A/N: I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Grant "I'm Everyone's Type" Ward had been compromised.
Fitz hunched over the circular sander, smoothing out the final grooves in the Asgardian neckpiece. The whine of the machine, muffled through the foam in his ear, danced with the vibration under his gloves and the one thought pinging around his skull: Serves him right.
Going in like he did, no earplugs, no skin protection, no defense whatsoever against the powers Lady Sif had mentioned. Who did he think he was, Superman? Pffffft. Ward was probably trying to show off after the way May and Lady Sif had smirked over the "inherent weakness" of men. Such malarkey. Regardless, someone should have known it was a bad idea to send a troop of men in with no backup besides hope and luck.
If they'd only asked Fitz for his recommendation, he could've told them how to go about it. But all these warrior types ever wanted from him was firepower and the impossible. Lose the ounce, Fitz. Triple the stopping power, Fitz. Fix this magical alien collar, Fitz.
It's on you. Get it done. Don't ever tell me there's no way.
Coulson was probably to blame for this fiasco, if he was being honest. Their boss hadn't exactly been at his best lately. Ever since Skye was shot, Coulson had been cagey - even more secretive than a Level 8 operative normally had an excuse for. He'd forbidden Jemma from sending blood samples to the Hub, despite their growing desperation. Tangled up in bureaucracy, Simmons was becoming irritable and dismissive. And who d' you think pays for that? That's right. Good ol' punching bag best-friend Fitz.
His mouth squirmed into a childish frown as he tasted the unfairness of it all. Why, just that morning Simmons had scolded him for not getting enough GH-325 from the secret base. As if there were entire coolers of it lying around like Natty Light at a frat party. 'Well excuse me for not stickin' around long enough to get blown to pieces,' he'd explained reasonably, and with hardly any snark. But instead of apologizing, she'd huffed at him. Huffed!
It was no wonder, when she barely paid attention to him anymore. Not now that she'd gotten used to macho types hanging around, like Ward and Mike Peterson and that Agent Triplett who'd been so keen on her last week. Thank God Garrett had taken him back straightaway. The nerve, trying to chat Simmons up while her friend lay dying in front of them. It was only Jemma's sweet nature that had kept her from seeing what an opportunistic cad Trip was. Well, Fitz would just have to be skeptical enough for two.
He blew the last shavings off the collar. The acrid smell of solder and friction lingered in his nose as he mounted the stairs to Lady Sif's room. He'd fixed it. The challenge should have been a bear, given the countless variables presented by the density and molecular makeup of the otherworldly metal, but Fitz was just that good. Solid, dependable, work-horse Fitz.
Oh, he wasn't so oblivious as to think no one cared about his inventions. Ward had clapped him on the back when he'd bragged over the new ICERs, and May had taken a pistol - the highest compliment she could give. But the rest? Coulson set the bar so high that even Fitz's best didn't seem impressive anymore, Skye was busy recovering in the med pod, and Simmons...
Simmons spent her waking hours tending Skye and searching out the mysteries of the miracle drug. She was too distracted, too exhausted to see that Fitz needed his trusty sidekick. He hadn't quite vanquished his own guilt over Skye's shooting, and visiting her sickbed called it up, so most days he hid in the lab and waited. But with every missed meal and forgotten mug of tea, he felt Jemma slipping away like seaweed dragged under the tide.
They still kept their psychic link on occasion, though. He thought back to a moment that afternoon, when Coulson was explaining what had befallen Ward. 'The men Lorelei controls don't forget who they are, or what they know, she just… becomes the embodiment of all their desires.'
His eyes had met hers half a second later. Fitz could guess what they were both thinking: how silly it was for one person to embody another's every wish. The very concept was absurd. At any given time, Fitz probably wanted a sandwich, a spaceship, a monkey and a nap. To imagine one person in lieu of all those things was simply ridiculous. Yet somehow, it sounded… nice. And looking into Jemma's whiskey eyes, it almost made sense as well.
Fitz set the collar on the smooth blanket of the makeshift cot, watching it settle, surprised again by its heft. Lady Sif would be pleased. He'd never had a god owe him a favor before… maybe he could get Thor to record his outgoing message. That could be fun. "I am the god of thunder, defender of the nine realms. I may reside in Asgard, but worry not. I will return… your message. Beeeep."
He was so lost in his own mind, idly concerned with the shuck-shuck-shuck of his trainers on the steps down, that he barely registered the slim, pale hand on his shoulder. For a fraction of a heartbeat, he knew her. Simmons? But the redhead that invaded his nostrils and filled up the whites of his eyes wasn't Jemma at all.
"Greetings, flimsy male."
A/N: So I remember watching this episode and there were quite a few things that could have used some explanation. I just really think Fitz would be horrified by somebody violating his mind. Also, Fitzsimmons should have been pretty darn curious about the science, which we didn't see much in this show, beyond a couple of lame mentions of "science we don't completely understand" because, let's face it, it's probably magic.
Then as I started writing, Fitz's pity party (that was very nearly the title, y'all) popped out. In fairness, he has good reasons to be upset. Also, I hardly ever write Fitz's POV, so please let me know what you think.