If you still want prompts for alternate Fitz ships, I'd be interested in seeing something with Fitz/Bobbi (or Fitz/Bobbi/Hunter if you'd like). I don't think I've ever seen those two paired together. Maybe "You fight like my sister" from the Road to El Dorado Sentence prompt list? Feel free to ignore if you don't want anymore prompts!
Hey! Sorry this is very short, I’m trying to oil up my muse a little, but it isn’t working so much :/ (Also it fits the prompt ‘fun’ for @aosadvent2017!)
[AO3]
In retrospective, he should have seen this coming.
It was too good to be true, the sheets fresh and the sun warm over his skin- and really, how did Bobbi manage to get probably the only room in base with an exterior view; he doesn’t know, and he is not sure he wants to ask-, and a leisurely free saturday in front of them. And Bobbi Morse, 5’ 9’’ of absolute magnificence, golden hair cascading down her shoulders and an enticing smile on her lips.
“Hey, buddy, how about you wake up?”
“No-ooh.” Fitz made grabby hands at her, and Bobbi grinned, but didn’t move one inch closer back to the bed. “You come back here.”
“If you wake up now,” she raised her arms to tie her hair in a ponytail, and that’s the exact moment Fitz lost this fight, because he can not concentrate while she is showing off like that. “I promise I will make it worth your while.”
And that’s how he ended here, lying face up and panting for exertion, and looking at Bobbi’s face over him, but for all the wrong reasons.
“Come on, Fitz, get up.”
“No.” Bobbi ignores his reply and tugs on his arm until he gets up. “I can’t believe you are making me work out on a saturday.”
“You know, it’s great for your stamina.” And she has the bloody nerve to wink at him, the cheeky beggar. “Come on, one more round and then we can go take a shower.”
His breathing is ragged, even after the seconds he spent resting on the floor; he doesn’t have any grace left on his body, and when he tries to sweep at her, it only takes Bobbi one small movement to her left to send him reeling back to the floor. She towers over him again, smiling, and Fitz covers his eyes with his arms as a sign of ultimate surrender.
“You fight like my sister.”
“Wow. Really?” He uncovers his eyes to glare at her, and Bobbi laughs unabashedly while she sits down cross legged by his side. He might be offended, but not offended enough to not stretch an arm and softly caress her knee.
“Of course. Pure heart, no technique. Which is better than nothing, and great in this case because I already have experience in polishing someone with that beginning traits.” She strokes a line from his elbow to the knuckle of his middle finger with her own, and shivers run through all Fitz’s body. “I might make a man out of you, after all.”
Fitz groans and once again, Bobbi laughs at him; he is noticing a pattern in this relationship already, and he can not really say that he regrets it at all.
Summary: The evolution of a friendship, from a beat-up couch in the Playground to a 7-Eleven in Singapore (or: Nostomania - intense homesickness; an irresistible compulsion to return home).
[excerpt]
Bobbi sneaks the occasion chip from him as she tells him stories.There’s that time she and Hunter hitch-hiked across The Great Plains to shake atail and ended up in Mexico with no passports, that time they accidentallyjoined a cult in exchange for protection, and that time Hunter got into a barfight with an Irish gang so she had to drag him away kicking and screaming.“Jemma would have loved to see that,” she remarks before snatching the lastchip with a grin, and it swells and swells until it fills up the empty airport.
He wants to tell her stories too, Stories-with-a-capital-S,the kinds that don’t include ancient monsters or dead friends or killer robots,but he can’t, so he holds his tongue.
[read more on ao3 or below the cut]
i.
The stranger is on the couch again, her feet propped on thecoffee table. She’s leafing through a trashy magazine, and only notices him whenhe trips over his own feet trying to leave the room. His tea sloshes,uncomfortably hot on his wrinkled shirt. He reaches his bad hand up to smoothit out.
“Can’t get away from me fast enough, huh?”
There’s mirth in her voice, but also a bit of hurt. His earsburn. He motions to the Xbox, bounces on his heels as if to shake loose the nervousness.“I – uh – I was gonna play, but thought it might – uh – disturb you.”
She tosses the magazine aside and looks at him, a softening,unfurling sort of curiosity. “You’ll have to be Player Two,” she says, resolute.Turns on the console, hands him the spare controller. And that’s that.
ii.
The stranger doesn’t come into his life by sneaking up onhim. Rather, she barrels into him, and it’s a blinding flash of sunlight hairand sunlight smile, her presence suffusing like crisp summer. Two in themorning and she drags him, half asleep on a workbench, out of the garage andinto bed. Three in the afternoon and they are on the floor in the common area,hunched over a game of Operation, his left hand tracing the motions until thebuzzer no longer buzzes. The stranger becomes Agent Morse becomes Bobbi, whichbecomes Barbara when he’s in a particularly playful mood. He’s still Fitz toher though, the syllable somehow familiar and easy on the tip of her tongue.
One evening she pokes him with the corner of a folder. “Sayshere you never passed your field assessment. Something about abysmalhand-to-hand combat.”
That is how he finds himself being thrown repeatedly ontothe padded floor.
“Again,” he demands, but the effect is somewhat lacklusterwith his face squished between her forearm and the sweaty training mat.
She backs off, extends a hand toward him. He takes it andclambers to his feet. He holds her gaze. “You were holding back on me. Don’t.”
So she doesn’t. It wouldn’t be the only time she hurts him.
Then comes the real S.H.I.E.L.D. Then comes strange facescrawling all over the base, some new, some old, but they might as well be new.She’s standing in front of him and he can’t see past the betrayal that cloudsthe space between them. A childhood wound begins to ache, somewhere deep in hismarrow. This time, at least, he gets to be the one who walks away.
“We’re not the only ones after Coulson’s toolbox.” She patshis shoulder. “Be careful out there, Fitz.”
For a brief second he melts into her touch, seeking thereprieve from reality it offers. In the end, though, he shrugs her hand off.“Goodbye, Agent Morse.”
iii.
The next time he’s alone with her, she’s in a hospital bed,tangled in a million tubes, bruises red and raging on her skin. His anger suddenlydissipated, he sinks into the seat next to her. They exchange a smile that istwo parts water.
“I lost half a lung,” she begins, already out of breath. “Ilaid there in my own blood, wheezing, and I thought of you.”
The fluorescent light hums quietly. He brushes a thumb acrossthe back of her hand. “We’ll all learn to breathe again eventually.”
“You did. But what if I won’t?”
“Hey,” he says, and thinks of something golden, something light,“I had a little help, didn’t I?”
iv.
She’s on crutches and he’s on his last legs chasing anotherdead end. He catches a red-eye back from Yucatan, arriving at the base justbefore dawn. In the gym, she is doing simple stretches before her morning PTsession. He knows to go to her before she even asks.
His duffle bag hits the floor with a dull thud, and then he’scrying, gracelessly, the kind of crying that’s more half-choked sobs thantears. Every fiber of his being needs Jemma back, but every fiber of his beingis tired and lost and he just wantsto stop existing awhile. The process of getting through time is agony.
Rubber-clad metal thumps against the floor. Bobbi limpstoward him and leans on her crutches, shifting her weight away from her bad leg.She doesn’t say anything; she just stands there beside him while he clutcheshis heart and bones and other things that break.
Minutes – or maybe hours – pass before he looks up to meether eyes.
“I asked Coulson for a transfer,” she tells him. “Startingnext week, I’ll be working in the lab.”
And it sounds so much like moving on that for a moment heselfishly resents her for it. But then she bends down to adjust her knee bracewith a grunt, her crutches awkwardly in the way, and it occurs to him thatthey’re both stuck in the same hole, trying to claw their way out to find theirpurpose again.
It’s easier when they do it together.
He wipes away the last of his tears. “We have some timebefore your PT. Want to go to the lab and help me set up your new work station?”
He hears the clank of metallic crutches as they fall, andbefore he knows it her arms are around him, a hand stroking his back in slow,circular motions. She feels like the view outside his childhood window, hethinks idly, steadying her so that they lean onto each other.
“We’ll find her, okay?” she murmurs against his hair, voice asubdued kind of glow. “We’ll find her.”
v.
February is meant for restless sleepers. Especially thosecloudy evenings, when night falls in dim and icy veils, the sky awash with arolling, tainted black.
He wakes covered in cold sweats. The bedside alarm reads3:58 AM. His nightmares are always blue lately, but the tail end is a fieryred, punctuated by the sizzling sound of a burning corpse. It’s been burningfor months.
The couch in the common area is not empty. He flops downnext to its sole occupant, grateful for her presence but a bit sad too. No onedeserves to be awake alone in the long hours before dawn breaks.
Bobbi pushes a half-finished mug in front of him. “Here,drink this,” she offers. Black tea with too much milk and too much sugar. Justthe way he likes it. He wonders if she made it for him, if she’s been waitingfor him this whole time.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she laughs, a response to hisquizzical expression. “My knee and the cold don’t get along. I couldn’t sleep.Figured you couldn’t too.”
“How long have you been up?”
She simply shrugs. He nods, a mutual understanding for theintricacy of silences, and hands her back the tea. They pass it back and forthuntil there’s barely anything left, the residue leaving a lonely smudge at thebottom. Then he turns on the Xbox and they content themselves with somemindless FIFA matches.
(All the first-person shooter games have been thrown away.No one ever questions why.)
When they head back to the living quarters, the sun is juststarting to rise. Sleepy light drifts in through the window as they walk pass,slanting on her face in bars of gold. There’s this unbidden fondness for herthat overwhelms him, and he bumps her shoulder to whisper a soft thank you. Sheanswers by nodding toward the sunrise. A clean slate. February is meant forrestless sleepers who are trying to forgive themselves.
“Good morning, Fitz,” she says.
Neither of them knows that it’s the last private moment theyhave together.
vi.
After Russia, he stops doing shots. It’s not a consciouschoice, not really. In Bucharest, he gets a tequila shot and just picks at thelime for a while, the dull ache like a phantom limb that he knows is there butcan’t quite touch. Then he gives up and orders one of those garish florescentcocktails instead.
In the afterglow of it all, tangled between the sheets, helistens as Jemma tells him about an undead monster who looks like Grant Ward whoacts like Will. “It’s awful, Fitz,” she concludes in a hushed tone, hershuddering breath ghosting his skin. “I’m just glad at least Bobbi and Hunterare not caught up in this mess.”
He hums in agreement.
“Do you think they’re doing okay?” she asks, the sheetsslipping off her shoulders as she sits up to meet his gaze. She’s holding her immenseheart in her hands like a little bird, and god,maybe the universe is forever expanding and maybe we’re all dying as we live,but she’s the only one who makes it less devastating.
Overwhelmed, he surges up to kiss her. They’re both smiling,he can feel it against his lips, contentment unfurling in a haze. When theypull apart, he answers in earnest, “I don’t know, Jemma, but I hope they’rehappy too.”
vii.
Eventually, they all carry on living. He does shots againand they re-stock the fridge with Bendeery. It’s not a form of forgetting; theyjust learn to re-shape their lives around the dull ache, which is only noticeablewhen they choose to remember.
This evening, however, he’s acutely aware of the ache in theempty.
After Radcliffe, he and Jemma decide to leave for a while.Just make a run for it, like if they’re fast enough maybe they can leave thehurt behind. In the blur of it all, the headwind stinging their eyes, they findthemselves with an overnight layover in Changi. Except for a bored cashier in a7-Eleven down the walkway, they’re alone in the terminal.
Jemma’s dozing off, a backpack wedged between her head andthe floor, but he can’t sleep, so he decides to wander for a while. It’sstrange, this dreamlike atmosphere of an airport after midnight. He feelssuspended between places, out of sorts. Usually he appreciates the chance toslip into a state of not-being, clear his mind and all that, but now the liminalityjust makes him sad. He likes belonging. He likes it when their team felt likehome.
He goes to 7-Eleven for a bag of chips. Outside, night fallsmore heavily on the tarmac, a vague yet persistent melancholy. He takes his timein the aisles just to keep the cashier company. That way, the loneliness iseasier to bear. They don’t make small talk over the counter, choosing to sharea smile instead, but when he reaches for his wallet, he hears a voice behindhim.
“On me,” it says, languid and syrupy and gold. “I still owe you a shot.”
viii.
It’s Bobbi, of course. He shouldn’t be that surprised. Here,in a country not even visible on the maps, where sharp skyscrapers are builtupon mottled history, people are bound to run into the ones they lost.
They sit by a giant glass panel that overlooks a vacanttaxiway. It has begun to drizzle, and raindrops trap the terminal light withinas they trickle down the glass like liquid diamonds.
Bobbi sneaks the occasion chip from him as she tells him stories.There’s that time she and Hunter hitch-hiked across The Great Plains to shake atail and ended up in Mexico with no passports, that time they accidentallyjoined a cult in exchange for protection, and that time Hunter got into a barfight with an Irish gang so she had to drag him away kicking and screaming.“Jemma would have loved to see that,” she remarks before snatching the lastchip with a grin, and it swells and swells until it fills up the empty airport.
He wants to tell her stories too, Stories-with-a-capital-S,the kinds that don’t include ancient monsters or dead friends or killer robots,but he can’t, so he holds his tongue.
They watch the rain in silence. He glances at her from timeto time, and is struck by how far away she looks against the backdrop of sultrytropical rain, spilling over the foreign skyline that’s stirring at thetail-end of its dream.
After a while, she nudges him gently. “Hey,” she says. “Whatare you thinking?”
You, actually, hethinks. You hogging the Xbox. You makingdreadful tea. You steadying me when my hands are not steady. You dying on ahospital bed and you hobbling around the lab learning to walk again, battle-scarredand heavy, heavy hearted. You believing in me believing in you. When I think ofyou I think of broken and persistent light, and it makes me want to scream tosilence the absence of you between my ribs. It’s not the same without you. Thisteam doesn’t feel like home because the roof caved in after you left. Lay downyour load, take your heart home. Goddamn it, just take it home.
He inhales sharply. “Nothing.” He shrugs. “I was just wonderingif you are happy.”
Past the jut of her shoulder, he catches a glimpse of a few bleary-eyedpassengers shuffling into the terminal to catch an early flight. Down the walkwaytwo duty-free clerks fumble with their keys to unlock the store. Just likethat, the liminal inertia is gone, and slowly but surely everything movesforward again.
“Yeah,” she answers after a beat. “In a way, yeah, I am.”
Bobbi helps Fitz deal with some difficult hallucinations.
Read on AO3 or below the rest of my authors note.
This fic does not address anything from 5x14 at all and is not intended to make any comment on the nature of mental illness & fault or anything like that. That said, the direction I chose to take was somewhat inspired by 5x14 or rather my reaction to it, in that my main goal was to recontextualise Fitz’s psychosis and hallucinations to counter the horrendous and merciless demonisation of them, and him, that just went down. Therefore in this fic, Fitz is dealing with some hostile hallucinations, but they are not described in graphic detail (mostly from Bobbi looking on) and they do not ‘make him do bad things’. This fic focuses on some of the many coping techniques I found in my (admittedly brief) research, that are used by real people who are living with real, sometimes hostile, auditory and visual hallucinations.
If you want to know more about the contents of this fic, or indeed any others, before you make the decision whether or not to read it, you’re very welcome to ask or message me (off anon please, if you’re asking specific questions, so I can answer in private).
I also want to tag @buckysbears who - as well as being one of my oldest and dearest friends in this fandom, and a fantastic fic writer - has been a wonderful educator, both intentionally and incidentally, for me when it comes to these sorts of things. Her wonderful meta and fic and love for these characters, and for treating their disabilities and mental illnesses with the respect and complexity they deserve, is an inspiration and a privilege to share.
Anyway, now that my Author’s Note has officially reached ridiculous proportions, enjoy the fic below the cut.
-
Bobbi & Fitz. Set vaguely S3. Rated T. mild angst, hurt/comfort.
Read on AO3 or below the cut.
Bobbi’s knee was keeping her up again, so she went to the gym to stretch it out. Unfortunately, with everything else going on, her workout left her more wired than anything and though her knee was, for now, less angry, her lung was burning from the exertion. Can’t win.
It was on a slower wander through the base, trying to walk this off into some semblance of balance, that Bobbi stumbled across Fitz, pacing in the little kitchenette. He was alone – most of the team was off-duty, and those that were on didn’t spend a lot of time around him these days – but Bobbi figured she could go for some tea, and from the look of Fitz and his tense shoulders, he could too. In fact, the kettle was already boiling as Bobbi approached, and she watched as Fitz, with an expression of intense concentration, placed a mug on the bench, and then a teabag in the mug, and picked up the kettle. He was muttering under his breath, which wasn’t unusual, except that he didn’t seem to be having a conversation with anyone she couldn’t see. And he didn’t seem all that happy about it. Sometimes he hummed or recited information to himself to deal with stress or hallucinations, but this seemed different. He seemed to cower over the coffee cup as if there were someone behind him, badgering him. He yelped, “I’m not!” and “Stop it!” a few times at an audible volume and then waved an angry, irritated hand at the air.
Bobbi jumped forward as the kettle swayed dangerously in his grasp.
“Woah, hey,” she warned, “maybe put the boiling water down before we do that, okay?”
With her hands to help steady his, Fitz put the kettle down and backed away with a heavy sigh. Bobbi stepped in, bringing out her own mug and teabag and pouring for them both as Fitz recovered from the shock.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Fitz shook his head. His hands clenched and unclenched, fingers counting frantically, nervous as if she’d just pulled him from the edge of a cliff.
“They’re loud today,” he explained. “And… mean.”
“What are they saying?”
“Bad things.” His voice told her he wasn’t going to say more. A glance back over his shoulder told her he was scared the other voices were going to come back – or that they were still there.
“Is there anything I can do?” she offered, pulling his attention back to her. “Music helps, right? Here, I was listening to it in the gym.”
She pulled her phone from its holster around her thigh and passed it, and the earphones, across to him. He fumbled through a couple of songs until he found one he liked, and she felt a little swell of pride and relief as his shoulders settled. He popped one earbud back out, and smiled sheepishly at her.
“Thanks, Bobbi.”
“No problem.” She smiled at him, and held out his cup of tea. A little hesitant, he reached out and took it. Slowly, he took a sip, and seemed relieved to taste what he had been expecting.
“Is there anything else?” Bobbi checked. “Did you want me to stop talking? Or… keep talking? I assume you’re staying up. Did you want me to stay?”
“Would you?” Fitz’s eyes lit up at the chance.
“Sure,” Bobbi promised. “My body hates me tonight too, and I could use the chance to get some work done. I just have to duck back to the lab for a second, to grab my stuff, and I’ll be right back.”’
“I – oh, yeah, o- okay. Sure.” Fitz agreed reluctantly, and cast his eyes down, feeling foolish. Selfish.
Bobbi tilted her head. “What?”
“’s just, I… I really don’t want to be alone.”
Bad things, he’d said. Bobbi didn’t like to imagine what those could be. The vulnerability in Fitz’s voice shook her, but it was a vulnerability with which she had become a little too accustomed these last few months. It was also a vulnerability Fitz had helped her come to terms with. It was beyond only fair; it was without question, that she return the favour.
“Then come,” Bobbi offered. “We can grab your Rubick’s Cube or something to keep those hands busy too.”
She nodded at them, and Fitz smiled. Bobbi had never seemed to mind how they shook and flapped and fought him. Sometimes they felt like his enemies, but they were not. Sometimes they felt like badges of disgrace, but Bobbi didn’t see them that way, no matter what the voices said. What would the voices know, anyway?
Humming along to Bobbi’s music to help keep them at bay, Fitz trailed Bobbi down to the lab, and then back to the couches where they set themselves up quite comfortably, taking up all the space they wanted to take up since the place was all but empty. Fitz found Bobbi a suitable cushion to prop up her knee and she passed him his Rubick’s Cube. Sliding down the couch until he was lying on his back, chin mashed against his chest, he played with it idly, letting the motion lull him. The voices still jabbed at him, keeping the hairs on the back of his neck on end; keeping him a few inches from sleep. But it was better.
“Talking or not talking?” Bobbi checked again. “If you want, I can read this aloud.”
“What is it?”
Bobbi shrugged. “New journal on Forensic Genetics. Could be interesting.”
“I doubt it,” Fitz snorted. A smirk crept onto his lips. “But that’s okay. I should get some sleep anyway.”
He reached for a cushion to punctuate his point, and Bobbi scoffed.
“Oh, that’s how it is?” she retorted. “I’ll be getting you back for that burn later, mister, but for now, settle in for the ride of your life. I call it ‘Next Generation Sequencing and its Applications for Forensic Genetics’.”
Fitz finally closed his eyes as she began to read.
AN ~ for @buskidsburgade who requested May & Fitz while Jemma was on Maveth. This is pretty angsty, but I threw in some Bobbi to make up for it :D
Read on AO3
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“Abort!” May calls into the microphone, bringing all their units back in. On the screen before her, she watches Fitz pounding hell-for-leather toward the quinjet as she hears everyone else file in calmly. Bobbi peeks her head over May’s shoulder and frowns at the screen. Fitz has a head-wound, he’s bleeding, and as he approaches he starts to stumble.
“Take over,” May orders, and Bobbi slips into her seat as Fitz throws himself up the ramp. It closes and they take off, and May watches, quietly assessing the damage, as Fitz rests his back against a crate and struggles to get his breath back. He coughs and coughs, spitting blood that May suspects was already in his mouth – he almost certainly got punched a few times in the face, with those markings – but when she tries to approach he waves her off.
From the ground, he picks up a slip of paper. It’s covered in blood and spit but it could be gold from the way he looks at it.
“Coordinates,” May evaluates, kneeling beside him and taking the paper.
“I think so too,” Fitz nods, panting. He grimaces and presses his head wound. May turns her attention to it. It’s not deep, but bloody, and there’s a substantial bruise around it.
“What happened?” she asks
“Got whacked with a computer monitor,” Fitz explains. “Almost strangled a guy with the cable but he got out, hence the mouth bleeding. I might have to get you to show me that again.”
“He got out? How?”
“Had a knife.”
Fitz gestures to where a bloody patch is spreading on his shirt. May scowls at it. It doesn’t appear to be in a particularly dangerous location, but in a vulnerable area like that an inch could have made the difference. And all for a tiny, bloody scrap of paper.
“Fitz.” She doesn’t mean to sound condescending, but letting him down gently in this scenario is a delicate operation. “What are these coordinates for?”
“Jemma!” he insists. “I think. I hope. Well. The burial site of this ancient tomb that has the same writing as the document I translated last month, that’ll lead to Jemma.”
She sighs. He’s so wrapped up, so full of adrenalin and hope and need, that he can’t see her crestfallen expression. She puts a hand on his shoulder, beckoning him to look up at her, and slowly the intensity in his eyes drains away and becomes shock, hurt, betrayal.
“You need to stop,” May insists, as gently as she can. “I’m sorry, Agent Fitz, but I can’t in good conscience let you do this anymore. You could have died, for nothing more than a whisper. You have to let it go, or next time you might not be so lucky.”
Fitz shakes his head. He pulls away from her and struggles to his feet.
“I’m not giving up. You can if you want but I’m not. Not ever. I’ll do it alone if I have to.”
He glares at her and she almost lowers her eyes.
“She’d be ashamed of you,” he hisses. “You were her hero and you’re going to leave her to die?”
May doesn’t respond, which only seems to disappoint him further. There are tears on his cheeks, in his voice. He sets his jaw nonetheless, and hobbles away – presumably to get medical help, but she doesn’t ask after him. She’s pushed enough for now.
When she returns to the cockpit, Bobbi has her teeth clenched and her hands tight around the stick. May slips into the copilot seat and lets her fume for a while, and as predicted, Bobbi eventually brings it up.
“That’s it?” she demands.
“What’s it?”
“’I’m sorry for your loss, move on,’?”
“I hardly said that.”
“You might as well have. May! This is the first lead he’s had since that paper, and they’re getting fewer and farther between. You’re going to crush his hope if you keep talking like that.”
“That was the idea,” May explains. “I love Jemma, I do, but there comes a point when it’s too much risk for too little gain. I have to keep Fitz safe. He’s my priority now.”
Bobbi hisses.
“You think telling him ‘no’ is going to do that, hm? He’s going to fight every person on the planet if he has to, with or without our help.”
“You think encouraging him to get his head beaten in is helping him?” May returns. “Go ahead then. I wash my hands of it. Apparently, that’s all I can do.”
Bobbi curses under her breath and gets up with a sigh. She gestures vaguely at the controls behind her and storms off after Fitz. May takes over control of the plane again and stares out into the sky. Is she doing the right thing? Is it really time to let Jemma go?
If she were Jemma, she would want them all to do whatever it took to stop Fitz coming after her. Anything, any suffering she could face, she would not consider worth his sacrifice. Better to lock him in a tower than let him throw his life away for her, if that’s what it takes.
Then again, if she were Fitz…
If she were Fitz, she wouldn’t stop until her very last breath, no matter what.
🖊️ Bobbi + fidget toy, thank you. If you're still taking them
“Here, I made you a new pair.”
Bobbi looks down at the batons Fitz is giving her, and her hands, recognizing them as a safe and dear item, close around them reflexively. The size and the material is the same, but the weight is all wrong and she frowns.
“What for?”
Fitz is scratching behind his ear, looking sheepish.
“I just, um, noticed that you use yours baton to fidget. And, um, you can just throw them if you don’t want them, but I thought it was a good idea for you to have a pair for personal use, a pair that is not deadly? I, I mean, a pair that is not deadly on its own, because on your hands everything can be deadly and I-”
“Fitz, you are rambling.”
“Right.” He wringles the fingers of one hand with the other, looking nervous. “So, what do you think of them?”
Bobbi twirls them experimentally and yep, it won’t work.
“They are not the same weight as mine.”
Fitz slaps his forehead lightly.
“Weight, of course. I thought about size and shape and texture, but weight slipped my mind, and of course they will be a different weight, without all the extra features.” Bobbi gives them back, and he takes them on a strong grip, looking a little crestfallen. “I will get back to work, then.”
She nods, and he nods back before turning around.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want them.” He stops on his tracks, but doesn’t turn around, and only clacks them against each other in acknowledgement. “And, Fitz? Thank you.”
send me ✎ + prompt & i’ll write you a ~3-5 sentence drabble.
For the meme: Bobbifitz and "Born from the same fire"
born from the same fire (Sitcom AU)
Bobbi Morse is over it. After a nasty divorce and being fired from her job at the shady pharmaceuticals company Hydra Inc. she needs a new start and a plan. Dragging her foster brother Fitz into her mess seems like exactly the perfect beginning.
Leo Fitz has trouble to find the motivation to put on pants every day. An accident has caused him the loss of both his outstanding motoric skills and his job. Nowadays his TV is his best friend. Having Bobbi back in his life out of the sudden is both a shock and an opportunity.
So they do what all rational, unemployed adults do: They buy an old, closed fire station, open a bar inside and call it ‘The Forge’. What else?
Faced with a conglomerate of customers every night, they deal with problems of love, loss, friendship and maybe even national security, depending on what the suit-guy Coulson really works as.
“Talk to her, Leopold.”“Let me live, Barbara. She’s not interested.”“No offense, but you are not the person who can tell that. And from what I can see the Jemma - lady is pretty interested.”
