Fitz sat on the cold floor with his palms pressed against his eyelids, trying his best not to lose it.

He couldn't stop what had just happened from playing out in front of him, over and over, no matter how tightly he shut his eyes or tried to think of something, anything else. It stuck in his head like the score of a horror film.

May, shooting him.

Waking up a prisoner, Skye glaring at him from the other side of the barrier as if he were a criminal.

Jemma telling Skye to hurt him, looking at him as if he were some sort of abomination.

Jemma, demanding his blood and probing his arm as if he were a rat in a lab, worse, as if he were something less than that, less than alive.

Jemma jumping away from him, shouting at him, running off in tears.

Being left, all alone, without any idea what was happening or why they were doing this to him.

It was as if his world had been turned inside out, reversed so that the people he loved hated him and his home had become his prison.

It felt like he'd lost everything and that fear cut right down to his bones, ripping at his lungs until each breath was agony and he thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest. The pressure inside of him mounted, bubbling like a shaken soda pop bottle until he cried out, pushing over the desk and shattering the lamp onto the floor.

The loud clash startled him out of his head, and he gasped, stumbling backwards before falling back onto the bed and quickly skidding up against the metal backboard, pulling his legs up against his chest and holding them tightly, burying his face in his knees so that the cameras wouldn't be able to film his tears as he wept into them.

'I want to go home,' he thought despairingly. 'Please just let me come home.'

/-/-/

A few hours later, a small squad of agents came to shower him off- but not before roughly scraping off samples of the hardened mucus-mud, skimming their tools across his flesh so that it was left raw and burning.

Then there was the shower. The shower was the worst part by far.

It wasn't even a shower so much as a freezing jet of water being launched at him from hose, pelting his skin, leaving it sore and achingly cold with no room for any relief that he was clean at last

The other agents, none of which he recognized, seemed unable to show even an ounce of sympathy, their eyes hard and glossy like polished stone, even as the water began to make his teeth chatter and he barely stifled a whimper.

Then he was shoved back into the cell and thrown a pile of clean, grey clothes. His sheets had been changed and the desk was now bolted to the floor. The broken lamp had been swept up and the blanket was no where to be found.

He was surprised to find that he missed it. It was a warm, muddy reminder that someone in this world had decided to treat him like a person, a reminder that he was, still, a person.

He narrowed his eyes, yanking his legs through the new set of trousers before spinning around to face his captors.

"Hey!" he shouted, prickling in annoyance when not one turned to acknowledge him. "Hey I want my blanket back!"

Technically, it wasn't even his blanket, and he felt like a child for even asking, but for all they knew it was his property and they had no right to take it. Not that they had any right to do any of the things they were doing to him now.

"Are you listening?" he demanded, stepping forward so that he was only inches away from the barrier that held him in. "It's my blanket. I'm sure you've checked it for… for… uh, for spyware… by now. So… so you… uh… you better give it back."

His heart sank when not a single agent had the decency to show that they'd heard his request and he was answered instead by the return of his old friend, the soundproof grey wall.

Groaning in frustration, he threw himself onto the newly made bed, having decided to lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, with nothing to do, as oppose to sitting on the hard floor (which had started to hurt his behind) with nothing to do.

It smelled like bleach and he hated it. He missed his stupid blanket.

/-/-/

A few hours later, just when his stomach was truly beginning to rumble, scrunching and gargling to lament it's utter emptiness, the wall became clear once more.

Fitz bolted upright the second he caught a glimpse of the outside world through the corner of his eye, finding himself face to face with Coulson.

He scowled at him, crossing his arms. "Well it's about bloody time," he complained. "How long are you going to keep me in here? Without anything to eat." His stomach grumbled once more and he hugged it with one arm. "This is inhumane." He paused for only a brief moment before adding hotly. "And I want my blanket back."

Coulson only stared, tilting his head back and forth as if he were looking at a particularly well put together model airplane, scanning him over until Fitz hugged his legs to his chest, uncomfortable.

"You're a very good copy," he finally said, and Fitz was surprised to hear his voice laced with sorrow. "We even managed to pull some skin cells from the mud we scraped off of you, Simmons says they look human but we're still waiting for the DNA analysis."

'Of course they look human! What do you think I am a mouse?' he thought incredulously, but he had a far more pressing problem to address.

"How is she?" he asked softly, leaning forward slightly. "Is she alright? Why did she run off like that? What did I-"

"We aren't here to talk about agent Simmons," Coulson cut him off firmly. "I just wanted you to know that we have our best working on this. Whatever you are, we're going to find out, so you might as well start talking." His eyebrows rose and he smiled amicably. "Maybe you'll even get something to eat. Unfortunately your…" He made a face, clearly repulsed. "Uh, blanket, is still in the lab being processed."

Fitz's jaw clenched. He wasn't sure if it was because of the fact that he was so hungry he was ready to eat his own fist, the cold shower, or if it was just everything that had happened to him coming to a head, but he'd finally lost the last of his patience.

"I'm a human being!" he growled. "That's what your tests are going to show, so you might as well accept that."

Coulson blinked, though his cool expression didn't falter. "What's your name then?"

He blew out a breath through his teeth, fire burning up his spine. "My name, is Fitz."

Coulson shook his head. "No."

"Well it sure as hell isn't Rumplestiltskin!" he seethed, jumping to his feet. "I'm one of your agents for cripes sake. I've worked for you for years, been loyal to you for years, and this is how you treat me?"

His eyes flared and Coulson shook his head again, his expression darkening. "No, you are not one of my agents. My agent… my friend… is dead."

It was as if Fitz had been dropped into a tank of cold water. Everything had slowed down, space and time warped and blurred around the edges.

"What?" he croaked.

"Agent Fitz died over a year ago. Agent Simmons identified his body."

Fitz wrapped his arms around himself, feeling sick. "No."

"I was at his funeral," Coulson pushed on ruthlessly. "I threw roses onto his coffin." His expression hardened, angry now. "I grieved for my friend. I watched my team, grieve for their friend. I watched Jemma…"

He stopped and Fitz lifted his burning, watery eyes towards him, swallowing hard. "She thinks I'm…" But he couldn't say it, it was insane, he wasn't dead, he was right there.

And yet Coulson had said they'd identified a body… that Jemma had...

His stomach ached as if someone had kicked him.

"Agent Simmons has had a rough year," Coulson told him. "But she's strong and she knew Fitz inside out. You aren't going to fool her- and if you try," he rose to his feet, taking a few menacing steps towards the barrier, "if you hurt her more than she's already been hurt, I'm going to make sure you end up somewhere far less comfortable than this place, are we clear?"

Fitz stared numbly down at his feet, the world spinning dizzyingly around him. He recalled her now, strained and tired, the way she'd flinched when he'd told her he loved her, bolted away when he'd squeezed her elbow.

She thought he was a copy, someone- or something- doing this to hurt her. Something wicked that was using his form to manipulate the people he loved.

No wonder she'd been so angry. He'd have been furious if someone had tried to use her against him like that.

And devastated. Losing her the way Coulson was saying that she'd lost him would have killed him. She loved him as much as he loved her, he knew she did. He felt it in her fingers when she touched his face, in her hands when she lay them on his shoulders, her arms when she wrapped them around him. He knew that, to her, he was precious and he couldn't bear the idea that he'd left her, caused her so much pain.

"I should have run away," he whispered, a warm tear finding it's way onto his cheek. "I shouldn't have let him take me."

"Who?" Coulson demanded, and Fitz looked up to see him only inches away from the barrier, watching him carefully. "Who took you? Are you saying someone did this to you?"

Fitz sucked in a shaky breath, trying to reign in his tidal wave of emotions so that he could explain. "Th-there was man," he told him. "He sat down next to me at the… at the uh, the hotel and he had a," he fidgeted on the spot, struggling to find the word, holding up the imaginary object in his hands as he searched. "A… a canister of… of some sort… and he sprayed it in my eyes." He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what happened after that, he must have…"

Must have what? Taken me away? Planted a body that looked exactly like mine? Kept me unconscious for over a year? He was quickly beginning to realize how little sense his presence made, why everyone was acting as if he were someone else.

Coulson was still watching him, expression unreadable, and it was all Fitz could do not to burst into tears. This was wrong, all of this, and he didn't see a way out, didn't see a way to stop torturing the people he loved.

"You… you can do whatever you want," he finally managed. "Take my blood, my skin, my hair, whatever you need. I'll co-operate," he vowed. "And I know you don't believe me, but I swear I'd never hurt any of you, especially Jemma. Not on purpose…"

His leader sighed, something close to sympathy running across his face before he backed away and sat back down on the chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"You're being filmed… we have software that can monitor facial changes and pupil dilation. Basically, it tells us if you're lying." he told Fitz. His head lifted. "But you knew that already."

Fitz nodded, because he did. He'd helped design some of the machinery.

"May is telling me that it isn't detecting anything," he went on, slowly, as if he couldn't quite grasp what was happening. "But we'll need to double check it, be sure you're really telling the truth and you're not just a really good liar. In the meantime though…" He gave him a half smile, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "I did promise you dinner."

/-/-/

Thank you to notapepper for betaing this and making sure it was ready to go :D

The Fringe reference is the lie detector camera. They use it one episode to look for shapeshifters (it is designed by Massive dynamic of course :P) and it's suppose to be nearly fool proof