Look who finally got around to posting a new story :P Yayyyyy me
This is an expansion of the drabble Blood Red from my collection, Finding You. You can read it there, though it's not necessary.
Based off the song A Rush of Blood to the Head by Coldplay, featured above for for your listening convenience :)
Hope you enjoy!
Their faces were stone, white marbled silence.
Gray tops matches the walls, thin material standing no chance against the ever present chill. It had long since seeped into their bones.
There are six of them. Human lab rats, minds gone. They stare blankly ahead, eyes cold steel.
The Doctor raises his pen to his lip, considering. His eyes are cold, frozen like the wasteland beyond the concrete walls. A small smile twitches at the corner of his lips.
His pen drops back to his clip board, swiping off names as he calls out to the guards stationed on either side of him.
"один,"
A gun shot.
"два,"
Another.
"три,"
The gun snaps in the silence.
She tenses, preparing for the jolt and the the silence.
"пять,"
The bullet finds its way to a forehead, bone snapping beneath the tissue.
Subject five is dead.
But she is still breathing.
The Doctor's lips curl up crudely. "Congratulations." He speaks cooly to the remains two subjects before him. "You are the victors."
Each nod in turn, stiff and silent in thanks.
"You leave at dawn," he snaps his folder shut, tucking it under his arm. "уволенный,"
She casts a glance to the sandy haired boy as they head to their cells. He can't be older than twenty five, the same as she.
"Tomorrow," she whispers, watching him go through the bars of her door as it clangs shut.
Tomorrow they find out who they become.
She's sixteen, wide brown eyes staring up at the university logo imprinted on the arrow pointing toward the office. Her hair is neatly curled, blouse pressed and smile wide.
Her fingers tighten instinctively around the page of paper in her hand. In a few minutes, she will officially be the youngest student on campus.
Hitching her book bag higher on her shoulder, she hurries her pace to the campus office. What she doesn't see is the boy also hurrying on his way, but this time in the opposite direction.
"Oof!"
She's sprawled on her back on the pavement, dazed. Gradually, she comes to realize that the bright blue she's staring up at isn't the sky, rather a pair of eyes. Bright, youthful blue eyes.
"'M sorry,"
She's stunned further for a spilt second from the accent, a thick Scottish brogue paired with a young voice. Too young for the average university student, at that.
"I swear I didn't mean for - shit, I'm sorry," he rubs, wincing, at a mop of unruly sandy curls. His palm is open to her, which she quickly accepts.
"It's - it's okay," she smiles shakily up at him. "I should have been looking where I was going, but first day and all that,"
His blue eyes light up with surprise. "Really? First day? But aren't y' a bit . . ." He trails off.
"Young?" She picks up for him, hope dimming. It was stupid of her to think he wouldn't consider her a freak, being only sixteen and entering such a prestigious university. "Yes, I know. Sixteen, actually. I'm sorry if -"
"No!" He jumped, hand landing for a fleeting second on her arm. "I'm sorry, nothing like that. It's just . . ." He scratched nervously at his ear, which she quickly came to determine was a nervous tic. "So am I,"
She allowed a prickle of excitement. "Really? Sixteen?"
"Yeah," he breathes, a soft, relieved look settling over his features. "I'm here for the science program, engineering division."
Her heart skips a beat, scientifically improbable as it may be. "So am I!" She burst, a wide smile blooming across her cheeks. "Not engineering, I mean. The science program - biochemistry."
His own lips crinkle up a bit further as he extends his palm to her. "Leo Fitz, engineering,"
She accepts his hand with a breathless excitement. "Jemma Simmons, biochem,"
Her cell door is pushed open at precisely six hundred hours, the creaking of rusted hinges echoing off the cold walls.
She stands lithely from her cot, the gray cotton blanket already folded and settled at the foot. Her slippers barely whisper as she strides to the door, arms straight at her sides.
The boy is across from her, clad in the same gray garb and slippers. His eyes dart to hers for a second before they're gone again. His posture is rigid, but it softens the slightest bit at their visual contact.
The Doctor enters the hallway where the six subjects were once housed. Now it is only she and the boy left.
He is carrying two manilla folders, each stamped with the strange red symbol. The icon always confuses her; it's everywhere, and yet it has no meaning to her.
The folder glides into her fingers, thick with information. She does not open it; she has not yet been commanded.
The Doctor gives a curt nod, turning and making his way out the door he entered from.
She steps back and waits for the guards to shut her cell, but they don't. Instead, they turn and exit much the same as their leader.
Curious, she steps out into the hallway. She pauses, one foot out and one in, and waits for the inevitable reprimand. When none comes, her head pokes out tentatively.
The boy is there, eyes wide, peeking slowly out of his cell. Their eyes clash, cerulean on whiskey, and she feels a strange feeling overtake her. She's seen him before, she knows she has, but still the memory flits out of her grasp before she can recall.
He's holding the envelope, so he must have the same mission as her. They must be partners . . . Or at least that's what she feels.
Her eyes shift to the right, than the left. His focus on her is intent. When no one appears to scold them, she flicks her chin in invitation before turning back to her own cot.
She seats herself with an acquired grace on the makeshift bed, ears twitching to pick up any sound. A smile quirks at her lips as, moments later, he enters tentatively.
His shoulders are squared, she notes absently. He sees her as a potential threat.
But then his eyes, ever so diligent, scan across her and her cell, and immediately the tension drops. They sit in silence for a moment, posture guarded yet pliant, before she breaks the spell. Quietly, she nods to the open space next to her.
He's cool for another moment, analyzing, before he glides to sit next to her. His thumbs drum a restless tune on his folder the moment he's seated, and she can't help but quirk a smile. It seems familiar, somehow. But all the same, the joyous rush it brings for an instant evaporates and her steely exterior is slipped back into place.
When he makes no further move, she flips open the front page of her file. She can feel his eyes flitting over the paper as quickly as she, taking in the information.
"Jemma," he whispers, reading her new alias from the file, and had it not been for her programming, she would have jolted at the first words she'd ever heard from him.
His voice is the slightest bit rough from disuse, but like his tapping fingers, it awakens a feeling within her.
"It fits you,"
She looks up at him, hair parting like a curtain, and in that moment, she decides he just may become her ally.
Her fingers flip open his own file as well, reading his name from the first page.
"Leopold," she tests out the words on her tongue, but somehow they don't feel right. It feels awkward and forced, and somehow the name doesn't seem to encompass all the new feelings he awakens in her.
His face screws up. "I don't like it,"
She allows a smile to slip over her face, reading quickly over the rest of the sheet. "Leo?" she offers, but he shakes his head.
"Fitz,"
He considers it for a moment, thinking it over. Finally he nods, turning the page. "Fitz."
Jemma allows herself another small smile at his mannerisms. "Jemma," she murmurs, repeating him and testing out her own name. "I like it,"
"So where are you from?" Jemma asks him, taking a quick peek at his features. He's nerdy, no doubt, as awkward as she in her newly pubertal body. But even she can't deny he has a charm to him, a cute mop of curls and those amazing eyes. And smart on top of that . . . Her usual type had some competition.
He grins boyishly at her, still en route to the office with her so she could turn in her forms. "Little outside of Glasgow. Scotland, I mean. You?"
"Sheffield. And I thought I placed your accent - not many of us out here, are there?"
Fitzs nose crinkled. "Unfortunately not. You'd be the first student I've met from across the pond."
She quirked a frown. "Oh well," she swallowed tightly, blurting out: "At least we have each other, right?"
Inwardly she cringed. After all, she had just met him. It wasn't as if being British automatically made them friends, let alone give them a reason to stick together.
He seemed as taken aback by her words as she was, but it was with an air of barely concealed excitement. "Yes, of course,"
"Friends?" She asked, much like her nine year old self to her neighborhood's stray cat once. Again, she silently curses herself for speaking so quickly.
He nodded eagerly before seeming to catch himself. "I, ahm, yeah . . . If you want to o' course."
Jemma bumped her shoulder with his, grinning brightly both on the inside and out. "I'd love to,"
Her hands are clasped firmly behind her back, posture rigid against the wind that whips her straight hair at its will. It stings, but she doesn't notice it. Doesn't feel it, doesn't pay it any mind.
Fitz - as the name they'd agreed on - stands beside her. He is as stiff as she beneath his heavy coat, hand still tightly clutching the folder with the lines they'd worked weeks to study.
Jemma can feel the weight of this moment weighing heavily on her shoulders. It's the one she's looked forward to for the months spent in an underground bunker, watching subjects like herself fail and be executed after their bodies - or minds - were left inadequate from an experiment. But she had survived, she and this boy next to her.
A smile flicks at the corner of her lips. "We made it, Fitz,"
He doesn't look at her, blue eyes remaining fixed on the speck of the oncoming plane in the distance. "We did,"
His voice still sends shivers down her spine, but she ignores it, blaming it on the icy landscape of Siberia around them. She doesn't know him, she never has up until a month ago. She's never seen his eyes shimmer like a child or his hands gesticulate excitedly.
She shuts down that part of her, focusing as the aircraft begins to shudder to the runway before them.
"Excited?" Jemma asks him, arms clutching her laptop and notebook close to her chest as they walk the brick paths toward their first class together. They were both surprised to find many of their classes coincided, though each of them had extra that focused closer on their majors.
He shrugged, kicking at a stray pebble. "A bit,"
Jemma frowned, nudging him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Fitz countered. "Just not looking forward to all this paperwork when I could be in the lab,"
Jemma glanced at his messenger sack, already laden down with notebooks and binders from his first class. She winced sympathetically.
"I know what you mean. But it can't be that bad, now can it?"
Fitz scoffed. "Easy for you to say. You love homework more than life itself,"
Her jaw dropped. "Why, we've just met a week ago! Our classes start today! For you to -" she stopped abruptly at the laughter threatening to burst from him. "You!" She exclaimed, swatting his arm.
Fitz jumped out of the way, making no effort to conceal his chuckles. Still laughing, he took off running across the campus with Jemma on his heels.
"Excited?" Jemma asked quietly, posture rigid in her seat on the jet. Despite the straps crisscrossing her chest, she still somehow managed to stay firmly upright.
Fitz - he was still busy getting used to the name - shrugged. He was silent for a moment, watching the blank wall across from their seats. "A bit," he admitted after a moment's silence.
She nodded, relaxing in her seat slightly and allowing the constant thrum of the engines to wash over her. It melodic, almost. A comfort somehow after the only sounds echoing in her cell being the screams of different subjects and the thud of the guard's boots.
Her fingers danced over the pistol holster strapped tightly to her thigh. She knew how to aim, obviously. Their employers were nothing if not thorough. But the feeling of freedom to have it, without the fear of a guard behind her with a much quicker trigger finger . . . It was liberating, to say the least. It gave her a surge of power like oxygen to her veins.
Warning herself, she tamped down the urge. This was against her training, so she would do her best to control it. And if not, then she had failed.
Her fingers returned to her lap, still in their folding over one another. Just another few hours, and they would be in Los Angeles with new identities and a mission ahead of them.
A smile twitched at her lips. Their 'team' had no idea what was coming.
"Excited?" Jemma asked softly, her breath whooshing out with excitement. In her fingers was clutched a letter with the SHIELD logo stamped firmly on the front.
Fitz looked to be in shock, eyes wide and breath quick. He ran a hand through his hair. "Y-You mean we made it?"
Jemma lunged for him, pulling him tightly into an embrace. "Yes!" She laughed lightly in disbelief. "We did it, Fitz! We're going into the field!"
Forty eight hours later, and she and Fitz had just arrived in their "apartment." It was, as all the rest, a cover. But it all looked so real, from the knit blanket tossed over the back of the sofa to the laundry still in the hampers.
Her fingers ghosted over the duvet of her bed, her eyes darting around the room smoothly. It was familiar, like so many things before. It was like the sound of Fitz's voice. Like the touch of his hand on her shoulder.
"Jemma?"
She turned, finding Fitz in the doorway. He looked haunted, eyes wide with a look she could only classify as remembrance. "Yes?" She asked smoothly.
"I - I have this feeling," he murmured, voice just barely above a whisper. Hands restless at his sides, they balled into fists before unclenching.
Jemma took a cautious step towards him, studying his body language. He was stiff yet lenient, conflicted yet firm.
"It's - it's about you," he, too, took a step toward her. "I feel like we've, ah, met before. Here."
Jemma nodded slowly, still watching him. "Yes," she glanced out of the corner of her eye toward the bed. "And what does it feel like?"
He Froze, posture rigid, and stiff. She could see the battle taking place on his features over to speak or not. Clearing his throat as he came to a decision, he managed: "It feels like . . . Like . . ." He was stumbling, looking so lost Jemma felt a twinge in her chest.
Stepping minutely closer, a hand came up to cup his cheek. He filched, making Jemma pull her hand back. Fitz stopped her, leaning into it.
"It feels strange," she whispered, thumbing over his cheek. "I've never felt like this before."
Before she could contemplate any further, his head was dipping toward her and his lips caught on hers. It lasted hardly a second before he ducked back, eyes downcast.
"I, um, I'm sorry," he stumbled. It struck her at once that this was against their programming. They were machines; machines with no emotions that couldn't stutter over words.
But you're also human, her mind supplied, analytical as always. Human, flesh and bone with room for disappointment. Feeling things, useless things that felt nice at one time but was gone the next. Human.
"No," she murmured, lips barely parting. But her heard her, he always would.
He looked hopeful and terrified all at once, a stone old killer turned weak. It didn't fit him in this world, in this life. But she could imagine one where it did, starting with a young boy and bright blue eyes eager to learn instead of deceive.
Her voice cracked, watching him. This was wrong, a part of her screamed. It was the programmed part, the things the machines left imprinted across her mind. But the other pieces . . . The shell of the girl she once was, it was yelling in her heart to pull him closer. To show him that whatever this feeling was, the prickle in her chest that ached whenever he touched her just so or spoke in just that tone . . . To show him.
And so she did.
In the span of a breath, her arms wound around his neck and tangled in his curls. And their lips were crashing together again, that first spark of heat from their first kiss igniting into a flame. His hands, his large, warm hands, held her tightly to him. Her mouth slanted open against his and she groaned as their tongues met.
They were ice, she found as the back of her knees hit the bed. But perhaps they could make their own heat.
"I have a crush on you,"
Jemma practically dropped her chemistry textbook, but she fumbled it just in time.
Not trusting herself to turn around, her fingers tightened on the book's spine. The twenty-four year old took a steadying breath, listening to Fitz in the doorway.
It shouldn't surprise her. She's been having the same thoughts, after all. If they're this amazing at everything being just friends, then being more than that must be . . . Explosive.
He stutters for another moment. "I - I just, I thought you should know."
She can hear him leaving, turning deeper into the apartment, but her textbook falls out of her arms as she embraces Fitz instead. He stumbles slightly to accommodate her weight, but then his arms are twining around her and everything is right in the world.
"I do too," she whispers into his chest. Her fingers rub small circles over his back, holding him to her. "What do you think we should do about it?"
"Dinner," he answers immediately, voice only slightly wavering. "Just, um, you and me. Somewhere nice,"
Jemma smiles into his pajama top. "A date?"
"Yeah," he answers, voice squeaky.
She tilts her head up and kisses a trail up the column of his neck. "I think I'd like that,"
Mistake.
You made a mistake.
Her first waking thoughts after a night spent with Fitz shouldn't be regret. It should have been delicate, like the way his eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks or the way he murmured soft nothings as he slumbered. It should have been amazing. But it wasn't.
She hadn't slept with just any man. She had slept with her mission partner, the person she had to trust to get the job done regardless of whatever they felt between them. This shouldn't complicate things.
But it already had, by the looks of how he held her gently to him. The very tips of his curls brushed against the start of her hairline. She watched, whiskey eyes fascinated by the way his lips were shaped and the slight stubble growing across his cheeks. He was precious, perhaps had even been innocent at some point.
Mistake.
Her focus was the mission - it always had been, from day one. Get on the team, sabotage, get out. It was painfully simple. Her training was almost overkill. But that was before he walked on with his wide eyes and innocent demeanor. She knew all too well he could kill her with his bare hands, but after the way those same hands had made her feel last night . . .
Jemma pushed the thoughts from her mind, resolution settling in her gut.
She couldn't do this. It was wrong, against her training and Fitz alike. After this mission, after all, it was highly unlikely she'd ever see him again. So she would push him away, forget this night and how loved he made her feel, and carry on with her - their - mission.
Biting her lip, she watched for one last moment, and then lithely slipped out of his arms, out of her bed, and padded bare to the bathroom.
She didn't cry; feeling was a weakness.
Her lips were fighting her to smile, and Jemma couldn't help but allow it. Their arms swinging between them, streetlights illuminating their footsteps. His fingers were warm and safe, comforting. A wide grin was plastered on his face as it had been all evening long.
A cream colored dress twisted and swished against her thighs, her steps mirroring that of Fitz's denim clad legs. His tie was askew and his curls still hadn't much been tamed, but nonetheless she could feel the affection welling up within her chest.
It was still early in their relationship, or at least their romantic one at that. They were only on their first date, but Jemma couldn't help it. The crush she had harbored for so long bubbled within her heart, and maybe, it was becoming something new.
Fitz turned, fingers still locked with hers, toward the front steps of their apartment. Refusing to let go of her hand, he fumbled with his free hand to dig the keys from his pocket.
She giggled at his unceremonious drop of the ring, but tugged him back when he stooped to retrieve them. "Fitz," she whispered softly, voice light with laughter, as their eyes met in the gentle light. "I do believe it's good manners to kiss your date goodnight,"
His smile broadened, cheeks lightly coloring, and he took her free hand in his. "Is that so?"
"I believe so," she rocked on her heels lightly, eyes shining. He let out a light chuckle, dipping his head forward to kiss her soundly on the lips.
It was just a bit more than chaste, leaving Jemma reeling with the warmth of him. He tasted like their ice creams shared on the pier from just a few blocks away.
He pulled away after a few moments, but Jemma didn't let him get far. She pulled him tightly to her chest, even if she had to break their held hands to do so.
"You're my best friend, Leo Fitz," her lips ghosted his ear, still beaming.
"And you're more than that, Jemma Simmons," he responded, hands gentle at the small of her back.
She kissed him once more in reply.
"This can't happen again, Fitz," Jemma whispered, watching his face.
His hands tightened on the tea mug in his hand, lips pursing. It was a rather subtle response compared to what she was expecting, but nonetheless it wasn't accepting.
Wordlessly, he held the tea out toward her. "Made it for you. Hope y', um, enjoy it,"
She studied him a moment longer, from his bed hair to his pajama bottoms, before tentatively stepping forward and taking the cup. Her fingers curled around its warmth, raising it to her lips to take a tentative sip.
"Thank you," she smiled softly. "It's just how I take it,"
Fitz nodded, scratching lightly behind his ear. "I know. I saw you at the tea shop yesterday,"
Jemma fights the surprise that he cared to notice such things. He is a spy, after all. But to store the fact that she only took a dash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar, steeped for precisely two and a half minutes . . . It was a bit much.
She swallowed another sip, their gazes crossing tentatively. "Last night, Fitz . . . It was more than amazing," she whispered. "But it - it was a one time deal. Our mission, it comes first. I can't . . ." I can't have this feeling clouding my judgement with you.
"I know," he cut sharply, tone bitter yet resigned all at once.
He couldn't look her in the eye, stepping instead to the telly whilst sipping his tea.
Jemma nodded, ignoring the funny feeling in her stomach, and tightened her robe belt. It was for the best. Whatever this was, it was temporary. It would pass.
The days turned into a week, and before she knew it, that single night was a faded memory.
They themselves had already blended with each other's lives, their speech lapsing over the other's like it was the most normal thing in the world. He made her tea, she made his. Their choice of film genre carried over.
Before long, Jemma was sitting in her newly cleared bedroom with a suitcase in her hand. A smile tugged at her lips.
The mission was starting.
Jemma slouched against the door as it clicked shut, a breathless smile filling her cheeks. Her lips were pleasantly plump from her kisses - kisses - with Fitz. God, she lo-
No, not yet.
Nevertheless, nothing could dim her mood. It was like the old romances read, walking on air.
She plucked the brush from her nightstand, pulling out the loose curls her hair had been fashioned into. Watching herself in the dresser mirror, Jemma decided she had never looked happier. Her cheeks held a pleasant flush and her lips were bright. Things were looking up.
Hair brushed, she slid out of her dress and into her pajamas. Funnily enough, the shirt was Fitz's old uni tee. It only added to her bubbly mood.
As she pulled the covers over herself in her darkened room, Jemma allowed a soft sigh to escape her. Never in a million years would she have expected a night with Fitz like this to make her feel like this. He looked after her like a husband, like the moments he glanced at her she was the last woman on earth.
Sleep fell upon her as always, eventually, her euphoria carrying on to her dreams.
He was holding her, in his bed, palms running freely up and down her arms. It was intimate, yet all the same it wasn't. It was worshipful, gentle.
His hands continued their path, up and down, sometimes slowly, sometimes quicker. Up, down, up, down.
His hand roved further upwards, over her shoulder and chin to land at her mouth. Jemma flinched, struggling when his grip tightened. Air was leaving her, his hold strong.
Jemma's eyes shot open, her body leaping up, yet a weight pinned her down to her bed. She screamed, pushing harder up, but the body shoved back. The object at her mouth . . . She knew the scent of chloroform. The hand, for she was now sure of it, held the cloth firmly in place.
She screamed again, but nothing made it past the cloth.
Her eyes slipped shut, and she returned to the darkness.
Their days on the BUS passed smoothly, each sliding by without incident. Not one, even Agent May, suspected a thing.
And the girl, Skye - Jemma had not thought her pleasant for a time, but slowly the hacker began to grow on her. She forced herself to believe it was merely her cover speaking, but somehow she knew it wasn't. The girl was, well, fun to be around. She brought a joy and optimism Jemma hadn't experienced before.
But Fitz, Fitz was the one making it all worth it. They were undercover, of course, but that feeling ebbing at her ribcage hadn't ceased. If anything, it had only grown stronger.
There were scrapes, of course. The mission she had to let him go off on his own, the time she was quite nearly blown out of the plane. But they persevered, always for the mission.
One night, three weeks after her dip in the ocean, her bunk door slid quietly open and Fitz padded in. He was obviously dressed for bed, in his old shirt and bottoms. His lips were being rapidly run over by his tongue, as if waiting to say something.
She nodded at him, sitting up from her relaxed stance and dog-earing the page she was on. The book found its way to her nightstand before he spoke.
"I've been thinking," he started off, slightly nervous, though he was adept at hiding it. Somehow, around her, he never felt the need to mask his emotions as their employers had trained. "And this . . . This thing I feel. It's, um, it's about you." Fitz scratched behind his ear. "Whenever I see you, it's like something's twitching in my chest. And whenever you spend time with Ward or Skye or somebody instead of me . . . I feel jealous."
She watched him struggle for words, his eyes darting around wildly and cheeks reddened, before come to rest on her eyes. It calmed him, his struggle ending, and his hands stilled. "I think I love you,"
I'd love a review! 3 It's great to hear what you think :)
The next piece will be up in around a week, time permitting :) It's all outlined, just waiting to be written. Stay tuned!
Tumblr - WhenTheSkyeQuakes