A/N: Asked for prompts on Tumblr and was sent "Ward/Fitz, pudding" so here it is. This is for kaizerkakeru over on Tumblr. Feel free to follow me over there, username kitstiles. Also this is my first time writing AoS so be nice...
Ward doesn't smile. Ever. It's just not a thing he does. And Fitz would say he understands but… he doesn't. Because Ward is just the coolest guy he's ever met. He's badass and skilled, can take down any number of targets with practically any weapon, even his bare hands.
Fitz has seen this first hand—several times—and he's still amazed by the agent's prowess at combat.
And, maybe, is kinda sorta jealous of it, too.
It's not that Fitz wants to be a badass or anything. He's perfectly happy in the lab with Jemma, working on his gadgets, making sure everything's working, double-checking the Icer is still icing people and his flying cameras still record. He gets his proud smiles from Jemma, his slaps on the back from Coulson, his awed looks from Skye, his small quirk of the eyebrow that means May is impressed.
But it's nothing compared to what Ward gets.
Ward gets the admiration, the constant arse-kissing, the worshiping eyes and flirtations smiles. Ward gets Skye's love—even if neither of them fully realize it—and Jemma's giggles and May's…well, in May's pants really. He gets all of this, but is still a grumpy arsehole.
Fitz doesn't get it.
But it's not really something he thinks about too often, just whenever he sees the brooding look that's damn near constantly on Ward's face, even after all the looks and words and sex. Yes, Fitz might be a wee bit jealous, but if it means he'd have to be a miserable bastard the rest of the time, he'd rather not receive all that attention. He's happy with what he has.
And at that moment, what he has is an empty kitchen in the bus and a large bowl full of his favorite chocolate pudding that he's mixing up as a sneaky late night snack while everyone else sleeps.
Everyone, that is, except Ward.
Who comes shuffling into the kitchen, hair mussed up, eyes blinking against the light, brooding brow drawn in a confused frown.
"What are you doing?" the Ops Agent asks, folding muscular arms over his chest. He's in a black tee because apparently that's all he owns.
Not that Fitz can say much there. Jemma has pointed out on several occasions how it seems impossible for him to not put together an outfit without a hint of plaid or tartan anywhere. But excuse him for being patriotic. Besides, he's worn his all-black tactical outfit with no plaid on it loads of times.
His boxers were tartan, but that doesn't count because it wasn't visible.
Fitz swallows hard, hands clammy where he grips the bowl and the spoon, heart thudding in his chest. It's not like he was doing anything wrong really. But with the intimidating glare coming from Ward's dark eyes, he can't help but feel like he's in some sort of trouble. It's the same reaction he had when Ward walked in on he and Jemma perfecting their impressions of him, the stone cold look that says he could break a person's neck with his pinky toe and not break a sweat.
He'd have to remember to use that one next time he and Jemma participate in another round of mimicking the Agent.
Clearing his throat, Fitz gestures to the bowl he's cradling to himself, tilting it slightly to show its contents. "Making pudding," he answers meekly, timid smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Had a craving and figured no one else was awake to steal any."
Which was a good point, if he could say so himself. Last time he'd tried to make the chocolaty treat, Jemma had stolen a good amount, Skye another load, Coulson swiping some for himself and May up in the cockpit. By the time they'd nicked their share, Fitz had only gotten a couple spoonfuls.
A tiny spoon at that. A teaspoon really.
So he couldn't be blamed for wanting to make some away from prying spoons and mouths.
Ward slowly nods once, features relaxing slightly into more of a poker face. Which, while better than his confused and angry frown, was still somewhat off-putting. He never gave away how he was feeling, ever, and it kind of made Fitz wonder what exactly was so attractive about that aloofness, why it made May decide to sleep with him.
Then again, Fitz figures, sex was sex. Didn't really matter if the other person was free-flowing with the touchy-feely talk as long as they were good in the sack.
Fitz's eyes remain locked on Ward as the Agents makes his way around the counter, steps heavy even without his usual combat boots on. Ward's eyes never leave the bowl as his finger dips in, scooping a large amount onto his finger and holding it up for closer inspection.
"I used to make this for my little brother all the time," he comments, voice low, as though he can't quite bring himself to speak any louder under the weight of what he's confessing. "It was his favorite. It helped make him feel better after my older brother was done kicking our asses."
It's the most personal thing Ward has ever shared with Fitz, more meaningful than "My first name's Grant" and "yes, it's my birthday today and no, I don't want anything. I don't like gifts that much. Or cake." The engineer stands there, unsure what to do or say, wondering what the appropriate response to such a confession would be.
But instead of saying anything, he steps back and pulls open a drawer, digging out a second spoon and holding it out to the Agent. "Help yourself to some," he offers, tilting the bowl so Ward to do just that.
A small smile plays at the corner of Ward's lips, a shallow dimple forming in his cheek, a soft "thanks" slipping out. Licking his finger clean, he slides his spoon through the pudding and scooping up some, eating the chocolate dessert. "Mm. Good."
"Thanks," Fitz replies with a proud smirk before digging in himself.
The two eat the pudding alone, silent in the bus' kitchen. It's not quite the same as when they'd gone on a mission together, mainly because Ward hadn't stolen his food and thrown it away someplace unknown, but the awkwardness is still there, the two of them having nothing really in common to talk about—if Ward was even in a talking mood.
Well, nothing in common except a love for chocolate pudding and a mutual respect for what the other one is capable of. For Fitz, it was more than enough.