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Fitz stares at the two large ice packs covering his arms, a gracious offering from one of the ER nurses while they wait, which do very little to actually relieve any of the pain he’s currently in.
“Can’t believe I broke both arms because of you,” he mutters in frustration.
Davis sits up next to him, slamming the magazine he’d been browsing down on the small table in front of him, before shifting in his seat to look at Fitz. “What was that? ‘Thank you Agent Davis for saving my life… again’?”
“What was that? ‘Thank you Agent Fitz for designing the tact gear that protected me from breaking my bones when the explosion sent both of us flying’?” Fitz barks in return.
Davis crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What was that? ‘Thank you, Agent Davis, for driving me to the hospital to have my arms checked… after you saved my life… again’?”
Fitz gasps. “You only did that because Simmons insisted!”
Davis shrugs. “She’s my superior officer. And quite frankly, scares me a little bit.”
Fitz scoffs. “Yeah, same. Although, admittedly, it’s kind of a turn-on for me.”
Davis grimaces uncomfortably. “T.M.I.”
“Hey, as if your wife is any different!” Fitz counters, lifting his chin in Davis’ direction.
Davis purses his lips. “Guess we’re both attracted to strong women.”
“Guess so,” Fitz agrees.
For a moment both fall silent until Davis pipes up again. “Nothing wrong with that.”
Fitz shakes his head. “Nope.”
“What’s wrong however, is that I’ve been stuck in an emergency room waiting room for—” Davis demonstratively raises his arm to look at his watch, “sixty-eight minutes, because you can’t be bothered to wear your own protective armor.”
Fitz drops his head back, rolling his eyes. “Oh, here we go again. You’re Operations. You’re the strong muscly ones. The ones who protect poor, helpless, non-combat-trained field agents like me.”
Davis balls his hands into fists, growling through gritted teeth. “I graduated from Communications!”
“Well, that’s really not my fault!” Fitz yells back.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Fitz leans slightly closer. “It means that you still have far more combat training than me. It means that you still are the strong muscly one with the tact gear who’s supposed to go in first and ensure there’s no immediate danger before I go in only to go flying through the air, breaking my bones, because you didn’t notice the explosives.”
“Really? Really??” Davis shifts in his seat again, too antsy to sit still. “Well, where were your fancy D.W.A.R.F.s then? Ha? Shouldn’t your scanners have picked up on the explosives before we went in?”
“I told you on the drive, the house was shielded from our sensors. These people were clearly pros, who—”
Davis points at Fitz, angrily. “Even more reason to wear your own goddamn tact gear! God, if you weren’t already injured, I’d love to kick your ass for your stupidity.”
“Stupidity? Stupidity?” Fitz cries out, before grimacing in pain. Pausing for a moment until it subsides before continuing. “Are you bloody kidding me? You’d be dead if it weren’t for the tact gear I designed.”
“And if you’d worn it yourself, you wouldn’t be sitting here with two broken arms,” Davis counters, wiggling his index finger in front of Fitz’s face.
“Ugh, God, I…I—” Fitz drops his head back again in agony.
“What?” Davis asks, fanning his arms out questioningly. “You’re gonna hit me? And which broken arm are you going to use for that?”
“Ugh.” Fitz clenches his teeth, inhaling slowly, before exhaling an angry, sharp breath through his nose. “Forget about it. You’re right.”
“Well, thanks for that.” Davis leans back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest, seemingly triumphant over his perceived win.
“Hey, could you… could you change the channel?” Fitz asks calmly, lifting his head in the direction of the TV in the waiting area.
Davis bobs his head, a peaceful half-smile playing on his lips. “Sure.” He leans forward, lifting his bum up to reach for the remote. He straightens up, changing the channel, before sitting down again.
A surprised “Whoa” escapes his lips when the chair topples backwards. Before his head hits the ground, he catches a glimpse of Fitz grinning triumphantly.
Daisy lifts her head as a greeting at Simmons, who smiles politely before focussing back on her phone call.
“What do you mean you need someone to pick you up? Agent Davis drove you,” Simmons says, wrinkling her forehead.
Daisy raises an eyebrow, deciding that she’d be a bad spy if she didn’t try to listen in just a little.
“What do you mean he has a concussion?” Simmons continues her conversation, pausing for a moment while she listens to Fitz’s reply.
“You may have done what?” she exclaims, and Daisy can’t stop a grin from appearing on her lips.
“He started it?” Simmons yells into her phone. “Leopold James Fitz-Simmons, you’re both grown men and yet your children appear to have more common sense than the two of you.”
She pauses again, her eyes fiery. “The fact that you have two broken arms is no excuse for giving another agent a concussion.”
Another pause tells Daisy that Fitz is trying to get a few more defensive words in.
“I don’t care that that wasn’t your intention. Your juvenile behavior—” Simmons exhales an angry breath. “You know what, I don’t want to discuss this further over the phone. I will send Agent May to pick you up.”
Daisy can’t suppress a little snort.
“Oh, yes, you’ve heard correctly,” Simmons barks into the phone. “And if you think she’s scary, just wait until I tell Mindy what the two of you have done this time. Oh, and by the way, he’s right, you should have worn tact gear.” Simmons rips the phone away from her ear and presses the end-call button with full force, before letting out a frustrated growl.
“Have you seen May?” she asks Daisy, who grins ear to ear, nodding in confirmation.