Chapter Text
When Jemma suggested spagbol for dinner, he hadn't expected a suit, a maitre'd, or antipasti. Yet, here he was, wearing the first, being waited on by the second and reading about the third in a fancy entrées section of the even fancier menu.
When Jemma suggested spagbol for dinner, he was most definitely sick from bed rest, and had promptly agreed, even if, "yes, Fitz, the wheelchair is mandatory. Doctor's orders." He had tried to tell her his legs were perfectly fine, he could walk the ten feet to the table and for the millionth time, "you're not a medical doctor, Simmons, and you don't have to push it for me, it's entirely automated, could you please--"
It was hard to argue, though, when his tongue would curl over the wrong vowels and half the words slipped away half-made, when all of his brilliant ideas were just out of reach, when Jemma pretended her eyes weren't puffy from crying and that he could finish her thoughts the way he used to.
Jemma had suggested spagbol for dinner, but he couldn't focus on the white-cursive-on-red from which he was supposed to pick his meal, because the letters kept dancing on the page. Fitz shut his eyes tightly and opened them again, breathed deeply to take in the smell wafting from the kitchens, breath in, breath out, and somehow managed to convey to Jemma she could pick whatever she liked. She was paying, after all.
"Let's go with our original choice, shall we?" She smiled and squeezed his shoulder, and his heart warmed when, one, two, five seconds later, her hand still didn't move. The delicate weight anchored him, small and soft and sure, and Fitz held it in place with his own hand, resisting the urge to cuddle it against his neck, to rub his cheek on her knuckles, to never let go.
It was almost enough to distract him from the too polite smiles and the entire evening crowd sizing him up with pity or discomfort or disgust. His fingers tapped an erratic beat on the armrest, and he scowled at a suited mustache two tables away, willing down the flush working its way up his face.
Jemma pointed at something or other on the page or commented on the decor or blabbed about whatever documentary was on tv last night, and Fitz frowned, scratching an irritating itch at the back of his bad hand, still in a cast. Her attempts at small talk were at the same time endearing and irritatingly condescending, and specially frustrating when he couldn't properly answer back.
The food took about three centuries to arrive. When it finally did, waves of relief came from Simmons, who then had an excuse to keep her mouth otherwise occupied. He would've been annoyed if he hadn't felt the same himself. His stomach plunged to his feet, however, when said food turned out to be his main concern.
The spaghetti bolognese looked and smelled wonderful, and his stomach approved with a hearty growl-- but his fine-motor skills disagreed. Five tries later, the movement of swirling the pasta around a fork eluded him, and trying to take them to his mouth resulted in a red heap landing in his lap.
"Oh, Fitz-- here, let me," Jemma dove in to take his fork, and he pulled away as if her skin could shock. He could at least feed himself, thank you very much, and wouldn't stoop so low as to have the woman he lo-- deeply admired feed him, in any context other than a proper date. Else she would also want to change his diapers and wipe his arse-- and something revolting rose up his throat at the thought he had spent a week in a coma, and a month being barely conscious, and she probably had already done that. Multiple times.
It was more humiliating than he could possibly imagine.
She frowned and tried again, and he swatted her hand away, face matching the tomato sauce on his plate. "Jem-ma!" I'm not an infant, stop treating me like one, he wanted to say, but his mouth and brain refused to connect. The food seemed less appetizing by the second, the few strands he caught insisting in slipping back to the plate, his insides aching from embarrassment more than hunger. Jemma, at least, looked chastised enough to stop trying to help.
Don't worry, she repeated, it takes time, she said, we'll fix you, she insisted, but his sweaty hands couldn't get a grip on the cutlery even if he tried and tried and tried again. The conversation muffled around him and the walls seemed to close in, the indoor heating stifling inside the prickly suit, the tie Jemma had so carefully laced around his neck feeling more and more like a noose. He couldn't concentrate, though, he could barely remember the steps to what he was doing because Jemma kept nattering away in her fake cheery tone, and he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't understand them, and he wished she'd just-- she'd just--
"STOP!," and his hands were up, gripping the shorn hair at the nape of his neck, and his plate was shattering on the ground, the stares of the patrons burning his face. "Stop, pl-please, stop," he panted. The restaurant fell into a silence that echoed inside his brain, and there were a million shiny white pieces on the floor, klutzy Fitz, and he needed to get out, get out right now, because porcelain doesn't ever mend, right, not really, the pieces never fit back together again.
His rush to be on his feet fought his barely responsive limbs, and he knocked down what was left of the fine silverware, glass crashing and spilling red on the checkered tablecloth, wine dripping to a pool on the carpet. But he was up, he was up and his knees buckled, and he would show these people he wasn't broken, he was fine, he didn't need a bloody wheelchair.
Jemma squeaked, hurrying to hold him up as he stumbled away from the table, on his way to the nearest balcony. "What are you trying to do, Fitz?" She scolded in a whisper, as if they hadn't already caught the attention of the entire venue, even as she draped his arm over her shoulders, even as he tried to shake her off. He focused on putting a foot in front of the other, the archway a mile away.
Step and step and another step, until they were outdoors. The effort was enough to deflate the anger out of him.
"Don't get too close to the edge," Jemma warned, eyeing the two-floor drop warily, and he almost scoffed over the unnecessary concern. He held onto her anyway as they stood together, breathing in deeply, reveling in the comfort of her coconut scent. Daft of her to fear him falling from the balcony, when he had taken a plunge much worse and more bittersweet, a long, long time ago.
"Wait for me a bit, please," she said as she lowered him to a crafted wood bench. Fitz sat down willingly, relieved to give his sore legs some rest. Looking up, he could see the stars above, pinprickles of light fighting for space over the city smog.
His shoulders relaxed on their own, when the quiet finally reached him, the cool air hitting his face. Deep, deep breaths, until his mind was clear, the ghost of her touch focusing his thoughts. Fitz closed his eyes and tried to imagine another world, a reality where Fitz and Simmons going out for Italian meant more than her taking pity on him-- but the image of them laughing over red wine felt more like a punch to the gut. How could Jemma have it in her to retribute his ill-advised feelings, when he dumped them over her in a bout of near-death bravado, then had the gall to stay alive? When she dedicated every waking moment to his well-being and he went out to make an arse of his invalid self? When he was now so obviously beneath her, in every which way?
Jemma cleared her throat, startling him out of his misery, and presented him a bundle wrapped in a linen napkin. The spaghetti, sopping in sauce, had been heated and used to stuff a small baguette, and it smelled like the best thing he would ever eat. His stomach swooped down again, appreciation swelling inside him, wetting his eyes in apologetic almost-tears. Jemma sat down by his side and smiled quietly as he took a bite of the sandwich, so much easier than forks and knives and so, so much more than words. She would know what he meant, she always did.
"I know it's hard for you, Fitz," she started as he chewed, pushing her hair behind her ear, "but the brain is a truly remarkable organ. Yours more than anyone else's, I'm sure. It's difficult to agree with me right now, but you'll make a full recovery. I believe in you, Fitz."
He smiled back, nodding his agreement. It wasn't. It wasn't difficult at all, not when when she spoke with such fervor, such hope. Not when her eyes shone like a supernova and his own heart fused inside his chest, not when he was stuck in this eternal loop of falling for her all over again, every day.
It was easy to decide then. Yes, he'd recover. He'd make himself whole once more. If he would never be worthy of her love, he'd make sure to be worthy, at least, of her faith.