[ The day drags on, and Fitz works non-stop, choking out every swell of nerves and sentiment. By the time he encounters Dick, the high of rescuing Patil (and Dick's team doing the same for the other lab contacts) has faded. For much of this time, Fitz has been calm, held together by his customary, practised control. A few moments warrant flickers of uncertainty: Markus and Peggy in a dead-end apartment, waiting for the UNA to reach them (good tactics for the head; harrowing for the heart). Blows that mark injuries and close-calls for his team. The split-second where Agent Peggy Carter, founder of SHIELD and his newfound companion, looks to be gone.
Hours later, dragging a dying man of their own back to the safehouse reminds him that death comes here, even if it isn't permanent (even if the main timelines are fixed), and to witness it is to feel the same visceral horror as in his own universe. He was unable to stop it (weak), air punched from his lungs, insides twisted into knots and tangles, trigger finger too slow. A blink and he marks the time on his implant on instinct. Although the immediate, crushing wave of helplessness threatens to drown him, the voice (cold, always cold) reminds him you're not finished yet. The truth is that Fitz remains complicated. Digging deeper inside himself has unearthed ugliness, but that's not the whole of him, and he knows it — hard to deny it, given the way his heart has threatened to burst from his chest throughout this operation.
When the timer on Giovanni's revival starts, Fitz staggers out of the way, half-wanting to make himself useful in the interim and half-considering a private collapse. 'Course this hallway's about as empty as it gets, with the main rooms of the safehouse bustling, as rescued agents, families, and displaced alike cluster together. Can't be sure how long he stands outside the entryway that he just bloody left, one hand on the doorframe and the other curled across his chest, faintly registering the growing ache there as painkillers and adrenaline wear off simultaneously. Do something. He drags a hand over his mouth, pushing down his nausea once more. Footsteps nearby signal someone's approach, so he manages to tilt his head enough to look and scan for injuries, brain only belatedly catching up to his eyes. ]
Dick. [ Startled. His legs carry him forward, then, a dazed propulsion. There it is again, his stupid heart. Ought to tear it out, for all the good it's done him, loud in his ears when he most needs to focus, striking an uneven tempo now despite the lack of danger. ]
Dick, [ louder in case he hadn't noticed Fitz fast approaching. For his part, he sports minor cuts and bruises, a dark splotch on his cheek, a slim bandage at his thigh, dried blood splattered across his front, matted in his short curls, and flecked up his neck (not his own, only visible against the blacks of his clothes up close). ] are you — are you alright? [ hands already reaching out, motioning for Dick to come closer. ] Did you, ah.
[ a noise that signals he has no idea what he was going to say, Did you have any trouble? Did you see Malone? Hafid? Are they okay? Is everyone okay? Dick's here, and that's — pretty good, something he hadn't realised was wedged at the back of his mind and pulsating with worry until the threat of that loss has gone, replaced with a spike of relief over the presence of Dick Grayson, alive and right here, stepping into his space. ]
dick.
Hours later, dragging a dying man of their own back to the safehouse reminds him that death comes here, even if it isn't permanent (even if the main timelines are fixed), and to witness it is to feel the same visceral horror as in his own universe. He was unable to stop it (weak), air punched from his lungs, insides twisted into knots and tangles, trigger finger too slow. A blink and he marks the time on his implant on instinct. Although the immediate, crushing wave of helplessness threatens to drown him, the voice (cold, always cold) reminds him you're not finished yet. The truth is that Fitz remains complicated. Digging deeper inside himself has unearthed ugliness, but that's not the whole of him, and he knows it — hard to deny it, given the way his heart has threatened to burst from his chest throughout this operation.
When the timer on Giovanni's revival starts, Fitz staggers out of the way, half-wanting to make himself useful in the interim and half-considering a private collapse. 'Course this hallway's about as empty as it gets, with the main rooms of the safehouse bustling, as rescued agents, families, and displaced alike cluster together. Can't be sure how long he stands outside the entryway that he just bloody left, one hand on the doorframe and the other curled across his chest, faintly registering the growing ache there as painkillers and adrenaline wear off simultaneously. Do something. He drags a hand over his mouth, pushing down his nausea once more. Footsteps nearby signal someone's approach, so he manages to tilt his head enough to look and scan for injuries, brain only belatedly catching up to his eyes. ]
Dick. [ Startled. His legs carry him forward, then, a dazed propulsion. There it is again, his stupid heart. Ought to tear it out, for all the good it's done him, loud in his ears when he most needs to focus, striking an uneven tempo now despite the lack of danger. ]
Dick, [ louder in case he hadn't noticed Fitz fast approaching. For his part, he sports minor cuts and bruises, a dark splotch on his cheek, a slim bandage at his thigh, dried blood splattered across his front, matted in his short curls, and flecked up his neck (not his own, only visible against the blacks of his clothes up close). ] are you — are you alright? [ hands already reaching out, motioning for Dick to come closer. ] Did you, ah.
[ a noise that signals he has no idea what he was going to say, Did you have any trouble? Did you see Malone? Hafid? Are they okay? Is everyone okay? Dick's here, and that's — pretty good, something he hadn't realised was wedged at the back of his mind and pulsating with worry until the threat of that loss has gone, replaced with a spike of relief over the presence of Dick Grayson, alive and right here, stepping into his space. ]