This is my new Fitzsimmons fic from Simmons point of view.

One of the most textbooks signs of stress is physical shaking. Whether it be hands, fingers, arms, body, whatever, if something is shaking or vibrating, something is wrong. That's how I know something is wrong with Fitz when I walk into the lab. His entire body seems to be trembling, like it's infused with electricity. His entire being is so jacked up on nerves his body can't take it anymore, and has transferred that energy into shuddering. I've only seen him this shaken up once or twice before, and both times were terrifying events that I never want to happen again.

So I rush to his side to steady him. I place my hand hesitantly on his shoulder, trying to commune without words that I am here for him. That he's not alone. That he doesn't have to do this alone.

His face is turned away from me, but I can picture the exact face he is making. His eyes would be wide, and his mouth slightly opened, horribly embarrassed that I have caught him looking weak. Of course those would be his words, not mine. In my eyes, he is never weak.

Slowly, he turns to face me. His expression has changed into one of blank indifference, and that's the second indication I have that all is not right with Fitz. I attempt a small smile, but am scared it turns out to look more like a grimace, judging by the look in his eyes.

He still has not spoken to me, but I wasn't expecting anything else. When he gets upset, Fitz is the quietest human being I have ever seen. He almost turns into a ghost. Sometimes he make so little noise that I have to periodically reach over to see that he is still physically here with me, and hasn't turned into an apparition before my eyes. So I try to let him know through my facial features, that it's okay to be silent, that I understand (even though I don't) and that he doesn't have to push me away. I don't think the message gets across, because his expression doesn't change, and neither does his stance. The one that looks like he's squaring up for a fight.

I gently grab his arm, trying to lead him back to his room, so he can sit down and maybe tell me what has him quivering like a leaf in the wind. He comes willingly, but it isn't as much a success as I thought it would be. He is still looking far off into the distance, seemingly on another world, seeing things only he can. He trots along behind me, content to let me lead him anywhere. I could lead him into a wall, and he wouldn't even notice until he had hit it. That's how far away he is. And it's frankly starting to freak me out. He hasn't been this far removed since before the Academy.

I open his door, using the pin code, and lead him to his bed. He slowly sits down on the edge, and stays there. He still hasn't acknowledged my presence, and I wonder if he even realizes I'm here. I gingerly sit next to him on his bed, and for the first time notice that there are dried tear tracks on his face. Whatever has happened, it's bad. Worse than what I had originally thought. Silence is one thing, denial is another, but tears are something else. I can count on exactly zero fingers how many times I've seen Fitz cry. This is bad.

Eventually, I manage to coax Fitz to lie back on his pillows. Except he misjudges them, and ends up in my lap. Which might have been his idea the whole time, but I can't really know. I run my fingers through his unruly curls, noting that he should probably get them cut, because they're getting long, but honestly, I love his hair like this. Long enough to entwine my fingers in, just hitting the collar of his shirt, curling around his temple. Then I chastise myself for admiring his hair when he's in this state.

I pull the covers over him, wondering if he's shaking because he's cold. I lean back on his pillows, still with his head in my lap, because my neck is starting to get a kink in it. I continue playing with his hair, content to just sit with him until he decides he can share with me. I don't want to pressure him, but I'm dying of curiosity, and I know he won't snap out of this in between state until the shock wears off and he tells someone. It will be ten times worse when he realizes that whatever has happened, has actually happened, and it wasn't a dream, but I will be there for him. Just like I always am.

Somewhere around midnight, he falls asleep. His one hand has tightened around my thigh, and the other one wraps around my waist in the most awkward lap hug ever, but it feels right. He needs me to anchor him, and I will. He needs to know that I am here for him. I place a quiet kiss on his forehead, hoping he won't remember it when he wakes up, because it will be even more embarrassing for him. And if my lips stay on his skin for longer than necessary, who can blame me?

A couple minutes later, I fall asleep myself. I had meant to stay awake with him, just in case he woke up and wanted to talk, but I was so exhausted that I conked out.

When I wake up in the morning, I am relieved to see that Fitz hasn't moved from my lap. But he is awake too. And actually looking at me. Like he can see me. Which for me counts as a success. I try to ignore the look in his eyes that show unspeakable sorrow and sadness. I want to smile at him, to let him know that it's okay, but I can't bring myself to be happy in the presence of that melancholy that seems to live in his eyes.

So I just sit up and place a kiss on his forehead, embarrassment be damned. I want him to know that he can trust me, and that's the best way I can think of right now. My fingers also find their way back to his curls, and start weaving through them, smoothing his hair away from his eyes.

His eyes start to well up, and for a moment I panic, thinking it's my fault. But he isn't thinking about me. I can tell. Although his eyes are locked on mine, he is a million miles away.

I pick his head up, and place it on my shoulder, trying to bring him in for a hug. I want him to feel my heartbeat and know that I'm real.

His arms come around and his hands bury themselves in my hair. I feel my shirt getting wet from his tears, and my heart breaks for him. Someone like him should never have to experience this kind of sadness. No one should.

I bring his face up to look at mine. He tries to resist, and doesn't want me to see his face when he's crying, but I am insistent. Eventually he lets me take his head and bring it to mine. His eyes are bloodshot and red from crying, and his nose is red from being rubbed on my shirt. Tears run down his face, and pool on his hands. I place a kiss on his forehead, his cheek, his nose, his other cheek, alternating those places on his face until he calms down. My fingers come up to wipe away the tears that have escaped my lips. His hand comes up to rest on mine while they are on his face.

Now I feel brave enough to attempt another smile. I offer a small quirk of my lips, to show that I don't think any less of him for letting his emotions run free. His eyes are still filled with water, but he tries to smile back at me. I appreciate the effort.

Caught up in the emotion and sadness of the past couple minutes, I bring my lips closer to the one place I wanted to place them. His breath catches at my closeness, and I am terrified that he will push me away. I don't know if this is the right time for this, actually it's probably the worst time to load him with more confusing emotions, but if I don't do this now, I never will.

So I ghost my lips across his, giving him plenty of time to move away, or turn his face away from me. He doesn't. His breath is labored, and his eyes seem fixated on my lips. I suppose that's better than them being fixated in outer space.

Keeping my lips millimeters away from his, I bring my hands up to rest at the nape of his neck. This seems to wake him up, and he places his own hands on my waist. They seem to brand my skin through my shirt that seems too thin and too thick at the same time.

His eyes are drawn away from my lips, and instead choose to look into my eyes. I can still see the sorrow and misery written in his eyes, but those emotions seem to have been chased away by something else. Something I can't quite put my fingers on. But it makes my heart beat faster just being in the vicinity of those eyes. I imagine mine must look the same way.

My lips have somehow gotten closer to his. I can just feel the softness of them, almost tickling mine. I don't think I'm breathing, for fear the feel of it will blow him away like a tornado would. I'm getting lightheaded as well, and I don't think it's the fault of not breathing.

His closeness is intoxicating. I've never been fully drunk before, but I imagine this is what it would feel like. It's incredibly clichéd, but it's the truth. My head is dizzy, my fingers shaky, and my inhibitions seem to have flown out the window.

The hands on my waist have woken up. He moves them up to my face, cupping my cheeks with his large fingers. He twirls a strand of my hair around his finger, like he's scared I'll run away if he doesn't anchor me here. I would tell him his fears are unfounded, but that would require me breathing, talking and doing something other than kissing him, and I'm not really in the mood for that sort of thing.

We have gotten so close our lips are touching. Not just a hint, but the full on meeting of two mouths that don't really know what they're doing. I am so terrified of sending him away, or shocking him out of this state, that I haven't moved at all, even though his lips are on mine. The thought that I'm too scared to kiss him even though his lips are literally touching mine, makes me want to laugh. He's already done all the legwork, and is just waiting for me to reciprocate. And here I am, worried that he doesn't want this as much as I do. It's strangely ironic, and I mentally slap myself for being so idiotic and awkward.

I've spent too much of my life telling myself that Fitz will only be my friend that I've never actually wondered what would happen if he was more. I've conditioned myself to only think of him as a colleague, then as an acquaintance, then as a friend, that I've never allowed myself to even hope that he would be something more. I told myself that I wouldn't get my hopes up, so when he finally told me he didn't love me like I did him, it wouldn't hurt as much. And here he is, practically kissing me, while I'm twiddling my thumbs, wondering if he actually wants this.

So I push all my thoughts out of my head, and start to move my lips against his. It takes him maybe half a second to realize that I am kissing him, and then he starts to move his lips against mine.

In all those romantic movies, when the girl kisses the guy she's been pining after the entire two hours, he just knows when it's going to happen. They seem to decide to kiss at the same time, like it's been planned, because of course it's been planned; they're actors. But it's still hopelessly beautiful, and emotional, because their lips move in tandem, and they close their eyes and put their arms around each other. There are so many emotions playing on their faces; lust, relief that the other person feels the same way, and a certain urgency that invades their bodies, like they have to do this right now otherwise it might be a dream. Everything seems to melt around them until it's only their lips in the entire world. It's endlessly entertaining and is the source of hope in the female world.

This is not what my kiss with Fitz is like.

I would like to say that it feels like I'm floating, or something equally cringe worthy, but it doesn't. It feels like I'm failing a test and he's the only one who has the answers. It feels like I'm sinking and he's the only one with a lifeboat. It feels like I'm suffocating and he's the only one who has the breath for my lungs. It feels like I'm dying and he's the only one who is able to save me.

It is the most draining thing I have ever experienced. I am fully exhausted by the time his lips leave mine, and my mind is racing and my heart is beating probably too fast than can be healthy, and my hands are shaking with adrenaline and my eyes are wide. But the only thing I want is to do it again. So I do. Again and again.

Later that night, his eyes meet mine, and I see that the despair is gone, replaced by something I can only describe as awe. His lips are drawn up into the biggest smile I have ever seen him wear, and I'm sure mine is the same. We have spent hours on his bed, kissing and speaking through touches, and I am supremely tired, mentally and physically.

I find I am no longer as curious as I was earlier about what put Fitz into that ghost phase, and can't even bring myself to ask him about it now.

Because we are Fitzsimmons again.

And that's the most important thing right now.

Hope you liked it!