Give Me The Words
by Pippin Strange
Fitz finds himself in the swirling confusion of a coma, and has to deal with process of waking up and realizing he is no longer the same. Interlude between Season 1 and Season 2.
:::
Snow
:::
I think I am looking at a snowcap.
Peaceful.
A blanket of white, as far as the eye can see.
So, so very quiet, and calm...
It reminds me of a summit trip to Beinn Nibheis, the mountainous remains of a three hundred million year-old volcano. I am not one for athleticism, but for science I find myself doing nearly anything. That includes scaling the absolute tallest mountain in the Scotland highlands to visit an old observatory. It was staffed in the early century, long since abandoned, with standing walls and a war memorial. Meteorology and geology are probably the furthest from my branch of science; but I went. It was beautiful. Mum and I went together, since she likes that sort of thing but was never sure why I like to spend my time indoors. That's what engineers do; sequestering ourselves with tools and the joy to build and uncover pieces to puzzles. I would have liked to gone up the mountain with her again, poor old Mum, but I was so far away from home.
Truth be told, I was feeling a little homesick for the comfort of childhood... although it was during those formative years that I discovered I was too smart for my own good and that no one liked me at school. I was the Einstein and I had to move up several grades, the tediousness of the subjects boring me nearly to death. But what I wouldn't give for something complicated right now, for it was like going back to school... finishing half of the advanced calculus book within the first week and asking when we got to move on to physics. Everything around me was far too simple and I longed for something challenging, but nothing computed.
My body was in agreement with some other entity, to keep things simple and running at absolute minimum. I might be trapped somewhere between his betrayal and the afterlife. He won't get away with this that easily, this I know. He can't treat his friends like this. Even if it seemed I wouldn't be getting away at all.
There was snow.
Peaceful.
The snow was growing smaller. The glow was disappearing before my eyes, shrinking in on itself. I didn't like the view without it. A black circle increased in size until it encompassed all, and inside the darkness, there was a voice that I opted to ignore. It pestered, it cajoled, but I was not listening. I wasn't following anything willingly into the yawning black maw. I wanted to see the snow again.
It was so cold. It was that temperature that made me feel so perfectly happy. But I couldn't find you, and that made me worried. Slightly. Where were you, in the blue murk? Was I holding your hand? We had been holding hands, hadn't we. I thought you might have kissed me, crying, desperately trying to get me to change my mind about something.
That's when the black hole began to speak.
"Are you with us?"
White light, black hole. White light, red mouth. Words that didn't make sense, just mushy words, falling over each other to form a sentence aimed for me. I felt as if I was trying to answer a phone programmed in a language that I couldn't speak.
"Come on, open up your eyes."
The snowscape was gone, but the cold remained. Ice cold, bone marrow turned to frost so quickly that it felt like iron rods has been thrust through my veins, causing something to seize. I could hear the sound of my body arching upwards and incessant beeping. I couldn't get high enough but it wasn't like I was really trying, I was simply obeying a spasm, and just when it seemed as if I'd be stiff like this forever, the beeping sound regulated and my heart slammed back into my chest. I was weighted and full of things that I couldn't remember.
Color, and then smoke.
The black kind that smells bad and makes you choke.
The room swam like drunkenness, spinning until I was sick all over myself and filling up the tiny enclosure pinching my nose and consistently pushing air into my lungs. It was exhausting. I can hold my liquor. I'm Scottish.
But I could remember a feeling, of a time that I did have too much to drink. But it wasn't anything like this. This was the living death. I was sealed in a compact cube and poured out of a barge and down a hill, rolling over and over. Or maybe it was a plane? Not a hill, either. Water. Not the Beinn Nibheis, either, but an ocean. It was dark, such a deep blue and nearly black. Maybe I drowned in it.
Maybe this was an afterlife, of sorts, all the pain registering at one hundred on a scale that should only go to ten. Part of me wondered if I was wrong, there was a god, and I was being punished and tortured. Up until now I didn't think there was such a thing. But I had to be dead, didn't I? What else would explain the lack of logical cause and effect? There was a bloody light going on and off and making me want to blink, but I can't blink if I don't have eyes.
I was on a mountain with my mum, or maybe I was just remembering the mountain. Now I am strapped down on a cold block and everything turns over, and over, and over. I must have been put into a dryer. I wanted to die and reincarnate as a monkey, but I am beginning to think I came back as a sock.
At least I could be a plaid sock, something to preserve who I was once. But even so, plaid is not the same as a tartan. Most people don't realize that. You can't just wear plaid and think you look Scottish.
I find myself twitching out of pure fear and a sudden, gold rush of adrenaline. Shadows fly into my vision like animated puppets, jerking on marionette strings and pulling out scissors to cut me open with. They are disjointed, and jerky, made of a hundred photographs stringed together instead of the modern computer graphics. They move and bump, fleshless skeletons on parade.
I am terrified. The sounds I hear don't make any sense, but it is so loud that it hurts. It makes me think the puppets are shoving the scissors into my ears, stabbing in, and out, in, and out. I die after each one, and come back for a second. The shrill beeping increased and there was pressure on my nose and mouth, smothering me.
Please make it stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop.
I could feel the burn of salt in my eyes and on my cheeks. My body was shaking, but only on the inside. They couldn't tell I was moving, but there was a marathon. I could put a word to it now- a migraine, I think. I couldn't see any puppets or scissors, but it was so vivid. A hallucination, perhaps. But outside of myself, it's all just a rock, steady and reliable. Dead weight and nothing moves. Strapped down and contained like a lab rat, peacefully accepting all experimentation, but everything is tumultuous under my ribs.
Cement, heavy and color of slate, bearing my looks, my face, my unconsciousness. Give myself back, I asked, I want to be back in my own head. But my head didn't agree, my brain was firing up and making all the wrong signals, little nerve endings shot to hell and sparking like a downed power line after a rough winter.
"Come on, kid. Wake up."
I am nowhere, but I might have my eyes back. I could make them flicker like lights. Em bloody ewake y'loud n' obnox'ous lhettel bastard... My brain flipped a switch into angry brogue, like an uncle or two on my absent father's side. The dialect was still considered English by everyone except those who spoke it.
"Welcome back, Leopold."
No one but my mum calls me that. Bloody hell. I am thirteen years old and asking for advanced calculus 2, only to be told that it doesn't exist at my school. I can't hear any of this, I am a mute. I can only watch and wonder.
"Stay calm, everything is going to be all right. You're in the hospital."
Th'fookis thet?
"Stay with us, Leopold. You were in a coma, but you're going to be all right. This is a secure location."
Ken y' joost shut up f'r one menet? I kin't breathe...
"Take some deep breaths for me."
My throat is so raw that I might spit blood. I can't. I might disturb the snow.
Red on white. A red skull symbol splashed like violence over a white wall.
Seck, seck, seck, aell over m'self. Derty wat'r.
I couldn't figure out if I was here, or now. Present and past. Said versus says. There's only IT, and IT is bloody confusing. This existence thing.
The tunnel vision was increasing, the white was being cleansed into something resembling reality. There was a ceiling, and lights. And then something clicked, and it made just a little sense. Of course, I have been unconscious before. I must have fallen! Or hit the head... It's not like that's never happened! Sarcasm intended! Nothing that a little ice on the back of the head wouldn't cure.
But I was so cold, it had to be all over. The blankets over my legs did little to provide warmth. The elastic on my oxygen mask was too tight, and my head pounded. It was the worst, throbbing headache I think I've ever had. My arm was in a thick cast and strapped down, numbed just enough for the break to feel like a bad bruising instead.
My thoughts had been scrambled in present tense and past tense. I didn't know what was what, where was what. Gimme ate legs of it, I fot my mates n' I were off to see th' wezzerd, Ee kin't jest go off on thet train whenet ain't goin'.
Nonsense, what utter nonsense.
Am I crazy?
:::
My vision was clearer, and I could see the room. It was anticlimactic. For it was, in fact, a hospital room. Full of monitors, people in white coats, the usual. Nothing too exciting except for the fact that I could accept what I was seeing as fact. There was nothing that suggested a hallucination, but I was still disoriented, like waking up from a long nap that I hadn't meant to take.
They removed the face mask and splashed a penlight at my face. I shut my eyes and twisted away.
"Sensitivity to light..."
I had a headache, didn't they know that? My throat was dry and my mouth tasted like a sewer. Everything felt so thick and confusing that I couldn't tell them what I wanted. Help me 'r kehll me.
"Get him some water," said the doctor. I wanted to say thank-you. Yes! That's what I wanted! Water!
I had to have help. Someone was holding the back of my head and holding a cup up to my mouth. The first swallow hurt so bad that I nearly just coughed everything back out. But I sucked down another sip, then another. It was balmy and comforting.
"What is your name?"
Ya bloody will know what m'name is, I h'ard y' sayet...
"Leopold Fitz."
My voice hurts like hell.
My name, my age. What year is it, am I in any pain. I'm in a hell of a lot of pain no thanks to you bloody lot.
"Who is the president?"
"Is it Hydra?" I asked, and they chuckled, but I meant it. This is serious. I couldn't remember the name of the president, only the name of the Queen. That's not my fault.
"Is she alive?" I asked.
"Who?" asked the doctor.
I blinked.
Who.
Jemma, of course.
Who.
What a silly question.
My mouth opened but no sound came out. I know her name as well as my own. But the name does not fall out of my tongue. There is only a space bar... click. Emptiness.
Moving on to the next paragraph.
"Is she alive?" I repeated, tears streaming heavily down my face, which felt as sore as if I had walked into a wall.
"You came in with Agent Simmons, is that to whom you are referring?"
"Yes, yes!" But I felt as if I was falling asleep. Don't. "She's alive?"
"Yes. She's perfectly fine. You saved her life."
"I need to see her now."
"She has been called and told that you're awake. But you can only see her if you stay calm and still. Your brain has been through a trauma."
"I'll stay calm and still if I can see her."
The doctor wanted to try and distract me. "How much do you remember?"
"I..." Space bar.
Blank.
...Empty...
I started crying again. Ward tried t'kehllos...I doon' rememb'r how we got out'te th' boax; bet I kin swim, I must've swam...
"It's okay. Don't exhaust yourself."
"I'm... already exhausted," I barked angrily.
"That is to be expected. You were in a coma for nearly six days."
"Six."
Rense, recycle, rehpeet...
Six. Sex. Six. Six what? Six hours? What ded 'e say?
"Your brain was deprived of oxygen for over three minutes. Agent Simmons pulled you to the surface."
I told her I love'd ...hehr...but...
"I want to talk to her."
"Don't try to get up."
"But I need to leave."
"No, you don't-can I get some help, over here?"
"LET ME UP, Y'BASTARD-"
"Oh no, you don't. Settle down."
There was pressure on my broken arm. Accidental, of course, but I screamed. Then it was soft and warm again, and then I could see a face at the window...
Jemma! Finally! About bloody time you showed up! I need you to convince them I am perfectly able to get out of bed at this point in time.
She looked horrified, and I wondered what I did to deserve such disappointment.
Click.
Empty space.
Snowcaps.
The mountains really are beautiful this time of year.
:::
I could hear the clock ticking.
"Hullo, Fitz."
It's was a different day than before, because the time changed and Jemma was wearing something different. A black and white sweater that I recognized, oddly. Recognizing is a hard sensation. I am giving my best effort.
My throat was dry again, but Jemma realized that. She hit the button on the bed. Vrrrrrrrrrrrr... I sat up, but only just enough. The room wasn't spinning as badly as before. It rocked, but not enough to make me fall out of bed. They should really do something about the stability of this room. How do they expect anyone to recover if it moves around?
She handed me a cup of water and I could drink it by myself. But my hand shook and my arm grew tired. When I set it back down on the table beside the bed, my wrist dropped to the blankets again like a dead thing, no longer functioning.
"Jemma," I said.
"Fitz," she replied, cheerfully. Her smile was incredibly beautiful but too worried for my taste.
"What's wrong with me," I started to cry again. I seemed to do that a lot. But no one seemed to notice other than myself. Perhaps it was involuntary and they knew it but I didn't. A symptom, nothing more.
"You're going to be all right, Fitz. It's all right." Her hand was warm and wrapped delicately around my cold one.
"Stop that," I said. "That's not what I mean."
"Don't exert yourself, Fitz."
"I will. T-t-t-tell me what happened, ple...please?"
Jemma's dark eyes widened in a way that could not be helped; she was a dedicated slave to science. It ran through her veins instead of blood. She could pretend to use a doctor's list of proper things to say, and risk sounding like a very depressed greeting card. But she could explain to me what was going on, and she would enjoy saying the words, if not the reason for saying them.
"Hypoxia. Your brain was deprived of oxygen for too long. You weren't breathing," Jemma's voice shook and she was crying slightly too. "But your heart was still beating. It is highly controversial... what we did... how we brought you back. It has been done successfully a few times by desperate individuals but doctors still do not consider it a proven method of resuscitation..."
"No more than… Cull… Cull…
"Coulson?"
"His return?" I asked.
"No. Not like that. Director Fury and I..."
"What?"
"Director Fury. He isn't dead."
...emp...
ty.
empty...
What.
"What?"
"He heard our signal. It worked. Someone was listening out there, and we were saved."
"How?"
"Helicopter."
"Okay," I said, trying to take this in. "Who?"
"Director Fury," Jemma said, her eyebrows moving downwards worriedly. "In a helicopter."
"Oh."
"There was a canister of oxygen on the helicopter-for emergencies, pressurized for whatever scenario you can dream of, except for anything medical related, naturally-I attached it to a facemask from the aid kit and..." Jemma paused. Sober and serious. "It was about six hundred percent oxygen. For all intents and purposes, you were dead... but it made you breathe again." Her hand was very warm and she squeezed. I had forgotten I was holding her hand, and it made me twitch ever so slightly. "Pure oxygen is... beyond toxic. It shouldn't have worked." Jemma suddenly looked as tired as I felt. She lay her forehead down on the blankets, and I put my hand on top of her head.
"Thanks," I whispered.
She didn't answer.
"Now what?" I asked.
She lifted her head. "You were in a coma for six days. You started to wake up several times."
"I remember having a seizure."
"You never had a seizure."
"And puppets."
Jemma smiled slightly. "That's not so bad."
"They had scissors."
She frowned. "How repulsive."
"I thought..." I didn't know what I thought.
"Do you remember anything from the last six days? Other than dreaming you had a seizure and that there were puppets with scissors?"
Empty.
"Nothing else," I replied. "There's nothing."
"Perhaps it's for the best," Jemma said, and coming from anyone else, it would have sounded patronizing. Not from her.
"Mhm," I responded. "Did we find the... the... I mean we found it, but we were-y'know, ejected and... but did we..." I know what I am asking. I know.
"The Bus?" Jemma offered.
"Did we find it?" I asked eagerly.
"After we were ejected from it? Yes, yes, we did. We recovered it. It's back in our possession now."
"And did we... um... did he... he had it and then we got it back... did he, damn it..." My fingers tapped the blankets agitatedly. "He... he..." I snapped my fingers.
The name.
Give me the damn name, I wanted to shout at my brain, but nothing was listening. Not even myself.
Someone please, answer me.
I am being ignored by my own mouth and I am trembling to figure out why.
Jemma is nearly standing. She thinks I'm suddenly losing consciousness again.
I'm not, I'm just thinking.
Thenkin ofa word.
"Garret?" Jemma declared suddenly. "Are you asking me what happened to Garret?"
She was my supplier. Substituting information for the words that wouldn't come out. But that's fine, it's just because I'm tired. When I'm out, that won't happen anymore. It's just the coma thing. Drugs keeping me alive and slowly leaving my system. Words into words and words come out and words won't and then she words them for me...
I'm fine.
"YES!" I said quickly.
"He's been stopped."
I'm fine. "How?"
"He's been killed," Jemma said, with relief.
"I'm," I said.
Empty.
Still empty, blank paper. Sheet of white.
"I'm fine," I said.
"I know," Jemma said softly, but she didn't believe me.
The doctors made her leave after she sat with me for an hour. I tried to go with her. When they said no, I waited. Then I tried to follow. They sedated me, sat with me, tried to talk. They saw me as a level 5 weapons analyst and not a genius. They baby-talked me.
You're a little baby, they seemed to say, we'll have to help you learn how to walk.
bloody'ell, I know hoaw to walk...
I had to try and explain, I know words. You don't have to talk down to me. Use the big words. I know them. I am an inventor. An engineer. I know things.
Say the words.
The words I need.
I can repeat them.
I promise.
I'm fine.
I'll remember those things later, when I'm awake again. Did y'know in th' bocket there's glass'n rhymin' w' knot... More nonsense, and a dream, and brain functioning to the maximum degree trying to arrange sentences in the proper order.
:::
Another day.
"Hi, Fitz," this time it was Skye. "How's it going in here?"
"Where are we? Actually?"
"It's called the Playground... it's a SHIELD bunker. Hydra doesn't know about this one."
"Where is everyone?"
"Everyone is..." Skye paused. "We're all here, and we're okay."
"Ward?"
Skye shrugged. "Garret is dead, so in some capacity, Ward is free." She added this with the most sarcastic, bitter tone she could muster. "But he is in custody."
"Shipped off to the... the..." I paused.
Thes cehling is white-
shut UP.
"The..."
"The Fridge?"
"The other one."
Nothing.
"The, uh... the..."
Kin't y' help me out lik' Jemma kin I jest need the damn word, et's only one.
"The..." I repeated. "The... uh..."
It was paining Skye to try and let me figure it out on my own. "The Hub," she provided.
"The Hub," I sighed, exhausted.
Skye's face was unreadable.
"When can I leave?" I asked. "I have research from the dwarfs to download and cateh... cateh... cat... cate... categorize."
Thes esn't hard what is y'r bloody problem jest say the damn words...
"As soon as you've completed physical therapy," Skye said.
"I don't want to do that," I exclaimed.
"Fitz, it's mandatory."
"It's not like I can't walk. I remember how to do that. It's not... it's not... it's not... it's not... it's not..."
"Fitz..."
"I'm fine," I said shortly.
:::
:::
Diagnosis
:::
:::
I sleep too much. I don't understand why at times, it seems I'm tired for no reason. Other times, I realize that the coma made me lose a lot of body mass and it exhausts me and physical therapy will help me get back in the game but luckily I didn't forget how to walk or anything, I just have to get out of bed and -
I sleep too much. I don't understand why at times, it seems I'm tired for no reason.
Why am I so tired?
I finally got out of bed, and my head swam. I developed a
Developed...
Developed
shaking.
tremble.
If Jemma were here she'd say-
"Tic."
Involuntary motor tic to be exact, thank-you. Usually they occur in the eyes or face, but in my case I made good use of it in my hand, a slight twitching of my fingers to indicate I was struggling to remember a word, due to
to...
"You need to stop trying to get out of bed. Lay down."
"Can't you see I'm fine?" I asked. My legs swung over the edge of the bed, toes simply begging to touch down on the floor. "Just let me try standing. You can't let me try that tiny little thing?"
"You've suffered significant brain damage," said the nurse.
I felt as if someone had shoved a vacuum down my
my
esophuh...
esophuh...
throat.
Esophagus.
"What do you mean?" I whispered. "I was just hit a little on the head, Jemma pulled me up. I'm fine."
The nurse stared at me. "I am going to have to explain this to you again."
"Again?"
"You've forgotten," she said, gently, "You suffered brain damage from hypoxia. There is no telling how significant that damage is or if it is long term. As of now, it is affecting some of your motor skills and equilibrium. We may be looking at moderate or severe aphasia."
"But how can I just... it's all still in here," I pointed a finger to my forehead and shoved my finger against my temple, nearly knocking myself out by hitting a pressure point. "I haven't forgotten things."
"Aphasia affects your ability to name things, for one," said the nurse. "You haven't forgotten them. It's just a little harder to get the word out of your brain and into the air."
"You don't have to talk down to me."
"I'm going to need you to get back into bed."
I complied mildly. And waited till she turned her back, then I hit the ground, not running, just moving quickly, opening the door, and finding a concerned group of certain team of agents and they all…
I wasn't leaving the bed, imagining my escape. It would be damn hilarious, me, in a white hospital gown, running through a hall looking for my team...
"Lay down, Agent Fitz. Please."
I complied and...
and...
I complied.
And then I slept again, into a ravaging sleep just as stressful and tick-tocking as the chugging cogs of a mind awake. Racing forward at four hundred percent.
Is this what all sleep is going to feel like from now on? Just slipping back into a clockwork coma? It's a flesh eating fog, creeplingly grabbingly sucklingly pulling you into a state of mind that you can only try to get out of. I'm stuck in a scream-activated system when I can only manage a whisper.
Some symptoms of aphasia... making up words to replace the ones that you can't get out from behind your teeth.
Some symptoms of Agent Fitz... not wanting to ever, ever do this out loud. I can manage in my own head, thanks. But I cannot imagine, not even for a second, the embarrassment I would feel if I uttered some nonsense like "Oh, it's a part of the diddlyhammer in the nookawhatsit" in front of Coulson, or Simmons, or the others.
I wouldn't be able to take it. Just the thought of it is enough to make my ears feel warm.
Th'rs always th' option of joost stayin' in th' land of SHUHTtheFOOHKUP.
Please stop, I'm trying.
W'll etes a viable route f'r y'to never speak agin' an' sev y'rself th' shem...
Stop, just stop talking.
What if I develop schizophrenia? My innermost conscience has always been some form or another of my own voice, albeit with a thicker brogue... but if I start telling my own mind to shut up and it doesn't listen? Isn't that the very definition of having a voice in your head?
I can't even go there, I can't even think it.
I'd rather be sleeping.
I slept inside a box, gray and milky. My arm hurt, sharp and agonizing. I found myself searching the floor for the first aid kit, pulling a makeshift sling out of the supplies. I don't even remember waking up and realizing that I was crawling around. Every jarring of my knees against the floor of the pod sent a scream riveting through my blood and up into my arm. I sat limply against the wall, a broken arm for one and a sling in one hand. Useless without setting the bone.
I knew how to do that.
But the question is whether I could do it to myself.
And I didn't want to wake Simmons. She was so peaceful and lovely, lying there. Bloody hell, I had forgotten. This wasn't naptime. She was unconscious. We had fallen out of a plane and somehow survived to the bottom of the ocean.
I couldn't put it off, it had to be done. I put the sling in my mouth, biting hard into the scratchy fabric. I put my hand over my broken arm, finding the spot where it was throbbing in red beats of heavy bass, a music of the devil incarnate.
One
two
three
Set.
SNAP.
The sling in my mouth did nothing to muffle the scream. I almost passed out. Black dots swim swam darting back and forth forth and back swim swam oh good lorrd thes'es gettin' redeculus I can't faint now I just got the hard part done
watching the colors grow bigger and smaller
till I blinked them away, ignoring the sensation of green sickness threatening to complicate things.
I wasn't going to pass out. I was going to, carefully, put the sling on. Like so. String it around my neck and... damn it... try not to move...
Then I calculated. And the more escape routes I came up with, the more my own expertise betrayed me. For every possibility, there was physics. Everything sounded good in theory. The actual result would be disastrous. And it wouldn't have resulted in getting out safely.
Then when Jemma awoke, I felt safe again.
If anyone asks me what true love is, I will respond with the first law of thermodynamics.
Her science is the way I would've tried to read her poetry if I was different kind of nerd.
Does this make any sense to you at all?
Then I realized I would need to die for her to live. I was so frightened of death, the kind of fear that remains deep inside, seizing up your lungs and pressing too close to your heart. I can talk about coming back as a monkey all I want but that won't change the fact that she'll go on and I won't.
But love, maybe, doesn't... or can't... surpass time and space like everyone says it can. Love's strength is just being able to do what needs to be done. She seems to think we cannot be created, nor destroyed. That's the first law of thermodynamics. But the point is; I can be destroyed, easily. But I can save her from the same fate.
Love is life, and if I love her... she lives.
It's so simple.
I remember the decision. I do not remember hitting the explosive. I do not remember her sobs, her kiss, her scream. I only say it now because I can see those images as I dream. When they come back, I ask, and she confirms. I do not remember it but my mind is telling me that it happened. It's not the same as retaining a piece of the past, for the past is far less subjective. Everything in my head is telling me that the conversation we had ended far differently. Perhaps she declared her reciprocated love for me. And she kissed my lips instead of my face.
I know I did hit the switch for the explosive. I know that the water hit me instantly, the world's fastest roller coaster, the pressure of speed square in the chest. A light gray gently waving suddenly became a black wall, rushing at me as quickly as the ground obeys someone who falls from a bridge. Or jumps.
Then I was being smothered, something like an icy fist forcing its way into my mouth and reaching down for my lungs greedily, a repo opera in blue. My brain became cotton and the fight in my limbs flitted away. I was high on the absence of oxygen.
"Fitz."
And then, I know Simmons swam slowly in order to keep a good grip around my waist. Even if she ran out of oxygen the last thirty five feet and had to desperately claw her way to the surface before she, too, passed out underwater.
"Fitz."
And then we were saved! Like a storybook! A hero long thought to be dead, reaching down from the giant whirly bird in the sky. In the middle of the ocean, no less. Who would think.
"FITZ!"
I was coughing in the same way that someone coughs up a mouthful of water after getting pushed by an overzealous friend into a pool. And I was awake now, shaking.
"For heaven's sake,Fitz," Jemma said, her voice strained. "My goodness. That must have been some dream. You were thrashing around like a lunatic."
"There's something wrong with me," I said, sitting up and putting my hands to my head, trying to contain all of it in one place before it burst and splattered the gray matter of my brains and memories against the far wall.
"Should I fetch the nurse?" Jemma asked.
"No," I said quickly. "They're in... insu... in... em... insu..."
"Insufferable?"
"Aye, that's the one," brogue escaping. Bite tongue. "Talkin' to me like I'm a child. It's bloody irri..." I groaned with frustration. "I wrote it down. Earlier today." I grabbed a notepad on the fold up tray and flipped three pages back. "Aphasia," I read out loud.
"Ah," Jemma said knowingly.
"They told you already."
"Yes," Jemma admitted. "But you're so lucky, Fitz! You could have been trapped in a coma forever! You could have been awoken with severe brain deterioration and-and-could only manage to communicate with a blink twice for yes and once for no. Fitz, you could have died... and here you are! Sitting up and talking like you always have!"
"H-h-hardly talking. And not always."
"You must give yourself some credit."
"Jemma, I can hardly say what I need to say," I argued. "Don't you find it-it-it's almost like... my job is to be able... to do something..." I paused. "I can't do it the way I could before, do you see?"
"Well, different isn't so bad," Jemma smiled.
"It's no' jest different, I'm damaged," I said.
"Now you listen to me, Leo Fitz," Jemma said sternly. "You're not damaged. Even if you were, damaged isn't broken. You can't blame yourself for a little trouble with big words. If you want to blame anyone, blame Ward!" she said his name with a small tremble of fear, just in the echo. "The fantastic thing is that you can still work. Not right away, but eventually. You didn't lose your knowledge. You might just... have a little trouble explaining your genius from now on. In fact, that's not so bad. Most scientists aren't understood anyhow, in fact you might have more in common with the best and the brightest that Shield has ever produced..."
"Do you think that makes me FEEL better?" I asked dubiously. "Now I'm lumped with the rest of the... the... horde that can't talk their way out of a card... card... box because their social skills were left behind when they tried to take Advanced Calc... calc... calc... em... ugh. Calc..."
"Calculus?"
"Calculus...amongst children learning long division!"
"Fitz!" Jemma wasn't just smiling, she was beaming. She reached out and took my hand. "That was lovely! Listen to you! You're already improving."
"It's only because you're here," I said gloomily. "It's still true, though. I don't want to be like other scientists. I want to go back to the way I was when I could..." As suddenly as thoughts come, they die. The lifespan of a moth too close to a candle flame. Soon they catch, pop, and crackle till they're a tiny piece of unidentifiable charcoal.
It had already died.
"The way I..." I tried again. Not agin... Sh' was right, I WAS doin' well. F'r a mom'nt. thenet was goene...
"The way... I..." I clutched my head in my hands. Rock. Think of it. Rock. Used to... Back, forth. I didn't even know I was wishing out loud, or was it admitting failure? "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't..."
"Fitz, shhhhh, it's all right," Jemma stood beside the bed and wrapped her arms around me. I still shook my head, muttering like a whisper in a street, my hands over my ears. Trying to hush the roaring that was angry and repeating the right words for me to say over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and oadnvoer and over and voerf anvd over and voer aov e r and over and voer adnover orverand vero nda and over…
"What's wrong with me?" I whispered. Even my mind flips my letters around. I don't have to say them wrong, or write them incorrectly. They're already wrong in my head.
"There's nothing wrong with you," Jemma said quietly, holding me tightly.
:::
:::
Checkmate
:::
:::
If you feel you aren't being heard, maybe it because the right ones aren't listening yet.
:::
I get to wear real clothes today. A pair of black sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt, courtesy of Skye. God bless 'er for finding one thing that could improve this is little to do that, you know. But she found something. She's resourceful that way, that one.
"Please give me good news," I said.
Skye looked thoughtful. "I overheard the nurses talking about you."
"What did they say?"
"You'll find that the gaps and memory lapses will continue to improve. After being in a coma, it's difficult to remember things... in a way your brain is compensating for making everything else work, that short term memory isn't a priority. You may find yourself thinking back to before you and Simmons were trapped, and wondering why you're in a hospital. These things will come and go. Within a few days, you'll find yourself remembering clearly what happened yesterday, and within a few weeks, you can recount entire conversations or remember a book that you are reading. See?"
"Good news," I whispered. "But it's not enough for me to remember a book, Skye. I need to remember everythin'. If I'm going to work again. I need my degrees...training. I can't forget... anything."
"Simmons will help you, she always does."
She's been filling in the gaps. A word. Here, and there. When I didn't have it, she tried. But what if she couldn't always interpret for me? What happened if she failed? Where would that leave me?
The door opened, and there was a therapist.
The therapist introduced himself
Maybe he said Mr. Thomas
Maybe he said Bob
I don't remember
"You're looking better today," said the therapist. I guess he's seen me before? But I don't remember that. Maybe this is our second time meeting up. Maybe he was in this very room earlier today.
I don't remember
I am properly dressed for a jaunt outside of this room if I so please. If I promise to be good, will you let me go?
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, this time with permission. The second my weight began to bear towards the floor, I felt a hand around my elbow.
"Can't I jest try et by myself?" I asked, jerking my arm away. The more upset I got, the more the accent leaked out. If only my words could come as easily as the tone and influx of the pitch and pronunciation around them?
The nurse responded coolly, as usual. "You can put up my presence, or I can get you a walker. Your choice."
I stared at her, offended. "A walker."
This nurse knew how to push my buttons. "Like a dodgy old man," she said lightly. "Or you can let me stand here and make sure you don't fall." Her hand hovered by my elbow but she didn't move to hold it again. I shrugged and looked away from her, letting my feet slide to the floor. The therapist stood about five feet away, near the window. He was fortyish, balding, typing something into his smart phone.
The bed still bore most of my weight as I leaned on it, but I was standing. Surprisingly easily. My legs were tired and weak, as if I had been on a few hikes with Mum on a snowcapped mountain.
Suddenly homesick, I took a step forward, and another.
"Well done, keep it slow," said the therapist, glancing up from his phone. I realized this is what note-taking looked like when one was in a hurry.
"Has enyone called m' mum?" I asked.
"Your mother?" the nurse asked. She seemed surprised.
"I do 'ave one, y' know."
"I don't doubt that," said the nurse.
"Why don't we focus on one battle at a time?" asked the therapist.
"You're one t' talk 'bout focus," I snapped, taking another step towards him. "Focus on one bloody battle at a time! If y'took one sper' minit to fex my broken-up bren of mine instead of textin' like an arse..."
The therapist remained entirely cool and collected. He slipped his phone into his pocket. "I would apologize for being unprofessional, but it was intentional."
I stood there, swaying slightly, the nurse just waiting for me to make her day a little harder.
"I knew that if I stood here and stared at you like a spectator, you would feel embarrassed. You've never had physical therapy before, so I was giving you a little privacy. Now, how are you doing there? You've been standing for... oh... forty-five seconds now."
"I'm tired," I said shortly. An' y'r werds ar' bleedin' out all ov'r the plece... "Did anyone tell my mum that I... that I was... em..." I snapped my fingers once.
The therapist stared at me. Simmons would have helped me out.
"Em..."
Staring. Simmons would have helped me by now.
Why won't he take his damn eyes and put them back on his phone?
"hurt...?" I finished, voice nearly choking up on the word.
The therapist looked over at the nurse. I followed his gaze. "No," admitted the nurse. "We... informed your team..."
"WORK," I snapped. "Thes'es work. Dosn't my shield file 'ave a lest of emergency contacts? Come on. It's my mum. She should know I'm okay, she would'a seen the news about... about..."
I looked again at the therapist made of stone. Neither he, nor the nurse, were half as helpful as Simmons.
"About, the, em... en th' news... the em..." snap, snap. "Hydra... about Hydra."
"The words will come to you," said the therapist. "You just have to be patient with yourself. The next time you can't seem to say the word that you want, just take a deep breath. Try moving on to the nest part of the sentence without the word. Or just pause, and think for a moment. It may feel like it is taking forever to you, but to everyone else, it's just a brief pause. Finding the 'right' word is," he tried to smile, "Entirely overrated."
"NOT IN MY BUSINESS," I said far too loudly. "Not EN THES BESSINESS- EN THES BESSINESS TH' RIGH' WERD KIN MEAN EVRY'THING- D'YA UNDERSTAND?"
"But you are not at work right now," said the therapist. "You're just Leo Fitz, spending a little time with me, having a conversation. Finding the right word is not a matter of life and death."
"BUT ET COULD BE!" I nearly flung myself at him. "If I can't say the righ' word in a matter of life or death, et could be their deaths..."
"You won't have to worry about that now," said the therapist.
"What do y' mean?"
"We are taking steps. Small steps. Today, those are literal steps out of bed. A week from now, it might be metaphorical steps... steps back into regular routines. You don't have to worry about life and death in dangerous work situations until it's the right time."
"They don't want me back in th' field," I realized out loud. "I'm broken and they don't want me."
"There will be all kinds of negativity pulling at you from different directions," the therapist said. "The best thing you can do for yourself is not be the source. Let the storms come; but you, you are not allowed to be down on yourself. Repeat after me... one step at a time."
"Did y' get your degree from... from..."
A Desne' movie!
A DISNEY MOVIE!
SAY IT!
SAY IT, DAMN IT.
EHT'S A BREELLIENT ZENGER!
"From..."
Say it.
He waited.
A brilliant zinger and I couldn't even use it.
"Where the bloody 'ell did y' get your degree?" I barked, instead. "These pep talks are redeculous!" I stepped for him again at a wobbly pace, and this time he raised his hands slightly. What the efff? To catch me if I fell? Or was 'e afraid I was gonna hit em? I felt a hand around my elbow again, and I wrenched my arm violently away. "JEST STOP IT. I'M JEST MOVIN' AROUND LIKE 'E BLOODY TOLD ME TO."
And just like that, our session was over. Ended too quickly, or just in time, I don't know. Either way, I was done. Finite. My mind completely checked out, let loose like a kite with a broken string.
The mind games were getting stronger. Sometimes I thought I was awake, but I was actually asleep and dreaming... safe and sound in a bed that I was rapidly growing tired of, sometimes moving towards the door...
...a gray square in a white wall, nothing special.
I'm so tired.
What is wrong with me? Why am I being so rude? I'm never like this.
Why ar' these werds comin' out of my mouth like this.
I don't just lose it without good reason. Even when I do lose it I take it out on inanimate objects... never people. Right? Last time I lost my temper I was worried about Ward being Hydra... Coulson talked me out of it before I went too far. I just... reacted. Perhaps now I am overreacting. Aren't I just overreacting to something?
What am I overreacting to?
Oh god
why are they staring at me like that
who are you people
where am I?
...the space between asleep and awake is just a shade drawn over a window. It's dark but you can always pull it back and look outside.
Where the f' did that come from?
I can pull it back and go outside now; nothing stopping me-the last thing I remember-the halls. On the bus. Hydra is after us and I know them I can smell them if they hurt Jemma I don't know I don't know I don't know
we're running and they're stunned that we're escaping because we're fast but this really doesn't look like the bus so I don't know what's happening only that I need to tell my mum something; they forgot to tell her, so it's obviously my responsibility, I need to call her and say MUM I'M NOT DEAD
I'M NOT DEAD
Ward... please don't hurt us. We're your friends.
I'm standing in the middle of a giant chessboard. The marble pieces are man-sized and the color of shadows. They shift from square to square, some of them cracking and toppling towards me. I can only run as fast as I can, trying to dodge the figures.
I must be hallucinating.
I knew had to get to the end of the board... otherwise...
One of the chess pieces leans in closely to my face. It's the bishop, bearing a face similar to that of a red skull with lifeless holes for eyes. It grinned, a smile full of bloody teeth. The maw parted and whispered one word to me.
Schachmatt.
"Fitz."
What.
"Fitz, everything is going to be all right."
Where am I?
I have to force myself to look at my surroundings.
There's a second-story ledge around the docking bay. A balcony, overlooking at a familiar sight... the bus. The plane is returned to a nearly pristine condition, with the SHIELD symbol looking... well, like a SHIELD symbol. The angular eagle, a proud profile with slightly American set of stripes borne out of the wings and tail within a circle.
Maybe they should paint over it. Give it a few more heads.
I am looking down at it from upstairs. Upstairs... upstairs WHERE?
Then I'm facing forward, and there are two people standing in front of me. Each have their hands up, defensively. One is Agent Coulson. The other is Agent May. I know them and I remember both of their names. There would be no snapping to get the right word out.
There's something in my hand. A rod. Something broken, a length of metal I might have picked up on the ground. But I don't know why it is in my hand, or why I am clenching it in a white-knuckled fist. Or why my other arm is in a cast. Why is my arm in a cast?
"Fitz," came that same voice again. It was Coulson. He held out a hand. "Put the pipe down."
I'm so confused.
I am breathing too hard, as if I just ran for miles and miles. I did run. I remember running and shoving my way through... things. I thought it was chess pieces... maybe it was people?
"Put the pipe down, Fitz. We know you don't want to hurt anyone." May was saying.
"How," I managed. "What's happening?" I gripped the pipe tighter. "How did I get here?"
"You punched your therapist and ran away," Coulson said, not bothering to spin it any other way.
"Who?" I know I had a therapist. I knew I had been unconscious. I knew these things, and yet I knew that it was only a few short hours ago that Jemma and I were running from Hydra.
"A physical therapist. His name Thomas. You've met a few times."
"I know, I know, I know," I said, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to make him stop talking just by making an excruciating face as I tried to remember a therapist. The pipe twitched in my hand as if I really, really, wanted to use it. "Why..." I said slowly, "Why can't I remember why? I know, I know, I know I hit someone... I know I ran-but how did Simmons and I get here? What about the Hydra agents?"
May looked as if she had suddenly remembered an answer from her field exams at the ops academy. "What's the last thing you remember?" She was not relaxing her kick-arse poise.
"Simmons and I. Running from Garrett. On the bus," I looked over the railing again at the bus, and then back at them. "If I'm up here... and the bus is down there... where's Ward?"
"Fitz, you're confused, and you have a lot of questions," May said. "Just let me take this pipe and we'll go downstairs and tell you everything."
"I'm not goin' nowhere with you!" I didn't know how to use it effectively, but I swung the pipe outward in an arc anyhow. "WHAT AM I DOING HERE?" I cried. "Answer that an' I'll put thes down."
May stepped forward, but Coulson stopped her with a hand. "You were rescued. And brought here. But you blacked out, and now you're awake again."
"How do I know thes esen't jest anuther hallucination?" I demanded. "You coul' all be Hydra... and..." I held out the pipe, as the weapon I did not know how to use. "Where's Jemma?"
"She's fine," May answered.
"But where is she?"
"On her way," Coulson replied. "Fitz, I need to ask you one more time. Put the pipe down."
"Or what?" I asked. "You'll shoot me?"
Coulson held up both hands. "I am not pointing a gun at you, Fitz. I don't need to. You're disoriented, and confused, and I know you want answers. Put the pipe down, and I'll give you answers."
May's eyes narrowed. "Do as he says, Fitz."
"But..." I lost all sense of argument, of placement. "But..." I lowered the pipe, my arm suddenly tired. May darted in like a snake, grabbing my arm and knocking it against the railing. In my surprise I dropped the pipe and it clattered to my feet. Before I knew it, my arm was pulled behind my back and May was standing behind me. "Fitz," she said calmly, her voice buzzing like a fly right in my ear, "I need you to promise you're going to let us take you downstairs to see Simmons. Without running away."
I want to see Simmons.
"Okay," I said robotically. She let go of my arm. She hadn't pulled it back far enough to hurt. If it was a REAL Agent May, wouldn't she show no restraint? She doesn't draw the line between teammates or Hydra. If you're a threat, you're a threat. I was a threat, wasn't I? I was holding an old pipe!
"Are you the real Agent May?" I asked.
May's expression was unreadable. "Yes."
Coulson motioned me to walk with him. "Fitz, I need you to follow me. Can you do that?"
"Yeah," I responded slowly, taking a few steps. My legs felt weak and wobbly. I grabbed the railing to steady myself. My brain was screaming at me to be surprised and worried that I could hardly stand, but my muscle memory was telling me that this was the new normal. "I don' know if I... can..." the distance downstairs looked so, so long.
May looped my arm over her shoulders, partially supporting my weight.
"What are you doin'," I said in a rough voice. I hadn't had any water to drink in... years. Or maybe an hour. "I don't need help."
May didn't answer, she continued walking down the open balcony towards the stairs. We had gained an audience. There were several agents in the small crowd, maintenance and others I didn't know. They all pretended to be busy with something, but they were all watching in their own way. I recognized Skye and... that one fellow who had an eye for Simmons... Trip? Triplet?
They were staring. "Kin y' make 'em stop lookin' at me," I whispered to May.
Coulson looked over his shoulder at me. "Eyes on me, Agent Fitz," he commanded.
Eyes on Coulson.
I obeyed.
Just with my eyes.
The mind went elsewhere.
I was sitting back in my room. Hands folding and unfolding, unable to keep them from not moving. Nervous hands. I had to keep reminding myself why I was here. I pulled a weapon off the floor and threatened to break the skull of anyone coming near me. I punched my therapist and ran for it. This has been going on for some time... I didn't just wake up. I've been awake. In fact, I remembered eating cheerios for breakfast this morning. My brain was telling me that Hydra was crawling in and out like maggots in rotten wood, but they weren't here. And they weren't on my heels, waiting for me to fall.
I even remembered Skye handing me a blue t-shirt and saying she stole it out of an emergency supply. "I know it's not an argyle sweater, or a lab coat," she joked, "But I know it's better than a hospital gown."
So why, for god's sake, did I suddenly go so blind with forgetfulness and fear that my mind rewound back to the moments before Simmons and I got dropped in the ocean?
My hands kept fidgeting. I couldn't stop thinking, and yet forgetting to think about anything at all. Sometimes it was just a white landscape. Even snowfall doesn't make any sounds.
The door opened and Simmons walked into the room. I very nearly stood up, but May was standing very close to me. I got up halfway, hesitated, and dropped back into the chair. "Hey," I said, awkwardly.
"Hi, Fitz," Simmons said in her false cheerfulness. "You're looking better."
"Sit down, Agent Simmons," Coulson said without any of his usual sarcasm or general friendliness. "Fitz requested your presence after trying to brain a few people. Fitz, I promised I would answer your questions. I promised Simmons was safe. There she is. Now, we can talk." He softened, if only a little. "Don't forget, we're safe here." His eyes flickered to May, and May took a subtle step away from my side. "Whatever you'd like to know. I'll do my best to answer."
I wrung my hands. They were trying to twitch, and I had to hold them still. I got distracted, as if we were all old friends sitting on a back porch having a conversation, and a bee had flown too close to my ear. I batted at it, and hesitated, my arm in the air. I pulled it back down and held my hands tightly in my lap. There's no bees in here. I look crezzy, they all thenk I'm crezzy... I act like it, I sound like it. I am lost.
"When you're ready," said Coulson. Maybe for the second time. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Waiting for me to ask.
I looked up at him. "I forgot what I wanted to ask."
"That's okay, I can wait," Coulson said.
Simmons sat beside me, silent. She, too, was trying not to wring her hands. She clenched them tightly in perfect steepled fingertip presses.
"So the... 'em..." I kept thinking about Simmon's hands. "Em..." Damn. "The 'em... bus. After we were dropped from it. I mean, after we were rescued. I was brought here and I was in... in..."
"A coma," offered Simmons helpfully. No. No no no. Simmons. Not you too.
"Yeah," I said. "But no, that's not what..."
"A coma," repeated Simmons, raising an eyebrow. You've never had trouble finishing my sentences before, why should they be wrong NOW when it actually counted?
"No, no, no," I snapped, "I'm talking about the... the..."
"Unconsciousness?" Simmons suggested.
"Let him finish his thought," Coulson said in a very stern voice. Probably far more strictly than Simmons was used to. She looked like a kitten suddenly dunked in a pool, betrayed and unhappy.
"The helicopter, is what I meant," I sighed with relief. Simmons had let out a breath simultaneously.
"I guess I just wanted to know... what exactly... if you could, mind the gaps..."
"Fill the gaps?" Simmons asked.
"Precisely," I said. I thought y' lost your touch for a min' it there...
Coulson gave Simmons a peculiar look. "The helicopter rushed you here. This is one of our... hidden locations not infiltrated by Hydra. We took you into the emergency unit and rushed to get you taken care of. You were in a coma for six days."
"I know, I remember that," I said, slowly. "I do. I think. I just... forgot."
"But it's all coming back to you now," Simmons added.
"No, not really," I tried to explain. It was hard. Simmons, why do you keep getting it wrong? Where's our 'simpatico' working relationship? What changed?
Simmons eyes were alight with curiosity as if I were bacteria in a petri dish. "Have you had flashbacks? Perhaps if they'd let me see your brain scans..."
"NO," I shouted, turning and looking into her eyes for the first time since... Really looked. Brown, a hint of blue. I think. Or blue with a hint of brown. They were dark, like deep waters. "That's not what I'm tryin' to say, if y' could jest let me try to say one lehtell thing..."
"I'm sorry," Simmons said, a small glittering gathering in the corners of her eyes.
"You've never had trouble finishing my sentences before now," I snapped. "Why should they be wrong now when it actually counts?" This was followed by my own mouth dropping open with surprise and disgust at myself. For the first time since waking up, my mouth obeyed my thoughts completely. I thought something, and it came out correct. I was almost ecstatic.
"I... I don't know, Fitz," Simmons whispered.
I hurt her. I regretted it instantly. But I couldn't apologize. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me...
The words wouldn't come out, now.
When it counted.
"Why don't you give us a moment," Coulson said to Simmons, kindly. Simmons put on a brave face. "I'll see you later, Fitz," she said politely, standing and walking quickly out of the room. I held out a hand as if to stop her, but the problem with gestures is that they are silent. I might as well get used to using them more.
"Jemma," I began, but the door already shut behind her. "I hurt her feelings," I said quietly.
"Perhaps," Agent Coulson took her chair. "She doesn't mean it, but she agitates you. She is accustom to a rapid fire communication. She'll have to remember she can't always know what you want to say."
"Agitates," I repeated gloomily. "But if she can't help me, who can?"
"You'll have to help yourself," Coulson looked like he'd been waiting to use that one for years.
"I'm sorry I lost my mind," I said, resting my forehead in my open palms.
"Don't apologize. I'm not waiting to hear you say sorry." Coulson replied. "I'm waiting to hear if you want to know anything else. We're not keeping anything from you, Fitz."
"Where's Ward?" I asked suddenly. It wasn't the question I intended, but I sure as hell wanted to know the answer to it now.
"We're not keeping anything from you, except for that," Coulson said, with his poker face. If he had said this a month ago and we were all on the bus having a great old time with adventures and Asgardians and alien technology... he would have said it with a smirk, citing his SHIELD level and security access. Simmons and I would coerce Skye into hacking into something to find where Ward was being held. We would get in trouble, but forgiven in the end. It would all turn out okay.
But those were the good old days. I couldn't exactly torture Coulson for answers, so I knew I wouldn't get any.
"Next question, then," I said. "What does Schachmatt mean?"
Coulson and May looked at each other with a mystified expression.
"It's German," said Agent May. "It means checkmate."
I shuddered. "I thenk..." I said slowly, "I thenk I want to... get some sleep." Eht's very cold.
Coulson looked slightly worried. "You don't want to at least try and finish physical therapy?"
"Tomorrow," I said hazily, getting up. I walked complacently back to my hospital bed (which wasn't horribly uncomfortable, now that I think about it) and sat down on it.
"Why do you ask?" May asked.
I shrugged. "Maybe I heard a Hydra agent say it. I don't know. They used to be, em... em..." snap. "Nots... nazis. Nazis. Maybe I heard Ward say it." I knew this wasn't true, and they both knew it too. But they couldn't figure out why I would lie about it. "Maybe I was hallucinating and I saw something say it."
"Something?" Coulson clarified.
"Right," I answered.
"Not someone?" May asked.
"No," I repeated, frustrated. "It was just... it was weird, all right? I couldn't describe it. Not to you two. Something. Lots of somethings. It was dark and I thought I was running from Hydra and... I'm sorry."
"Like I said, you don't have to apologize, but you do have to follow through with physical therapy. Regularly. Beginning again tomorrow. Agent May will be supervising."
I glanced at Agent May, but her face was impossible to read.
"Okay," I agreed.
"Get some rest," Coulson said. "We'll see you tomorrow." He and Agent May did their special nod and left through the door, side by side. Partners and the best of friends, communicating without the slightest disfunction. Like me and Simmons used to be, side by side in the lab, finishing each other's thoughts.
I wonder when my mind stopped calling her Jemma. I had been calling her Simmons like an outsider, looking in on our relationship as if it were under a microscope.
What if he's right, Jemma? What if I'm worse when you're around?
:::
:::
Epilogue
:::
:::
a month later
:::
I can't make myself heard, so I must make myself seen.
I shake my hand when I can't think of the right word to say, sometimes snap my fingers until it comes to me. I bite my tongue to avoid making things up in their place. I am angry - so angry - when I can't get it right, and I lash out at the ones I want to protect the most.
I speak as if I blame everyone around me for the way I am now.
But my mind only desires their forgiveness.
When the time comes, I never remember how to ask for it.
Today I am returning to work.
The space where I am shown to is not like the facilities I am used to. We've traded in our technology for necessity. Brick walls, enclosed spaces, no room to breathe.
I find my work space, I turn on the computer. I clear an area, and then re-stack the items I just knocked over. I look at the microscope -
"Fitz."
"Jemma!"
"You're looking well."
"Cheers." I didn't know how to say she looks even better.
"You remember what happened yesterday?" Jemma asks.
I shake my head furtively. I don't know why she still bothers asking me things like that.
"I left," she says. "I left you here all alone. I abandoned you. Remember?"
I shake my head, blink.
Click.
"What are you saying?" I ask, then I hold up a hand, immediately cutting off any hopeful reply. "No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Let me do my work."
She saddens. "Well, all right," and she steps out of my way.
Now we are simpatico again, but unlike the way we were before. I try to process out loud, I can't find the word. I snap at her when she gets it wrong. I snap my fingers when I get it wrong.
I talk to her, but not usually in front of the others.
They wouldn't understand because she's on mission.
Somewhere else.
Without me.
But before I leave her - like she left me - a moment. Something small. But a light, nevertheless, in a darkness that throbs like the bottom of the ocean. Alone in the black -
"Things are looking good in here," Skye says. Leaning on the doorframe, casually, arms crossed over her chest.
"Yeah, if you like dungeons," I reply harshly, looking away and trying to busy myself with paperwork. I shuffle it, and I reshuffle it, before sliding it into a folder. One report. My first since being back. Just the last finishing touches on an age old case - the Centipede project. A conclusion I had nearly forgotten.
It reads like a dyslexic Dr. Seuss.
"Fitz?" Skye approaches, losing the casual appeal. "It's only your first day back."
"So?"
"So give it some time."
"I've given th'es plenty'ef time," I exclaim. "It's a waste of it, s'far as I can see."
"Well, I won't waste any of it," Skye begins.
"Then what ar' y' even doin' in here?" I cut her off, rudely.
I'm sorry. I am angry.
"I'm giving you your next assignment," Skye answers brusquely. "So don't hate me for it quite yet, all right?"
"What es et?" I ask suspiciously. Space toilets?
"The cloaking technology," Skye replies. "We need it. For the bus. And you're going to help us rebuild it."
She hands the folder to me, and I take it with some shock. This is a real assignment - from Coulson. As if he expects me to be just as I've always been. But what if I'm not...
I'd be angry with him if he gave me something beneath me. I'm angry because this assignment would actually mean something if I failed.
"It might - take me awhile," I choke out.
Skye puts her hand on my shoulder, and I touch her hand. "Just do the best you can," she says, and then she leaves. Abruptly.
She has better places to be.
But I imagine the pressure of her hand on my shoulder, still, except this time, the fingers belong to Jemma.
"You'll do very well, Fitz," she says.
I touch her hand, and turn away my head so she cannot see me smile.
I know she's there for me - in my head - now -
but -
I know I can look forward to the day that she will be here for real.
"Get out of my way, Jemma," I say, but without the same harshness as before. She catches the smile before it leaves my face.
And she smiles back, stepping aside. Maybe it's not so important that my mental state is completely deteriorated and I'm a mess - broken, even.
The important thing is that I work as hard as I can
till I can't
anymore.
So I do. I gather the material I need and try a small sample. I only have the power to coax a little reflection from one, four-square-inch panel. Even so it doesn't entirely cloak, but it's a start. Even when it fizzles and returns back to a dark, plastic square, and I grow angry again and hit the desk with my fist -
it's a start - more than before.
"I need further an... an... an..." I snap, and I point to Jemma.
"Analysis," she supplies.
"That's it," I answer. And I pick up the pieces again, broken. To be made whole again - with her.
I give it some more juice and plug in a small cord. The black plastic square glows, and turns white.
It's not cloaked, but it's more than nothing. White as snow.
I look at Jemma, and her image blinks and smiles back, and it makes me peaceful. And calm. The only person who ever calms me.
The same peace of mind that comes from the summit of a three hundred million year old volcano, cloaked in snow, brilliant under the sun.
"What is it?" Jemma asks, with confusion, seeing the expression across my face.
It's the first law of thermodynamics.
No matter what I do - she will never be created nor destroyed. I love her, and she me.
Simpatico.
:::
:::
the end
:::
:::
Continued in season 2 of Marvel's AGENTS OF SHIELD
Author's Note
Dearest readers,
I am so sorry this story ends so abruptly. Unfortunately I did all I could to give it something like an ending. As to why I couldn't finish in the way that I imagined, below is the story as to why. Stranger than fiction. The irony of it all is that Fitz's story became my story, just in different ways.
Somewhere between "Checkmate" and "Epilogue" I forgot everything from season two of Agents of Shield.
Why?
BRAIN DAMAGE?
Yes.
Told you the truth is stranger than fiction. I last updated this late fall of 2014. I had been dealing with some weird shit for a long time (health wise) and then that following year (2015) I was diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer. Sounds dire! And it was, I don't mean to sugar coat it, but rather spare you a long-winded medical history.
But I LIVED!
Beginning year 4 of remission as of January 2019.
But here's how it relates to the story.
Chemotherapy treatments effed my brain up; big time. Not as horribly as Fitz; but it did give me some very relatable symptoms…
1- Extreme short term memory loss... (think like, Dory, only less cartoonish)
2- Difficulty finding the right words
3- Mixing my words up constantly
4- a crazy ass seizure experience… (at least being unconscious multiple times...)
During that seizure thing, I actually experienced the freaky self-awareness and imagery, just like I wrote about for Fitz. When I first started this story I had never really been unconscious before, only ever "felt sort of faint" due to various incidents. This blew that way out of the water. And when I experienced it for myself, I realized my imagination wasn't that far off.
So after multiple unconscious experiences (yes, more than once unfortunately) I had to re-read this story (because I had forgotten most of it). Reading the first chapter again felt very true to the real experience. Which is weird.
During chemo, I started forgetting words or had trouble naming what I needed at the time. I developed a verbal tic where I started saying "yadda yadda yadda" in place of the actual word I needed so if I happened to forget more than two words in a row I'd say YADDA YADDA YADDA like... TWELVE FREAKING TIMES in one sentence. It made me cranky as HELL. I was so angry at myself all the time for sounding like an idiot. Um... I really should have paid more attention to the lessons they tried to teach through Fitz's character development getting angry at Jemma when he stuttered. I started just clamping my mouth shut whenever I started to say it, and eventually I was able to unlearn the tic.
Remember that short term memory loss thing? There's that, and also, deafness is a big deal for me right now. I was slightly hard of hearing in one ear before because of a bad flu infection, but after chemotherapy treatments, I'm frickin' deaf. And I don't mean that metaphorically when someone doesn't listen very well and laughs, "OMG, I'm like, so deaf."
I mean actually deaf. It makes communicating frustrating. I need hearing aids, per the doctor. Haven't gotten them yet. I guess I am just not ready to jump on that wagon yet. I think it will be like finally admitting that my hearing is never going to improve. Ironically while I write this, my left ear (the worst one) is ringing so bad it sounds like a couple of crickets making love on a windchime. (sorry, a little Deadpool humor is sneaking in here…)
With the short term memory loss, I can forget things almost immediately. Sometimes as many as several times in a row. I lock my car, walk to work, turn around, check the car lock, forget it immediately, check again, walk back a third time... then my long term kicks in. I remember that I've done this five minutes ago, but maybe not five seconds ago. I realize that if I truly forgot to lock the car door then I would remember opening the door and hitting the button at least. Sometimes it's simpler things, like names and numbers. Someone will say it and I immediately forget it - but this is improving too! If I get introduced to five people in a row, I'll probably remember the first three names, not the last two. This makes working for a law firm really... stressful.
Lastly - and the most important one of all as it relates to this story - I CAN'T REMEMBER THE LAST FEW SEASONS AT ALL. Agents of Shield? More like Agents of BYE.
IT'S GONE - FFT! LIKE THE WIND! I BARELY REMEMBER ANYTHING AFTER s2. I know there's the inhumans stuff s3, and... something about Bobby and Hunter being the BEST CHARACTERS EVER... And like, Jemma goes to the blue planet?
Usually I would have photographic memory about a show. I could name my favorite episode and describe a season in great detail. Now I only brief images.
So it was really, really difficult to go back to a story I was writing from season 2 - especially PRE CANCER - and try and write something that felt canon. I barely remembered the actual canon. Especially from something PRE-CANCER! (I realized as I was typing this that it looked familiar, scrolled back, and I had already used that phrase, but the irony is of course that I forgot I used it, and then used it again. I guess that illustrates this issue better than anything else! Haha!)
Anyway, I tried to finish, as best I could. I have always had this ongoing inside joke with myself that whatever I write in my fan fiction always ends up sort of coming true in real life (sans secret agents and Narnia of course) but aspects of it always feel familiar and usually occur AFTER I write it. I've always joked like I REALLY need to be more careful about what I write, and write more comedy and less drama! This is probably the best example of that yet.
I tried to give you guys an ending - but as the great irony would have it -
I had trouble finding the words. XD But thanks for sticking around :)