This is the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. take on the swell rom-com that is 2004's Wimbledon. The characters belong to Marvel and the plot is inspired by the film (with some minor to major tweaks to better suit Fitz and Simmons) so credit must be given to both. This sucker is unbetaed so apologies for any egregious or barely noticeable errors.
When he walks into his obligatory post-match press conference, Fitz isn't all that surprised to see that only a few of the journalist chairs are actually occupied. There are perhaps 6 people scattered throughout a room designed for at least 80 reporters and Fitz wouldn't be shocked in the slightest if the people who'd turned up were interns, willing to take on even the worst of assignments to prove themselves, or more senior writers, being punished for one reason or another and relegated to covering the lesser players of Wimbledon.
He makes his way to the small stage and gingerly lowers himself into one of the chairs, eyes nervously flitting around the room and fingers twisting beneath the table.
It's silent for a few awkward moments, the sound of slight shuffling the only thing heard in the generally empty room, when the only woman in the fourth row raises a hand. Fitz shoots her a grateful smile for her willingness to get the ball rolling before nodding for her to ask him the first question of the conference.
"As a player who started your tennis career so young, has it since become a bit of an odd transition becoming the older player on the court in certain matches? Today's against Frances for example."
Fitz blinks owlishly at her for a moment, briefly contemplating confessing to having been calling Frances, "Nappy," since first seeing him, but decides that likely isn't the best course of action for him. So instead quickly thinks of a response that might be appropriate and truthful and settles on, "Oh… well, honestly it's not something I really spend a lot of time thinking about. I mean, sometimes I will but usually just in the sense that I think of my past injuries and realize that some of these guys haven't even been playing long enough to have had any injuries. But, I mean, I'm 28. I'm not old just… older so… I mean, that's not to say that I don't feel like a geezer at times but… no I don't think so. I… no."
He gives a rather pathetic shrug of the shoulders as his closing statement and winces slightly at the almost exasperated faces that are looking back at him.
It's not like I bloody well want to be here either.
"And, as someone who's been around for a significant amount of time, do you think Frances is a player who will have a lengthy career in professional tennis."
Fitz's eyes move to the new voice and realizes that he's nodding before the question has even been finished. "Oh sure! I expect to be an answer to the Trivial Pursuit question, 'Who beat top-ten player Joel Frances in his first Wimbledon match,' at some point in the future."
He tacks on a warm smile at the end, wholly sincere, and hopes that the reporters and the roughly six people who might watch this on YouTube will see that he genuinely does think that Frances will have a decent career in tennis.
"What Wimbledon is this for you Fitz?"
The smile drops at the question and Fitz shifts slightly in his seat before looking towards the reporter and stuttering out, "Umm… it's… it's actually my twelfth."
The unspoken, "I've played twelve and lost twelve," still seems to ring out in the room and Fitz continues to twist his hands nervously under the table as he notes the raised brows and surreptitious looks. He's seen them a million times before from a million different people but it still stings a bit to note the almost pitying disbelief he receives when admitting how long he's been playing and how little he's accomplished in the back half of his career.
"Bloody hell. You really have been around forever."
The statement, stinging as it might be, is the perfect opening and Fitz leans closer to the microphone to make the announcement that he's been preparing for awhile. "Yeah actually that's… I suppose that's as good a segue as any. I wanted to take this opportunity to announce…"
His statement is cut off when the doors open and the reporters in the room immediately flock to Hog Face Will Daniels when he walks through the doors with his equally hog-faced entourage.
"…my retirement…" Fitz voice tapers slightly as the cries of, "Will, Will! Over here!" begin to drown him out, effectively ensuring that nobody hears the final portion of his sentence.
"…from tennis. Effective the moment this tournament ends."
Nobody so much as glances his way, instead focusing on Daniels, the gargantuan oaf, and all Fitz hears is, "Winning Wimbledon will let you break the tie and edge out Grant Ward for the sole title of world number 1! How motivated does that make you?"
Fitz moves closer to the microphone and quietly murmurs, "That's my retirement from tennis," before standing up and walking unnoticed out of the press conference.
Trip is leaning against the doorway with a sympathetic smile and, though Fitz does his best to avoid it, ruffles his hair affectionately once he's in reaching distance.
"It was a good announcement."
Fitz just shrugs his shoulders and hums in response, hoping that his outwardly noncommittal air might hide his disappointment over what a spectacular failure that announcement really was.
"I really liked the, 'effective the moment this tournament ends,' part. Made it sound like a presidential statement."
Fitz can't fight the grin at this and shoves Trip playfully as they make their way to the locker room and get ready to head out. "Oh shut it."
-O-
When he arrives back at the hotel, there's a hoard of paparazzi outside the entrance and Fitz mostly ignores them as he clambers out of the car (unsurprisingly they ignore him right back) until he hears what it is they're shouting.
"Jemma! Jemma! Over here Jemma!"
Fitz glances over at the flashing lights and just barely catches sight of Jemma's signature ponytail weaving its way through the throng of fans and photographers with practiced ease. He also catches sight of a stony-faced May and isn't all that surprised that neither she nor her protégé stop to take questions. He's also unsurprised when he spots Jemma pause just before entering the hotel before turning around, making her way back to a young girl, and signing a tennis ball with a warm smile.
Fitz grins at the image for a brief moment before it's ruined by a pap who's shout of, "Looks like the ice queen is thawing a bit," can be heard over everything else. Fitz isn't sure anyone else notices the way Jemma's shoulders seem to tense momentarily at the words because in the next instant she's giving the young fan one more smile and turning on her heel into the hotel.
When the doors close behind her, there's the briefest moment of silence before another car pulls up and the journalists (if you can truly call them that) are flocking to the next moderately famous person to arrive. When Fitz hears the shouts of, "Will, Will! Over here! How confident are you that you'll leave Wimbledon with another Grand Slam Title?" he rolls his eyes and turns to the poor driver who's still waiting for him to get his bag from the boot with an apologetic expression.
Fitz blanches at the sight of Daniels and ducks past the crowd, pausing for a brief moment to murmur, "She's pretty great, huh?" to the young girl who's staring in awe at the neon tennis ball in her hand. She looks up at him, nodding her head with her mouth open and eyes alight, and Fitz grins before moving away.
"Mr. Fitz?"
The small voice causes him to stop in his tracks and he turns to the young girl in surprise. His shock grows even more when she timidly extends her hand, offering him a Sharpie, and shyly asks, "Would… would you sign it as well?"
His eyes flit between the Sharpie, the tennis ball, and the nervous expression on the girl's face before he manages to stutter out, "Oh… umm… yeah! Sure!" He crouches down with a grin and takes the proffered marker from her fingers, twisting the ball in his hand and trying to find a good place to sign it that won't detract from the far more impressive scrawl of Simmons.
Just as he's about to put pen to Penn, he glances at the girl with a raised eyebrow and asks, "Are… are you sure you wouldn't rather wait for Daniels? He's the next Wimbledon champ after all."
He gestures vaguely behind him at the commotion (apparently Hog face and his manager aren't like Jemma and May and are more than happy to pause for video bites) and does his best not to roll his eyes in case the girl in front of him actually would prefer waiting for the other man. He's pleasantly surprised when, instead, she just shakes her head, leans in, and says. "I don't think he'll win."
Fitz can't stop the laugh from bubbling out of him and gives the girl a beaming grin before ducking his head and finally begins the surprisingly difficult task of legibly scribbling his name on the tennis ball.
"Oh you think someone else'll take it?" He can see her begin to nod her head in his peripheral vision and smiles at her enthusiasm.
"I think a Brit will win."
Fitz nods along at that, sticking out his tongue slightly as he begins working on his last name, humming in agreement. "Watson? Yeah that's a solid bet."
"No, not Watson."
The soft response startles him and, when Fitz looks back up at the girl, she's giving him a warm smile that makes it very clear that she's aware of the fact that the only other male Brit in the tournament is him. The implication of her words very nearly brings tears to his eyes and Fitz is a bit embarrassed by how much he's impacted by a single person having faith in him. He's fairly certain that breaking down in tears is likely the one thing that would get the paparazzi to notice him (also would likely cause the sweet girl to go running for her parents) so instead Fitz gives her a beaming smile and returns her ball and Sharpie.
"What's your name?"
"Margaret. Margaret Taylor. My mum wanted to name me after Peggy Carter."
Apparently this girl's family really does have a penchant for British tennis players.
"Lucky. I got stuck with Leopold because my dad lost a bet. True story!"
The peals of laughter that leave Margaret's mouth cause Fitz to grin and exchange a look with the older man behind her who he now realizes is likely the young girl's father. He stands up, smile still in place, and watches as the girl gives him a fond wave and turns to excitedly show her father the tennis ball that she's clutching like a lifeline.
Fitz remembers when such a thing excited him and only lets father and daughter get a few steps before he calls out.
"Hey Margaret!"
She turns around with that same warm smile from before and Fitz is spurred on by the sight. "Whether this Brit makes it to the finals or not, should you or your family ever want to stop by Wimbledon… you'll be on the list okay? Any round I make it to. Just go to will call and say your name."
While it is a bit funny to see the father's mouth drop further than his daughter's, Fitz focuses on the way that Margaret is suddenly staring at him with an awestruck expression that makes him feel a bit like one of those One Deception blokes that young girls seem to think so highly of.
"Really?!"
Fitz grins at the combined excitement and doubt in her voice and nods his head immediately so she knows he's not messing around. "Yeah. Who knows, maybe you'll be my good luck charm."
He's a bit startled when she barrels into him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug, and squeals out a few dozen thank you's as he awkwardly pats her head and looks at her father to make sure he's not doing anything wrong. When she pulls away Fitz's eyes widen at the sight of tears on the young girl's face and worriedly looks to her father again in case he really has done something wrong now. But then Margaret gives him another smile, a tad shakier than before but just as genuine, and whispers, "I've never gotten to go before. It's too expensive," as she uses the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
The admission is a stark reminder of his own childhood and Fitz nods his head in understanding, almost admitting that the only Wimbledons he'd gotten to attend were ones he'd played in but instead deciding to give her a marginally less awkward pat on the head. "Well then, I'll do my very best to stick around as long as possible so you get the chance to watch as much live tennis as you can stand."
Margaret gives him another tight hug and Fitz sends her back to her father with a small wave, feeling a warmth spread through him as he turns around and hears the joint, giddy, laughter of the Taylors behind him.
The paparazzi are still gathered around Daniels (bloody hell how long can this man talk?) and Fitz breezes past them into the hotel. He gives the doorman and woman behind the desk a friendly nod before heading for the lift and being overcome with a sudden wave of exhaustion. The thought of collapsing on his bed is so appealing that he contemplates, for perhaps the first time in his life, foregoing dinner in favor of a blissful twelve hours of sleep.
When he finally makes it into his room, he tosses his bags in a corner and notices the blinking light on the hotel's message machine.
Probably mum.
Fitz hits the play button on his way to the bathroom ensuite, cricking his neck and rolling his shoulders in a bid to get rid of the day's soreness. The prospect of showering it away makes him come dangerously close to moaning and Fitz shucks his shirt off before he's even made it through the bathroom door.
"Well done Fitz, Leo Fitz. Made it through round one! I have to say…"
Fitz thinks he might actually have pulled something with the speed at which he runs back into the main room at the sound of Jemma's voice. His eyes widen as he sprints to hover over the machine and listen to the message.
"…you were quite good at handling those balls today. Almost as good as me. Speaking of… you still owe me fish and chips. Say 7 o'clock? My twenty-one-twelve."
The message machine clicks off and Fitz gapes at it for a solid minute before moving forward and gingerly pressing play again, half expecting to be met with silence since there's no way Jemma Simmons really just…
"Well done Fitz, Leo Fitz…"
He plays the message another three times to try and figure out whether or not he's deluded himself into hearing a proposition within that generally innocuous message before remembering Jemma's previous suggestion of "working out" and realizing that there might be a slim chance that he hadn't misunderstood her.
At this realization, he glances down at his watch and widens his eyes at the 6:37 that is flashing up at him. "Oh bollocks."
Fitz sprints into the shower, throwing clothes left and right as he mentally calculates how much time he'll have left to run down to the fish shop around the corner and groans at the rather obvious answer: Not a lot.
"Shit, shit, shit."
