Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Coulson had been kidnapped, and FitzSimmons’ world was suddenly full of interlopers.  As Centipede became priority one for the organization, teams of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swarmed the Bus.  Foreign objects, they were, like debris in an otherwise healthy lung, keeping them from properly taking a breath.

“Don’t ask questions, Agent Cobb!” barked Fitz, his fist clenching as he faced down the junior agent, “Just get me the 5mm injector.  That’s an order.”

Simmons could see that Fitz was in a bad place.  When that happened, it was her job to stay positive, so she was trying.  Trying very hard to keep her tone pleasant, to avoid elbowing her way past dozens of lab-coated strangers, to hide the fissures that this ordeal had rent in her sanity.  She and Fitz never felt entirely comfortable in anyone’s company but each other’s, and seeing so many unfamiliar faces in their sanctum was taking a mental toll.  Still, Simmons was determined to roll with the punches.

In her exhaustion, though, she almost envied Fitz for allowing himself to break down, if only because his non-stop cursing and grumbling gave him a small outlet to let off steam.  But that was impossible, of course.  Simmons had never been anything if not poised.  So she went back to suturing a ripped stitch on Ward’s exceedingly muscular shoulder (a girl could look, right?  And it wasn’t like Fitz had made a move, the prat) and waited to see what fresh audacity Fitz would choose to complain about next.

Fitz’s feet sought a less populated section of the lab.  “Honestly, how many agents do they think they can cram on this plane?” he fumed, not really caring who heard him.

“It’s only gonna get more crowded,” Ward chimed in.  “We’re set to pick up more men when Agent Hand dumps Vanchat off at the Fridge.”  Vanchat, of course, being the key to finding Centipede recruiter Raina, who would lead them to Coulson.

Fitz sagged against the side of the table, the very idea of bringing more people onto the Bus making his skin itch.  ‘It already feels about as packed as a Tokyo subway on this bloody plane,’ he'd groused the day before.

She tried to sound upbeat.  “Honestly?  I think it’s good they’re here.  We need fresh eyes.  It’s been 36 hours since Agent Coulson was taken, and none of us have gotten any rest.”  And some of us handle sleep deprivation more maturely than some others of us, she added silently.  She patted a bandage onto Ward’s naked chest, doing her best not to let her palm linger inappropriately.

“Oh, joy,” deadpanned Fitz, staring at the big screen, “Agent Hand is giving another briefing.”

Simmons maneuvered a smile into place and followed the men upstairs.  Fitz was particularly snotty, shoulders slumped, refusing to look at anyone in the room, evidencing his resentment at being required to attend these frequent meetings -- ‘We could just as easily watch Hand’s report from the lab and keep working, Jemma!  What do they think we’re doing down here, eating biscuits? How is it OK to waste our time like this when Coulson’s lost out there?’   Simmons had been on the receiving end of that rather pointless tirade for about forty minutes.  Silly Fitz. S.H.I.E.L.D. meant bureaucracy, and that meant you went where you were told.  It didn’t do anyone much good to get worked up about it.

But a few moments later, when Hand outlined their primary goal of taking down Centipede, Simmons and Fitz protested in unison that recovering Agent Coulson was just as important.  And for a second, they reclaimed their mental connection, that psychic link that made them whole, made them FitzSimmons, reminding her why exactly she put up with the man next to her.  

Feeling thoroughly briefed and properly exhausted, the pair trudged back downstairs to smother their anxiety for Coulson in a flurry of productivity.

Chapter Text

“Nooo!  That’s too much!”  Simmons corrected the new lab assistant, who was pouring the concentrated dendrotoxin into the gun’s cartridge like he was spiking the punch at prom.  “I know the night-night rounds no longer affect the Centipede soldiers, but all we want to do is disable them, not kill them.”

Fitz had a cold look as he said, “I’m good with either, frankly.”

Simmons’ eyes sank.  She hadn’t heard him sound so callous since their starting days at the Academy, when at least he’d had the excuse of youth.  “Fitz, you don't mean that!  Those soldiers are just men who--"

“-who could smash your skull open with a single punch!”  His face was intense in an expression she wasn’t accustomed to.

She matched his intensity, determined to stand for what she believed in.  “But they're being controlled!  Centipede is making them fight against their will.”

“Well, they took Coulson.  I don’t care what we have to do to get him back.  We need to bring him home.”  His tone brooked no argument.

At the other end of the lab, Ward was watching the live feed of Vanchat’s interrogation, getting more and more worked up as they seemed no closer to any actionable intel on Raina’s or Coulson’s whereabouts.  “What’s this guy doing?  Lulling Vanchat to sleep?”  A two-second deliberation played across his face, and he squared his shoulders.  “I’m going in.”

Fitz and Simmons just looked at each other for the space of a heartbeat as Ward stalked off towards the interrogation room.  Then Fitz said, pointedly, “See?  Ward gets it.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

"I’m just saying that maybe you shouldn’t be so concerned with the welfare of a few Centipede thugs, and worry a little more about getting our boss back.”  His petulant muttering stabbed her in the chest and she finally had enough.

“Oh, please!  I’ve been worried!  Worried sick!  And it hasn’t exactly helped that for two days now, without so much as a nap, I’ve had to listen to you whinge--”

“Whinge?!  I’m not a chil-"

“--walking on eggshells so I don’t upset you, and now I don’t care about Coulson?  When I’m the one that wanted to take this job in the first place so we could work with him?  Really, Fitz, get your head out of your arse!”

Cheerfulness be damned.  It was one thing to be supportive while Fitz was lashing out at everyone else.  She understood from years of being friends that he often dealt with pain and stress by adopting a sour face and ugly words.  But to start taking it out on her, to accuse her of being less invested in Coulson’s return just because she stopped to consider the human cost of this mission?  She knew it was her job to be the smile to Fitz’s frown, but in that moment, she had very few smiles left.

Simmons spun on her heel and strode to the only place left on the Bus that was hers alone.  She needed a nap.

Chapter Text

Simmons flopped onto her berth and forced her eyes closed, but it was no use -- the fight with Fitz had her wound too tight to sleep.  She felt utterly horrible about yelling at him.  Whatever he was going through…it was rooted in more than just Coulson’s kidnapping, and Simmons knew that difficult times were when he needed her most.  Fitz didn’t trust people easily -- it had taken years before he finally believed that she accepted him as he was -- and the last thing she wanted was to push him further into himself.  So where had that meltdown come from?  Because she was tired?  She’d once pulled off a 52-hour cram session, aced her exam, and headed straight on to the Boiler Room afterparty.  She was Jemma Simmons, finals week gladiatrix!

No, it was because she felt Fitz slipping away, and the idea of losing him to his demons terrified her more than any Centipede soldier.  What he’d said about not caring if people died… she could see that he was on the precipice of darkness, slipping like quicksand into a steel-cut detachment that looked at consequences to justify means.  In the beginning of their partnership, he’d had the same look, that lack of concern over whether the weapons he built would incapacitate an enemy or completely remove their head.  Among the great achievements of her young life, Simmons was proud to have been the gentling influence that spurred Fitz’s work on stun guns and dendrotoxin bullets, that prompted him to build delivery mechanisms for lifesaving antiserums instead of poison gas.  And here she was, nearly ruining it all with a tantrum.

As every mistake she’d ever made was floating up to the surface of her memory, biting  with little hamster teeth at her innards, she heard a shuffle of feet and a tap at her door.

“Simmons?”

She stilled, knowing they had to talk, but needing first to calm the vibration in her ribcage.

“I know you’re in there.”  He didn’t sound angry, at least.  His voice softened, “Simmons, I’m coming in, ‘kay?”

Of course he knew her access code; he knew all her codes, but he’d never let himself in her room without permission before -- she liked to think it was out of mutual respect, but suspected it was because Fitz would die of embarrassment if he ever caught her doing any kind of “female maintenance.”  And yet a few seconds later Simmons heard the telltale whirr of the sliding door.  She sat up, rubbing her eyes in a halfhearted attempt to conceal the rainclouds behind them.  Fitz filled the rectangle opening, looking down at her .

“Well go on, then,” she indicated the spot next to her on the narrow bed, which he gratefully claimed before pulling in a long breath.  Neither quite able to match the other’s gaze, Simmons became temporarily fascinated by running her thumb over one fingernail’s jagged edge.  Sudden words erupted into the quiet.

“You were right, Simmons, I--”

“Fitz, I was out of line--”

Each stopped talking as they eyed the other in an impromptu game of apology chicken.  

“I’ll go first if you don’t mind.”  It almost sounded rehearsed.

“Jemma... I’ve been a rubbish friend since the bridge.  Of course you care about Coulson -- Christ, you’re the most caring person we’ve got on this Bus--”

Blush.

“-and I shouldn’t have… I don't-- how you managed to stay so chipper through this whole thing… you’re always so calm under stress -- but that’s no excuse for--”

So, he might not have rehearsed the whole speech.  Fitz’s words became hushed and jumbled as he struggled to voice the maelstrom in his head.  His hand rubbed the back of his neck before migrating over his stubbly cheek.

“The thing is, Jemma...  Coulson -- he’s a mentor, and he’s our boss, and all that… but... I think I’m taking it so hard because… erm, y’ know, with my dad--”

A bullet of guilt tore through Simmons’ gut at the sudden reminder that Fitz saw Coulson as the father figure missing from his life.  “Oh, God, Fitz, I didn’t even think!  I’m the worst person on the planet.  I don’t blame you if--”

“No, I mean-- I was awful to you, and dead bratty-- I’ve just been in my head about this, and--”

“--and you should have talked to me about it,” she chided, “but I should have asked--”

“--we’ve been so busy tracking down Coulson, and anyway who can have a proper chat when we’re bloody surrounded by Men in Black--”

“Fitz,” she broke in tenderly, “no matter how many new people come into our lives, it’s still only the two of us when it matters.  You know I’m here for you…” It felt necessary to state the obvious, affectionately bumping his elbow with hers.  “But I’m sorry, you’re sorry, let’s just leave it at that, yeah?”

His half-smile was all the response she needed.  They sat in comfortable silence, until the easy quiet stretched too far and threatened to spell out that they were on a bed together, alone for the first time in days.  She heard Fitz’s throat clear gruffly and watched the swirl of red creep up his face as he stood.

“We should get back to the lab?”

Simmons got to her feet and made to follow Fitz when a discomfiting thought sprang to mind.

“Fitz, what do you suppose Ward’ll do to get Vanchat to talk?  Nothing too drastic, I hope.  He is still a person...”

“If you can call that waste of hydrocarbons a person.”

“Fitz…” He had a point, though; the man was despicable.

“Oh, don’t worry, Simmons.  Ward’s just gonna open up the sky port so Vanchat has to choose between answering questions or getting sucked out of a plane at 30,000 feet.”

Fitz grinned at Simmons’ horrified gasp, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“To scare him, Simmons, purely to scare him.  I’ll make sure of it.”

Relief flooded her veins.  Of course Fitz would make certain the prisoner wasn’t in any real danger.  And Vanchat did deserve a bit of a fright.  Honestly, to think of it, this was more like a prank!  “What can I do to help?” she inquired, pitch rising excitedly as she considered the particulars.

Damn, it felt good to be in cahoots again.

“Well, as interrogation methods go, this one’s not exactly been sanctioned by Hand, so… will you help me shoo Agents Whoozit and Whatserface out of the lab for a few minutes?”

“You mean, reclaim our sanctuary?  I could live with that.”  Simmons beamed as she and Fitz descended the stairs.  They were FitzSimmons, and they had found their way back home.

Chapter Text

“I’m not tellin’ you a bloody thing.”  Vanchat wasn’t cooperating.

“That’s how you wanna play?”  Ward strapped on the safety belt.

Oh, how exciting!  Simmons couldn’t wait to test out the new retractable tiles in the sky port.  It was one of the few upgrades they’d managed to fit the Bus with after blasting a hole through it on the Peru mission.  Director Fury had been so angry about the expense, they’d very nearly scrapped all their improvements for fear of drawing his ire.  Giving up the fish tank had been especially disappointing.

But a broken machine was like a playground to Fitz, and soon enough they’d found a way to sneak in a few toys under Fury’s radar.  Now, they could choose where the holes in their plane opened up.  It was genius, really.  For all his braggadocio, Fitz did have a knack for out-of-the-box thinking.  Or perhaps it was out-of-the-Bus thinking?  Simmons chuckled musically and mentally congratulated herself on the pun.

Ward nodded to FitzSimmons through the surveillance camera.  That was their cue.  Simmons’ eyes widened in thirsty anticipation.  She locked her gaze onto Fitz’s.  He looked just as keen to see Vanchat go, as he’d put it, ‘arse over elbow’ (ugh).  But which one of us gets to push the button?

Simmons shifted her weight onto her toes, the challenge stark in her eyebrows.

“Roshambo you?”

Oh, goody.  Fitz always threw scissors, in essence letting her choose.  Fleetingly, she debated whether to throw paper.  She should probably be magnanimous, let him win.  Although… I’m the clear choice to do this safely.  Fitz would be so thrilled watching Vanchat’s inverted jig, his mind might stray from protecting the prisoner.  He was childlike in that way, getting so caught up in one endeavor that everything else fell aside.  But Simmons loved to witness that wild abandon, and she made her decision.  

“Ro-sham-bo.”  Their hands told the story.  Fitz, scissors.  Simmons, stone.

Simmons exhaled in relief.  If he’d truly wanted to win, he would have flattened his own palm.  Now, he’d enjoy the show without the distraction of manning the ceiling.  Good.  Eyes like his were meant to take in the sky.

“Scissors… aww, Fitz…” She bumped her fist gently against his fingers.

Their hands touched, heart to soul, question to answer.  Fitz had always been her counterweight, keeping her in balance like a tension bridge.  She was struck all at once by how easily they could read each other, a favorite book that kept its wonder even as they memorized the lines.

Oh.

Simmons suddenly understood why poets and philosophers write about destiny.  She and Fitz had fallen into each other's lives despite unimaginable odds.  Somehow, among billions of cutouts and shapes, two perfectly connecting pieces had joined up in the glorious puzzle of the universe.

She had no doubt they would solve that puzzle together.