experimental models for some weapon or another.
The operation went quickly, if not smoothly. The man they'd stolen the tech from was hardly a saint, which made it easier; but now he was dead, and so were half the guards on his property. Fitz pauses abruptly in his inspections as he notices a streak of blood on the dark sleeve of his jacket, tracks it up his shoulder and touches a hand to the side of his neck. It comes away red — already drying, and not his, but he goes still anyway before abruptly pulling off his jacket, crumpling it up and throwing it into the far corner.
He turns on Ward, then, assuming he'll find him behind him, checking the windows, whatever. Protocol. ]
What's the point in stealing our tech if they're just going to keep using real bullets.
[ They've probably already turned ICERs into something lethal, as well, so it's likely a moot point. ]
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[ he smacks a jammer onto the wooden frame of the window, where it sticks. it might have been shield's too, been fitz's: he doesn't know. it's from his own personal collection, because if the place is bugged then they're hydra's, but he passes it off as protocol. if nothing else he can always say he didn't want fitz having network access to the outside world. ]
They saw us.
[ he says simply. ]
It had to be a ghost job.
[ he doesn't point out that coulson's team were maybe the only people in the entire world not using real bullets. he doesn't say he's fine with it, that killing doesn't touch him anymore. he only has two weaknesses and he won't let either of them crack open any more. ]
Here.
[ he's got much, much more blood on him, spattered over his gear, but he dampened a flannel in the bathroom and holds it out to fitz now. maybe the cold will help with the way he looks like he's on the verge of a panic attack, all screwed tight and pale. ward doesn't know what else to do for him. he doesn't have an instruction manual, just a deep visceral need not to lose any more of his team. ]
lmao i keep going back and forth with caps what have you done to me
ward's answer makes it seem so simple. fitz looks at him with the intent of arguing, but he's interrupted by the offer of the damp cloth, and his gaze catches on the blood splattered across ward's clothes as he accepts it. it's difficult to meet his eyes after that.
despite the temporary silence, his downcast gaze and brusque movements do plenty to voice discontent. there's a short hesitation before he presses the cloth to the side of his face, but when he realizes his hands are shaking he tries to make quick, deliberate work of it, drags it over the edge of his jaw and down his neck in a short sweep. it does more to smear the half-dried blood than clear it. ]
How long have we got to stay here?
[ the quiet words have a sharp edge of vitriol, making it obvious he's not just worked up about the extraction plans. he'd rather ask when this ends, when they drop cover and figure out where skye is, find the rest of the team. whether ward's cover is really a cover at all. instead he thinks of the jammer, and there's enough uncertainty there to keep him from laying it out clearly. ]
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i'm just all about showers in these threads what can i say ey
slips u a big knot
sdfklk
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falling asleep write terrible tag. lmk if sth doesn't make sense
[ ward lifts one foot, the stringy green gunk clinging between his shoes and the ground. but it's only a below the knee splash. the real problem is the dissemination of sparkling unfertilized pollen: ward must have hit one of the developing spore pods. it clouds thick in the air and makes him cough even though it's practically invisible, just a haze that is almost invisible on the skin. ]
[ invisible, but dangerous. there is no scenario where being coated in a fine silament of any alien substance turns out well. ]
So, just how poisonous is this stuff?
[ ward asks, attempting to wipe off his arm with his hand to no avail. talking to fitz, of course, far from help and equally covered. the last time ward saw him was in space, fitz heading to have a shower that ward really could have done with here. now they're on earth, and despite the intel and connections that got him here, he doesn't have the equipment necessary to do any decontamination. ]
affectionately dubs this the stark trek verse
then ward shows up. to his credit, "shoot it" was basically fitz's professional solution to dealing with the fully grown plant; it's the fact that he nicks one of the spores that's the problem. ]
Very, very poisonous.
[ it's nearly a yell, all anger instead of panic; but fitz's face is pale, same as when he'd shouted at ward for playing it fast and loose around dangerous components on their first mission out.
he should call it in. get back-up, a professional team in to clear it out — but the plant's isolated, at least, and the spores have a limited enough shelf life so long as they haven't settled on a host. it probably looks like he's frozen up for a moment as he struggles with the decision of calling in an emergency or not, hands raking through his hair in an agitated gesture while he weighs it.
then he lets out a frustrated noise and unlatches the metallic trunk of gear he'd just finished packing up, dropping to his knees in front of it to pick through the fragile contents. ]
Get out of your clothes.
[ said as irritably as he can possibly make it, just to make it clear this is all business and no pleasure. ]
writes ward undressing in literally every thread we do
[ it's pointed to near cruelty, but then, ward isn't in a great mood. maybe if shield would just work with him, fitz wouldn't be stuck doing dangerous 0-8-4 recon missions when he shouldn't be in the field, especially not alone. he's sick of encountering him on his own, like the bus has just left him behind now that he's not the right kind of useful. also, he's covered in crap that might kill him and getting yelled at. ]
[ still, despite the bitchiness, he obeys. what else can he do? he undresses fast — not careless, but not taking the time he normally would, to remove his inventory and keep everything neat and organized. his chest is flushed when he pulls off his bullet proof armor, skin already reacting to the pollen, leaving him hot under the collar and his body blushing in an attempt to cool itself. it makes himself look more embarrassed than he actually is about stripping to his briefs. ]
just as planned. also i'm ????? ?? ok
im ??? too it's ok we'll just make things up what could go wrong
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bro
And hugely inconvenient, now that it's been an entire week and Fitz still hasn't quite mastered the art of using his left arm to optimal effect in the shower. The shower on the Bus is reasonably open plan, but it's still cramped — or maybe he's just impressively uncoordinated.
His elbow catches one of the small shelves, sending a bottle of shampoo crashing to the floor of the shower with an echoing thud; it hits his foot, of course, and the instinctive flinch results in him hitting his broken arm against the wall, which is absolutely not a turn on and also really, really painful. ]
Fuck—
[ That was loud. He freezes, tries to listen through the drumming of the water to make sure there was nobody around to hear. ]
broooo
Fitz?
[ He doesn't walk in — he has better boundaries than that, especially when they're on the Bus, but he checks through the steam-fogged glass. ]
Okay in there?
[ Because while he doesn't make a point of listening in on other people's showers, he knows Fitz has been injured, and that curse sounded like it was pained and not — anything else.
Though, looking at the outline of him, maybe he was wrong. ]
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opens tab, sees prompt picture, laughs
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