Title from Falling Asleep on a Stranger by Pierce The Veil. Written and posted in a hurry, no beta. Please enjoy ;)
This is how it goes:
When Leo Fitz is ten years old, he watches his father walk out the door and away from his life.
When Leo Fitz is sixteen years old, he has made peace with this fact and allowed Jemma Simmons into his heart to understand and love.
When Leo Fitz is twenty seven, he first tastes Jemma Simmons' lips and finally confirms what he's known since he was sixteen years old - this will be the first and last woman he ever kisses.
When Leo Fitz is twenty nine, he is happy and loved and kisses his wife every morning and every night.
But that is when the nineteen year gap in his life comes to a close, and the cosmos has one last laugh.
It's the simple type of things that always have the most impact.
So of course it would be something so mundane and simple that bears the worst results.
It's Sunday, so while all the God fearing folk are attending their services, Fitz and Jemma take this as an opportunity to browse the shelves of a mostly empty supermarket and gather their weekly shopping.
He's adding their favorite tea to the trolley when his eyes dart up to catch a flash of blue. Jemma's an aisle over, gathering cream and butter, so it's just him, left staring up at a face that somewhat matches his own.
The first thing he's realized is that this man hasn't much aged. There's still the cleanly shaved face though his cheeks have begun to sallow with age, and the hair that was once graying is now fully colorless. But nonetheless he's still the strict, abusive man that broke his arm in second grade and fractured his mother's jaw.
Fitz straightens up immediately, hands wrapping so tightly around the trolley handle that his knuckles begin to whiten. His teeth grit against his right hand's burgeoning tremors.
That's how they stay for a long, drawn out moment, father and son staring at the other, waiting for anything to happen.
That anything comes in the form of a Jemma Simmons, turning the corner and catching sight of her husband's father. Her lips part in a gasp, and the packages she's clutching in her arms clatter to the ground.
"Jemma," he lets out under his breath, breaking the trance he'd slumped into. He immediately kneels to help her gather the items scattered on the linoleum. They're placed back in the cart before Fitz takes a shuddering breath and looks back up into his father's face.
"Alastair," he nods, jaw setting firmly in place.
"Leopold," he says the name with a twist of his lips, as if the name is too bitter to think of. "I see you still bend to women, after all these years,"
Fitz clenches his bad hand in an attempt to quell the shaking. "B-Better to b-bend than to hit,"
He hasn't stuttered in months, sans the times he's talking too excitedly to slow. Jemma steps to his side, resting a hand on Fitz's arm.
Alastair looks over Jemma with a hint of appreciation in his eyes, but Fitz catches it immediately. He reaches up to grasp Jemma's hand, weaving their fingers together tightly.
"Well, I see you at least got a pretty one," he raises his gaze to Fitz.
Jemma's lips press together in anger. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"His father, girl," Alastair bites back, a hardening glare in his eyes. "You'll do well to keep quiet,"
"Don't you ever speak that way to her," Fitz retorts, grasping the trolley with his free hand. "She's d-done more for me than you ever have. Been in my life longer, t-t-too. So fuck you for tha.'"
Alastair seems taken aback, but bounces back immediately. "Always took you for slow, but never once for retarded. Can't you speak straight, son? Or is that another damned flaw you got from your mother?"
Jemma looks positively livid, cheeks flushed with anger and eyes stormy. "You . . . You bastard!"
Fitz firmly jerks Jemma back, turning and pulling her away from the scene, trolley and all. He doesn't look back, but he can practically feel the sparks flying from the fury in her eyes.
They reach the street, with the misting rain and gray skies. Fitz should have seen them as a warning. Instead, he takes both of Jemma's hands, searching her face worriedly.
"Are you okay?" his breath comes out in short pants, his curls beginning to frizz in the moisture and pop out in all direction.
"Okay?" She bites back, a bitter laugh making its way out of her throat. "Fitz, I'm the one who should be asking you!" a hand breaks from his to run through her hair, shortened now. "God, after all these years, he's still the same sexist abusive arse, isn't he?"
Fitz bites his cheek, looking down at the wet pavement. His trainers will no doubt be soaked by the time they make it back to the cottage, but he can't bring himself to care. "That's mild, if that's what you mean,"
She's silent for a beat, and when he looks back up to see her it's to see her eyes red and nose pink. "How did he ever make such a wonderful man?"
Fitz grins. "Just the looks, if that's what you mean. Rest was all Mum,"
"Well thank god for that," Jemma breathes, her head tilting to the side. A hurt look crosses over her face, but instead she pulls him tightly to her. Running her hands up to his shoulders, she sighs. "You're getting all soaked. Come on, let's get home,"
He can't help but grin at her, taking her hand and allowing her to lead to the car.
It only takes a few moments for the memories to set in, triggered by the sudden reappearance of someone he'd lost.
Fitz has not regretted letting him go. Perhaps when he was young, before he ever met the brilliant mind that is Jemma Simmons, when he hadn't a friend or penny to his name. But he hadn't regretted his abandonment even he was thirteen and raking yards to help pay the rent.
If anything, the man leaving was one of the best things to have happened to him. He remembered when his arms had finally been bruise free for the first time since he could remember. He remembered the bags fading from beneath his mum's eyes. And he remembered the feeling of calm at night when he didn't hear his mother's quiet sobbing.
This was never to say these things were easy. He wondered for a long time if he truly was as worthless and dull as the man had told him, the words replaying like a mantra in his head. But his mum told him this wasn't the case; he was smart, and different, and that scared Alistair.
Fitz knew his da was intelligent. He was cold, harsh and calculating. So his young mind registered these traits with anything to do with intelligence. But the day he met Jemma Simons reevaluated that word, and with it came a whirlwind of color and joy and discovery and excitement. That, he had decided long ago, was what being intelligent looked like.
And it still was.
To this day, despite what he may have believed as a young boy, the woman wearing his grandmother's ring would always be what came into his mind whenever he heard the word.
He can feel her worry on his back as he troops into their cottage. It's heavy, but in a way that's warm, and while he knows she won't verbally assess him for a few hours now, he can feel the concern radiating from her. It's almost comforting in a sense.
So she gives him his space, knowing that crowding has never helped him, and allows his mind to run over the scene they've just witnessed.
Fitz feels as though he should be more shaken. But he's not. Deep in his chest, he can feel nothing but indifference. He used to think the only reaction he could ever have to running into the man was fear and submission, back to the lad who jumped at his commands and cowered at his fist.
He feels calm, in a way. There has always been lingering doubts in his mind about what could have been. But these have been pushed from his mind, and he finally feels at rest.
Hours later, Jemma slides into the sheets next to him, and he opens his arm to her as has become ritual. She rests with her cheek against the pillow, forehead tucked to his chin, and hand spread across his heart.
Her breath tickles over his collarbone, and he smiles at the feeling of her nearness. It's been years, but this is something he'll never cease to cherish.
"How are you?" she whispers quietly, drawing tiny patterns across his shirt in the shapes of serotonin and dopamine.
He breathes out slowly, savoring the weight of the blanket atop him. "'M fine, honestly," he responds, voice rougher with exhaustion. "At peace, in a way. I've always wondered about him, but now . . ."
His sentence hangs unfinished, but then they have always known what the other was thinking. The unspoken confirmation that he's always somewhat craved is now here - Alistair Fitz has become nothing more than he was the day he walked out of his son's life.
"I know," she murmurs softly, tilting her head to an angle where she can drop a kiss to his stubbled jaw.
And she does. He has never doubted her, and this isn't a reason to start. She knows the ups and downs of his childhood, knows the pain, though on a somewhat muted level. He's never been able to take the pain in her eyes, even if it was just from him recalling tales of injuries. He only tells those stories through somewhat rose tinted glasses.
"I love you," the words come softly, her breath evening as she falls into slumber, and he can't help smiling softly as he presses a kiss to her head. He has yet again never tired of saying those words, and he hopes and prays that he never will.
"I love you, too," he responds, voice low. "Good night, love,"
He doesn't fall asleep quite yet. Instead, he lies awake for a time longer, staring up at the swirling patterns he and Jemma had painted into their ceiling the week they had moved in. Rain patters softly against the window panes and roof, but he only feels warmth from the body beside him.
They have more to talk through, certainly. But for now he instead trails his palm up and down her side, over the dip of her waist just beneath her ribcage, and back up to the slight bumps of her ribs.
He had chosen who he wanted to love, chosen his family, and in the end it was so much more than he could ever have imagined.
This is how it goes:
When Leo Fitz is thirty years old, he discovers once more that nothing in life is planned, and there is no true way to be prepared for it.
When Leo Fitz is thirty years old, he first holds his daughter and understands what it means to be a father.
When Leo Fitz is thirty two, he welcomes another child into his home with his wife, and he understands once more that family doesn't start or end in blood.
When Leo Fitz is thirty six, he receives word that his own father has passed away, and arranges the service that he himself does not attend.
When Leo Fitz is forty four, his daughter comes home with a boy in tow, and in that moment he sees himself, awkward and gangly and following a girl with stars in her eyes and knowledge in her mind.
When Leo Fitz is fifty seven, he holds his grandson and thanks the heavens that his own child hasn't made the same mistakes he did.
When Leo Fitz is eighty nine, he looks around him and knows - for all of his worries and fears of becoming like his father, he hasn't.
Would love to hear your thoughts :)