This is the first in the series of prompts that I've been getting, written a while back, in case any of you know me from Tumblr and remember. I figured, "why not post them here?" So yeah. If you guys have any Fitzsimmons prompts, send me a PM, a review, or drop by my Tumblr ask (meowl-mittens).
Prompt: Fitzsimmons being "Proud UK-ers" while watching a football match, while the rest of the team just watches them.
Football
It was supposed to be just a quiet day on the Bus. The team had just wrapped up a mission in Belize and were in for a long, peaceful flight back to their US base.
Ding!
Well, they thought it would be peaceful.
Skye muffled a groan into her pillow. From her bunk, she could hear the incessant sounds of bottles rattling from the fridge, the bell of the toaster, and it's really not supposed to take that long to pop popcorn like how many bags of it do you even need. Only one person could possibly have that much going on in their little kitchen. Normally, she would have no objections to Fitz's feast preparations, but that was usually because she was right there helping him out and whipping something up for herself. But such was not the case today. Ward had, by some miracle, given her the day off from training and all she really wanted to do was sleep.
Pop, pop, pop.
Sighing heavily, Skye gets up and opens the door of her bunk.
She marches to the open kitchen and finds Fitz making not one, but two sandwiches as a second bag of popcorn pops in the microwave. She quirks an eyebrow at the young engineer who doesn't seem to have noticed her presence yet.
"Are you making snacks for the whole team?"
The microwave chimes and Fitz is there to take the bag out in seconds, bowl at the ready on the counter below. He doesn't glance at Skye, as if he hadn't even heard the question.
"Uh, Fitz?"
"I'm a little busy right now, Skye," he grunts, putting the final touches in the sandwiches and runs back to the fridge to grab two bottles of Guinness.
Before Skye can comment, she hears the distant sound of a high-pitched voice come from the bunk next to hers. "Fitz, hurry on up! It's starting!"
If Fitz wasn't frantic before, he certainly is now. Skye watches with wide eyes as he gathers up both bottles, both plates of sandwiches and bowls of popcorn, and zooms past her straight into his bunk with more speed and agility she thought a scientist like him could have.
In Fitz's bunk she finds a small satellite-thing sitting on his bed, and Simmons sitting on his floor, blindly reaching for the sandwich and bowl of popcorn he hands her as he takes his seat by her side.
From the TV, Skye can see the channel display statistics of two different soc—er, football—teams.
Simmons turns up the volume as the game begins.
And Skye's eyebrows shoot up in amazement, because for the next twenty minutes, the two scientists invest themselves in the game as if they were two burly men in a sports bar. She knew this sport was a big deal to most Europeans, but she had no idea it could turn even their scientists into this.
Fitz is trying to yell at the players despite the fact that his mouth is completely stuffed, bits of popcorn kernels falling out. It's quite a sight to see, really, because the kernels are all over his sweater and he's waving his sandwich in the air. But even so, he's still pretty toned-down compared to... Well, Fitz is Scottish, and today the game is between Spain and Britain, so he's really there more as support for Simmons.
Simmons—meek, demure Simmons—who has been throwing out words that Skye never even thought was in the young biochemist's vocabulary.
"What's going on?"
Skye turns her attention from the show (Fitzsimmons, not the game) to find Agent Ward behind her, eyebrows pulled together in confusion over the noise. She smirks. "I can't tell for sure from all the British slang, but I think Fitzsimmons are watching soccer."
"It's football!" the pair says simultaneously, never tearing their gaze from the screen, and startling Skye. The way they were throwing popcorn and screaming expletives at the TV (she's been keeping a mental tally of the number of times they've used the word 'bloody'), you would've thought they'd been stuck in their own little world.
Apparently they've maintained their awareness of the outside, or maybe that's just because it's halftime now and the commercials aren't much for attention-grabbers.
"Honestly, you Americans can be quite daft," Simmons says, "calling football anything but is just absurd."
"That's because we have our own version of football," Ward says a bit defensively.
Fitz scoffs before taking another fistful of popcorn. "You mean your 'American football' where the players don't even use their feet?"
"And an oval-shaped ball? It makes no sense why you yanks didn't decide to call that soccer instead," Simmons finishes.
Even Ward raises an eyebrow at that. Who knew football made Simmons so... British?
Before anyone else can comment, the second-half of the game is on and Fitzsimmons are back to their patriotic scream-fest. Ward leaves them to it, heading to the bar to grab himself a beer. Skye trails after him, sighing partly in amusement. It looks like she won't be getting any sleep for at least another twenty minutes.
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