127 Days
Day 127.
0635 hours.
"The steps you take don't need to be big. They just need to take you in the right direction."
Fitz replays Jemma's words. He has repeated them so many times that he can't always hear them quite right; her voice, in his memory, sometimes is slightly off. Her tone was a bit too high in that last replay, he thinks. He's not sure though. He squeezes his eyes shut. The day he forgets precisely how her voice sounds is a day he does not look forward to.
He rolls over and sits up. It's time to get up; the automatic lights in his cell have been switched on for a while now, a sign from his captors that he needs to rise. He silently repeats Jemma's words.
Fitz hears a slight clanging sound. The cell is mostly soundproof so he can't hear footsteps until they are right outside, but now he sees that the slot through which the guards pass him food is opening. Breakfast is the same as it has been for the last several weeks – runny oatmeal, a bland Red Delicious apple, and black coffee.
He accepts the tray and sets it on his desk. Then he reaches for the chalk and draws another monkey on the wall.
Day 127.
0900 hours.
Fitz takes a deep breath. He reminds himself, for the thousandth time, that wishing for a lab or even a computer is pointless. He has to work with what they give him, even though proper equipment would improve his productivity exponentially. He starts to wonder, again, whether having access to a lab would've meant that he had solved this conundrum months ago. Such a waste.
But he shuts that line of thought off. Madness lays down that pathway, and he can't go there. He has to work with what he has.
Fitz reaches a hand around to rub at his neck. Bending over textbooks and notebooks all day, every day, has rendered his muscles stiff and sore. Before, he sometimes spent the better part of a day stooped over a computer, but usually with Jemma right by his side. She used to, wordlessly, get up and start to rub his neck. Her hands were strong and she knew exactly where to press to relieve the tension. He could feel how much she loved him just from the way she did this, starting from the way that he didn't even need to ask.
That is another line of thought that he needs to shut down immediately in order to preserve his sanity.
Day 127.
1145 hours.
"Shower time!"
A guard calls out the words. Two guards are there: one to open the door and the other to keep a gun trained on Fitz. In all the time he's been here, he's never given them cause to worry but still he's never been removed from the cell without at least one guard pointing a gun at him.
Fitz has mixed feelings about "shower time". There seems to be no set schedule as to when he gets a shower, and the longest he's gone without being given one was almost 72 hours. Today is typical; it has been about two days since he was last offered a shower. He doesn't like body odor any more than anyone else does, so "shower time" can be a relief. It's also a welcome change of pace.
But it's humiliating too. He gathers up his flip flops, and one guard thrusts a change of clothes and a towel at him while the other continues to keep his gun pointed at Fitz. They march down the dim, nondescript corridor where they reach the tiled bathroom. There are rows of shower stalls, though Fitz has never once seen another prisoner here. He assumes there are other inmates here and that the guards ensure they never come into contact with one another. At times he has wondered if General Hale and her people are putting on a show when they claim that they don't know where the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are – and if instead, somehow, they're all being housed here too. But that would be quite a ruse on Hale's part, and Fitz knows the very idea is nothing more than a wish his brain has conjured up.
"Okay, pretty boy, you know what to do," one guard leers.
Fitz sets the clean clothing and towel down on a bench outside the nearest shower stall. The bathroom is humid though the air a bit more fresh than that of his cell. The shower stalls, of course, do not have curtains. The guards watch him strip and continue to stare at him as he showers. The water is lukewarm today, which is far better than the cold stream he sometimes gets. Fitz showers as quickly and efficiently as possible. Today's shower seems as though it will proceed without incident. The guards sometimes catcall him, say lewd things, hurl homophobic insults, ask him if he misses his girlfriend, asks for details on what his girlfriend looks like naked, vividly describe their own sex lives, make comments about Fitz's body, and so on. Fitz has dealt with bullies before and has no trouble keeping his mouth shut no matter what they say.
Between the lukewarm water and the uncharacteristically quiet guards, today's shower is a smashing success.
Day 127.
1400 hours.
'How long will I be here? It's been more than four months. Will it be four more months? Or four years? Forever?'
`Stop it. Hunter will see the messages. He will come. He'll smuggle in the parts we need.'
`Then somehow we'll figure out what happened to Jemma and the others - and find them. Somehow. And when I see her, I'm going to -'
Fitz cuts off that line of thought as well, instead glancing at Jemma's picture hanging over his desk.
Day 127.
1700 hours.
Dinner is a welcome interruption to an afternoon of slow work and slower progress. His eyes need something else to look at as well.
The food is uniformly bland and terrible, but Fitz's imagination has always been an asset. He closes his eyes and chews the rubbery meatloaf. For one or two bites, he can pretend that it's The Sandwich. The oily part of the meatloaf could be pesto aioli sauce, if he stretches his imagination. The slightly savory taste of the potatoes harkens back to the savory taste of The Sandwich, if he tries really hard to pretend.
Day 127.
2200 hours.
The worst part of the day: lights out. Fitz can switch on the lamp on his desk if he wishes, but he has a throbbing headache, he's made almost no progress today, and he's ready to try to sleep. Try is the operative word.
He slips his shoes off and gets into bed. The pillow is flat and the sheets are rough. He lays motionless for several moments trying to get the whirring of his brain to slow down accordingly. If he stills his body then perhaps his mind will stop spinning and take him to the place where unconsciousness exists, where he can drift off.
But Jemma is in that place too. Jemma by his side, her soft hand touching his. Jemma smiling at him, her eyes shimmering with love. Then she's kissing him, telling him she loves him so much. He can almost feel her lips touching his.
But that was before. Before The Doctor. And he's here too sometimes. Fitz has to exert even more mental effort to push The Doctor away, to remind himself that he did not truly live as The Doctor for more than a few days inside a machine no matter what his mind says.
He wills his mind to return to Jemma, back to the last time he heard her say that she loves him "so much". And she does. He knows this fact. He remembers those few hours they had after escaping the Framework. They left too much unsaid and he generally couldn't even bear to look at her but she still communicated that she loved him. The way she approached him in the cube and held him as he bawled. In transit to the diner – the fateful meal where they were separated – she silently grasped his hand and held it. And the way she expressed concern when he had no appetite at the diner.
`She still loves you,' he silently whispers to himself. `Despite everything.'
At some point, Fitz moves from rational thought to slumber. He dreams that he and Jemma are standing outside in a park. He's wearing a kilt and she has a beautiful white dress on. He can almost smell the fresh air and hear a few birds chirping. Jemma is radiant. Their family stands around them as they vow to spend the rest of their lives together.
The lights abruptly switch on. It's 0600 hours again and time to start another day. Fitz takes a breath. He has Jemma's love, he will work himself to the bone to get out of here, and someday – somehow – he will hold her again and ask her to be his wife.
THE END