"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Part II
Daisy glances over at Fitz.
He's holding his left arm over his ribs, no doubt to get sympathy. After the majority of people leave, stomps over him and crosses her arms. His eyes are closed, so she clears her throat to get his attention: he does nothing.
So he's ignoring me now?
"Quit trying to be the victim in this." She badgers.
Fitz whirls around looking confused.
"What?" Fitz questions and she scoffs.
Like he didn't hear me.
"Oh please," She spits, rolling her eyes, "I said: Quit trying to play the victim."
"Victim—? I haven't done anything to insinuate that!"
"Oh yeah, like you limping in here, and Yo-Yo and Simmons bringing up your 'injuries' in front of everyone wasn't a plan to get our pity, is that it? Well, just so you know, it didn't work."
"It wasn't! I don't want anyone's pity, definitely... definitely not yours." Fitz defends, looking distracted by something.
Coulson tries to calm her down. "Daisy that's enough."
"God, can't you see he's trying to make everyone feel sorry for him so they forget about what he did?!"
"I— I can handle it. Pity is for the... the weak." Fitz cuts in. "That's what Father always said..." He adds in almost a whisper. He runs his thin fingers through his hair, fear painting his features as he stares at something across the room only he can see.
"Uh... okay. Fitz?" Coulson try's to get through to him. "Are you alright?"
"I um— yeah. I'm... fine." He stutters. "I was just uh... Father will... probably need me in the lab. I have to go before he... uh..."
This is not good Coulson thinks.
"Oh great, is he having another mental breakdown now?" Daisy asks, looking up at the ceiling in irritation.
"I don't know." Coulson supplies, watching Fitz cautiously. 'She is not helping.'
Fitz is sucking in short gasps that wouldn't pass for real breaths. Letting out a suppressed whine, he presses his hand against the shirt under his jacket, the fabric against his side making a sickening squelching sound. He scrunches his nose annoyance and pulls the fabric away from his skin. He then proceeds to stare in horror at his bloodied hands with confused, unfocused eyes. Mack is the first to see the newly developed color on his hands.
"Whoa whoa whoa, is that blood?"
Daisy whips her head around, hoping Mack's not talking about... him. No such luck.
Fitz takes a deep breath scrunching his eyes shut. He fumbles with pulling his jacket, ripping it from his shoulders and shivering as the cold air hits his sweat-soaked dress shirt. Only then do they see the dark splotch of blood covering the side of his shirt.
Oh, God... Daisy thinks to herself.
He takes a step forward before stumbling and catching himself on a desk, leaving behind smears of bloody handprints like a horror movie. He stands there, hunched over the desk whispering to himself.
Mack glances at Coulson in silent question, to which Coulson nods.
"Turbo..." He walks forward, placing a hand on the younger man's thin shoulder. He flinches violently and grabs a gun that was sitting on the desk, instantly aiming at Mack's chest. Mack steps back startled and raises his hands in the air placatingly.
"Leave. me. alone." The battered hand holding the gun is shaking so much Mack wouldn't be surprised if Fitz missed. Though he wasn't going to tempt fate. "You're not real... you're not real..."
Fitz was staring through Mack. Hatred and fear evident on his face.
"Fitz... what are you doing buddy?" Mack asks in a soft tone as if talking to a toddler with a knife.
"You don't think I know that?" He cries in response.
There's definitely something more complicated going on here. Coulson thinks.
Daisy steps forward, lifting a hand to quake the engineer before he does something to Mack.
"Stop! Stand down, Daisy." Coulson stops her.
"No, Coulson! You don't know him like I do! He's Hydra! He's a monster..." Fitz gives her a nervous sideglance and he backs up near the grate stairs.
"If you quake him while he's hurt, it will only make things worse." She stares at Coulson for a moment before conceding with a sigh and reluctantly lowering her hand.
For the first time since the incident, she notices how horrible he looks. His eyes pooling with confused tears; dark circles prominent against the ivory color of his frighteningly pale skin. Every inch of his skin shimmers with a sheen of perspiration, reflections of light quivering as his body shakes. The usual bright blue spark in his eyes have dulled to a dark navy.
Fitz stares at the floor, eyes haunted, then looks back up at Mack.
"You're right..."
He pulls the gun up to his temple.
"It's the only way to protect her." He says softly, hopelessness dripping from his voice.
His emotional state is much worse than I thought. This has gotten out of hand. Coulson concludes.
"Fitz!" and "Hey— HEY! This isn't the answer!" Coulson and Mack yell. All reservations Mack had about Fitz vanish.
I was so... wrong. Daisy starts to regret how she's been treating him.
"...the only way to get rid of you." He squeezes his eyes and is taken by a sudden coughing fit. Rough rattles jar in his lungs, sending crimson blood splatters to the grates and down to the lights below. He freezes for a fleeting second, an empty look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry..." He breathes, and his finger twitches on the trigger.
A gunshot resounds and everyone flinches.
The gun slips from his slick, trembling fingers, landing with the loud bang of metal on metal. Fitz collapses like a puppet with severed strings, his eyes rolling back. Mack rushes forward and catches the thinner man in his hulking arms as he pitches backward towards the stairs and the concrete below. Behind him, May stands at the doorway, a smoking ICER in her hand.
Perhaps she's the only one who can understand a small piece what Fitz was feeling.
"What the hell is going on here?" May inquires, shocked and somewhat angry. Mack adjusts so his chest is to Fitz' back, lifting him from under his arms. He gently drags Fitz' unconscious form off of the platform and onto the smooth floor.
"Uh its a long story. We were trying to figure it out, then he grabbed the gun... and you iced him soon after." Coulson supplies factually. "Thanks for that, by the way. You had great timing." He adds genuinely.
"He was going to shoot himself, with a real gun. Not just an ICER..." May says with disbelief. "Anyone care to tell me why?"
Coulson looks down at the young agent with wide eyes but doesn't answer.
Mack crouches down, leaning on the balls of his feet. The red stain now covering half of his shirt and the waist of his trousers. Mack's hands hover over the soaked cotton fabric. He delves in, pinching the edges of the fabric and lifting it upwards. He winces at what lays beneath.
Black and purple bruises stretch across his abdomen and the bottom edge of too prominent ribs. Mack makes a mental note to get the kid to eat something when he's better.
If he gets better
There's wound on his left side at the bottom of his ribs covered by a newer-looking, extremely blood-soaked, pad of gauze— It's efforts obviously useless in stemming the flow of blood. Mack wouldn't know it used to be white if he didn't know any better. Fitz' stomach is smeared all over with the coppery red substance, creating a morbid painting across his canvas-white skin.
"He didn't look that bad at the facility. I would've sent him to medical if I had known." May states, sliding her ICER into its holster on her hip. Daisy's hand comes up to her mouth nervously. Mack apprehensively peels back the gauze to reveal the oozing wound, the discarded cotton making a wet slap as it hits the floor.
"Someone go get Si—"
Everyone looks over as Jemma rushes into the room.
"Oh thank God..." Mack whispers.
"What happened?" She asks, eyes drawn to Fitz' blood covered torso and the discarded gun on the floor.
"We were hoping you could tell us."
"I didn't find out he was so badly injured until a few minutes ago."
"Why didn't he say anything?" Mack chimes in.
"Well he was a little preoccupied with everyone treating him like a felon, or—" Simmons stops herself. She was going to say 'Ward' but thought better of it. She knows that Fitz thinks almost as little of himself as he thought of Ward. Maybe more. If only he could see the truth— see what she sees.
She sees the man who was ready to give up his life at the bottom of the ocean. The man who sacrificed his everything to save Will, even though he's loved her for so long, and wanted to be with her for even longer. The man that has been broken by so much pain and sorrow throughout his life but is still standing.
Jemma crouches down and inspects the ripped wound. The edges are more jagged than before, which will make it difficult to stitch properly, not to mention the medical wing is on the other side of the Lighthouse. She unbuttons the few bottom buttons of his shirt open, exposing the full area around the wound.
There are a few scars here and there across his torso that she's never seen before, ranging from small pink or white creases, to jagged raised lines just darker than his skin. She'll have to ask him about those later. She sticks her index finger into the wound as gently as she can, trying to distinguish how deep it is. He flinches with a groan, still unconscious.
She can reach down to the knuckle on her hand, at the base of her finger. Not good. She sighs in a defeated tone. She's going to have to choose the risky option.
"I need someone to get me a stapler. We don't have enough time to get him to medical."
Coulson blanches.
Mack stands up quickly and rifles through some drawers until he finds an old stapler that has definitely seen better days, but it will have to do.
"This can't be sanitary..." Mack says as he places the office item into Jemma's open hand.
"Exactly right; which is why I need some alcohol or a lighter..."
"The pantry is just down the hall." May points out, and turns quickly, jogging down the hall.
Simmons takes a cleansing breath. She should've persisted when Fitz said he was fine.
He'll be okay... He'll be okay... He'll—
"Why didn't I see this?" Coulson asks no one in particular, running his good hand down his face. "It's been so obvious that he hasn't been sleeping. I should've seen it. I should've helped him."
Jemma looks over at the director sympathetically.
"It's not your fault. He's been shutting me out too. Losing himself."
Coulson returns her gaze, offering one of assurance. They look over at the sound May's footsteps running back into the room. In her right hand is a bottle of Bacardi 151. A good choice for substituting rubbing alcohol, considering it was discontinued in 2016 for its high alcohol contents. Simmons snatches the glass bottle from the agent's hand briskly and wrenches the cap off with a twist.
Using staples has a higher risk of infection so she can't take any chances. She pours the strong smelling rum all over the stapler and then begrudgingly, on Fitz' wound.
Jemma cringes as his head rears back and he lets out a horrible choked scream, back arching off of the floor. His throat gurgles and he tilts his head to the side to cough up a reasonable amount of blood. Alarmed, she sets the bottle down quickly and tries to get Fitz' attention.
He pushes her gentle hands back in a panicked frenzy and tries to drag himself away. She grabs onto his shoulder, looking him in the eyes.
"Hey hey— look at me. It's just me. It's Jemma."
A flicker of recognition ignites in his glassy cobalt blue eyes. She's taken off-guard as this scenario eerily resembles her encounter with his LMD.
"Jem-Jemma?" He asks weakly squinting at her critically— as if he was far-sighted and had lost his glasses.
"Yes, that's right, It's me." She confirms, tears stinging her eyes as she gazes into the ocean of his own fever-bright ones. He seems to be coherent enough at this moment so she decides to take the opportunity. "Listen, you need to stay still. I have to close your wound but it's going to hurt... a lot." She adds the last part with a tone of sympathy.
He closes his eyes and nods tiredly. She takes his silent consent and pinches the edges of the laceration together. He flinches, cringing, but quickly holds himself still, biting his lip roughly to silence himself. His hand slams down flat on the concrete mindlessly searching for something to hold onto. Mack notices this, and in a flash, he kneels beside the suffering young man, clasping his scarlet-smeared left hand in his own.
"Here we go..." Jemma braces.
She positions the stapler over the pinched line of his slick flesh and presses down.
He lets out a muffled grunt and jumps. Mack is shocked at how strong Fitz squeezes his hand. He wouldn't be surprised if a few bones broke, the pain was almost unbearable. almost. He knew the pain Fitz was feeling was a hundred times worse.
A dark part of Daisy says that he deserves it and she almost smirks. Coulson looks away from Fitz and see's the small quirk at the corner of Daisy's lips. His eyes widen with shock and his brow furrows in disappointment. May saw it too. She shakes her head slightly with a touch of anger painting her features.
SNAP
Another staple. Blood slides down his lip as he bites even harder than before. Daisy sees Coulson's glare and her face drops. She instantly feels guilty for thinking such horrible thoughts.
SNAP
Fitz' hands shake from exhaustion. He curls his right hand into a fist, slamming it onto the floor repeatedly. The scabbed-over slices on the side of his hand crack, leaving dots of red mottled on the grey cement. Coulson gives one last pointed look at Daisy before crouching down and taking Fitz' other hand, preventing the young man from injuring himself further.
SNAP
Fitz can't silence himself any longer; a sharp rasping cry escapes his lips. Coulson can feel all the scabs on his knuckles, and the blood welling in the crescent-shaped cuts on his palms from where his nails dug in.
"Here's the last one," Jemma states before putting pressure on the stapler. He only has the strength to gasp. His head lolls to the side slightly before shooting back up. "I have to disinfect once more. I'm sorry." He nods again before she pours one last splash of rum over the stapled wound. His hips buck and he shouts before it abruptly dies off, eyes rolling lazily back under the lids as he passes out.
Jemma is almost glad that he did, so he won't feel so much pain, but it will also make it harder to move him. She debating between waking him up to try and walk or figure something else out. Mack must have been able to tell what she was thinking because he nods and leans down, placing his right arm under Fitz' back, and his left under his knees. Fitz' arms hang limply as Mack hoists the thin man into his hulking arms.
"Take him to the infirmary. He needs blood straight away." Jemma directs.
He's careful to avoid the red puddle at his feet and walks around it. A pang of sadness stops him from advancing. He remembers how he would do this with Hope when she would fall asleep during a movie, or when she was tired after putting together some random gadget late at night. For a moment he wonders if Fitz' father ever did the same for him, but the thought is immediately shucked away with resentment as he remembers what Jemma had told him about that wretched man. He can only imagine how lousy Fitz' life in the Framework was.
Then it hit him.
After they got out, he didn't even stop to consider Fitz' childhood in the Framework. No wonder he turned out so screwed up. Having someone always telling him that he's good enough, demanding his obedience by instilling fear... he couldn't ever imagine treating Hope that way. The thought sickens him.
Mack looks down at the young man in his arms as he walks to the infirmary.
Fitz' face, free of the usual mask of brooding indifference, makes him looks deceptively peaceful and much too young. The blood on his blank face, and the dark purple streaks under his eyes against his porcelain-white skin, contrast with a beauty that's morbidly ethereal-looking and almost skeleton like. The kid looks like he hasn't slept for a year. Thick stubble— which seems like it could use a good trim— covers his sharp, bruised, jawline.
Mack has a sinking suspicion that Fitz has been punishing himself, whether he realizes it or not, in his almost... manic drive to solve every problem and keep working to fix it until he drops. He has a wicked inferiority complex and tries to compensate by constantly trying to prove himself. He's trying to make up for everything that's happened since the Framework, which seems so long ago. Having two separate lives that were so drastically different, and then being thrown in an isolated prison cell for 6 months, his only contact with other people being with Hale's cronies who treated him like nothing more than a source for info they needed... Mack doesn't blame him for cracking.
He never asked for any of this.
Coulson, May, and Simmons follow him and Fitz to the medical room, no one having anything to say. Daisy apparently doesn't care enough to join. He swiftly turns the corner to the infirmary and deposits Fitz on the nearest medical bed. Jemma started bringing an IV pole over as soon as they got there. She hooks up a bag of clear fluid and a bag of blood that has 'O-' scrawled on the front in blue marker. She has to scrub hard at the top of his hand with an Iodine-soaked cotton ball to get the dried blood off and disinfect before sticking the IV port in without hesitation, hooking up the two tubes that connect to the bags of fluid, and adjusting the flow rate.
Mack leaves to grab some coffee to stay awake, and when he comes back, Fitz has a tube fixed to his nose that's connected to a bag of cream colored liquid.
Feeding tube... Mack notes, suddenly feeling a little sick to his stomach.
Mack rubs his temple pulls a chair over to the bedside, emotionally exhausted, but he feels as if he has a little more understanding of the broken young man. He sits down, taking the pale and damaged hand in his own larger ones and waits.
He's not going to abandon Fitz ever again.
To be continued...