The Two of Them Together
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A/N: For essily's prompt on Tumblr: "Fitzward redemption fic pretty pretty pleaaaseeee"
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Just because someone stumbles, loses their way, doesn't mean they are lost forever. Sometimes we all need a little help.' —Charles Xavier
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Fitz looked up from his hospital bed to see Ward standing in the doorway, hesitant and fidgety. Fitz knew he should be angry as hell, but mostly he was just relieved to see Ward; anger didn't feel important right then. Ward thumbed at the corner of a spiral notebook in the pocket of his prison uniform pants as his eyes slid around the room. It was a wonder he wasn't handcuffed, but Fitz wasn't going to question that. Apparently waking up even somewhat coherent when no one—himself included—had expected him to ever wake at all had the fortunate side-effect of everyone being really quick to let Fitz have whatever he wanted. Like this: an opportunity to talk to Ward alone. May, Coulson, and Triplet had all wanted to be in the room, but Fitz had insisted this was important to him, and ultimately no one had wanted to upset him.
Realizing that Ward was still hovering just inside the door, Fitz cleared his throat and motioned to the chair next to the bed. "You can sit down."
Ward nodded once and moved to take the offered seat, walking with a slight limp. Simmons had told him about May and Ward's fight, but she hadn't cataloged their specific injuries. May had been fine when he'd seen her, of course, and that was to be expected since she'd won—which was also as expected.
"I'm glad you came to see me." The words were out of Fitz's mouth before he realized Ward may not have actually been given a choice, but Ward just nodded, still not meeting Fitz's eyes. "I, uh." Fitz scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Simmons filled me in on what happened—most of it anyway, I guess."
Ward didn't say anything, just shifted slightly in his chair.
"I'm glad you're okay," Fitz offered. He wasn't actually sure if Ward was indeed 'okay,' but he couldn't quite bring himself to say, 'I'm glad you're alive.'
Ward nodded again, leaning forward in the chair, staring at the floor, eyes unfocused.
Fitz furrowed his brow then blurted out, "Is there a reason you're not speaking to me?"
Ward's eyes finally met his, flashing up briefly in startlement. He pulled out the notebook and a pen and quickly wrote something, then slid his chair closer to show Fitz what he'd written:
I can't.
Then, without waiting for a reply, he added:
Fractured larynx.
"Oh," Fitz said, voice soft. "I'm sorry."
Ward shook his head and looked away, a pained expression on his face. After a moment he took a steadying breath and leaned over the paper to write again:
It doesn't change anything, but I am sorry, with 'am' underlined twice.
Letting out a breath, Fitz leaned back against his pillows and blinked his eyes against the stinging tears. "I know," he said once he could trust his voice. "You never wanted to hurt me or Simmons." He turned to face Ward once again. "You did some very bad things, but you're not a bad person."
Ward wrote quickly then pushed the notebook towards Fitz, leaning back in his chair and looking away.
I'm not a good one, the paper said. Skye says I'm not evil, but I'm not good. Both instances of the word 'good' were underlined, the second more forcefully.
Fitz sighed and fiddled with his hospital bracelet. "Skye's right: you're not evil." Fitz was still sure of that, even after everything. And it was nice to know Skye at least agreed, even if Ward didn't. "And maybe you're not good." There was a lot of 'middle ground' between 'good' and 'evil,' really. "But do you want to be?"
Ward wrote his answer, letters larger and more uneven than his previous writing:
I don't know HOW. 'HOW' was underlined messily.
Before Fitz could think of how to respond, Ward began to write more, letters neater and closer together as he bent his head over the page:
I don't know what to do. For most of my life, I just did whatever Garrett told me. I realized too late that he was my weakness. The word 'he' was underlined.
"I'm sorry," Fitz said again, because he was. It felt like an inadequate thing to say, but he couldn't think of anything better.
Ward wrote again:
I loved him more than I ever loved my own family. I let him hurt me; I didn't even care what he did to me. And I hurt other people I cared about because he asked me to.
Fitz felt something constrict sharply in his chest. For all that Ward had betrayed and hurt him, Ward was still his friend. Or had been. Something like that, and it was all confusing, but… Ward was still a person, and he'd lost everyone he'd ever loved. He'd loved someone completely incapable of loving him back and chosen that person over the ones who did actually care about him, and that person had gone completely insane and then died, so now he was entirely alone, surrounded by people who hated him. "Were you in love with him?" The question was out of his mouth before it had fully formed in his head.
Fitz expected a denial, possibly even anger, but Ward just shrugged. After a moment of consideration he wrote:
Maybe. It was complicated.
One corner of Fitz's lips turned up in a sympathetic smile. Love was a complicated thing, wasn't it? He himself loved Simmons—loved her in more ways than she loved him back. And that hurt a bit, but it was okay, really. It's not like most people only ever fell in love with one person in their whole lives...right? But, what was important right then was Ward; it wouldn't do for Fitz to let his mind wander, thinking about his own problems. Ward was so vulnerable, so lost and confused and in need of a friend, of reassurance. "You deserve better than him."
Ward almost smiled—sad, but almost a smile—shaking his head.
"No, I mean it." Fitz was adamant. "I know you did some very bad things—there's no denying that. But you didn't actually manage to kill me or Simmons, and I believe you really could have if you'd tried. I know what you can do, Ward; I've seen you in the field. You didn't want to kill us. You— It wasn't much, but you gave us a chance."
Ward laid one arm on the side of the narrow bed and put his head down on it, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
Fitz's heart constricted painfully in his chest again. He reached out and gently, carefully stroked Ward's hair the way his mother used to do sometimes—Ward needed that: gentleness, the love of a family. Maybe he didn't deserve it, but he needed it. "It's going to get better. I can help you." Fitz sincerely hoped he could.
When Ward had calmed enough, he raised his head to offer Fitz an apologetic smile then retrieved his notebook to write:
I don't deserve you.
"I don't think anyone quite deserves me." Fitz grinned, trying to make it a lighthearted joke, a reference to his clumsy, awkward nature. He knew he'd never been the easiest person to tolerate; even Simmons got exasperated with him sometimes.
But Ward just looked like he was about to cry again and grabbed his hand in a grip that was almost too tight. Finally, after a few steadying breaths, Ward turned back to his notebook to write:
Very few people could deserve you; you're amazing. He underlined the word 'could' and offered Fitz an almost-smile, a faint glimmer of hope.
Fitz's answering grin overflowed with hope, warm and freeing and bright—maybe he had enough for the two of them together.
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A/N: I'm not a doctor and I know next to nothing about either Fitz's or Ward's injuries, so let's just all pretend this is at least possible if not exactly realistic, k? Thanks.
This fic is part of my "Let me write something for you" Marvel prompt request on Tumblr.
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