The moment he saw Ward, all of the air went rushing out of Fitz’s lungs. He’d come down here only to find spare parts, and then there was Ward. The man who’d tried to kill him, and he was just standing there, in their basement, and Fitz can’t breathe.
The tablet’s dropped from his hands, clattered to the floor. The whole base feels like it has tilted from under his feet. Ward’s talking, telling him he needs to breathe, but he can’t.
His legs wobble, then give out from under him, and he found himself on the ground, trembling in front of Ward’s cell. He can’t get any air in his lungs, and the world around him is going dark. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Ward is here, and he can’t get any air into his lungs.
He wanted to SCREAM, but there’s nothing he can do, he can’t do anything. He can’t breathe.
for the past months, silence has kept grant ward company in his tiny cell in vault d. day in, day out, as his body clock dictates to him the hours, the only people who had ever come to visit were those who brought in his meals, guarded him as he filled yet another sheet of paper with more intel about hydra, and coulson. come the morning, at 5:30 am, sharp, he wakes up, something that he has conditioned his body to do since his teenage years, starting when he lived in those woods for five years, and proceeds with his morning routine. change only came the moment his short list of visitors began to include skye.
ever since then, every time the door to the vault opens, he looks up, excitement and relief flooding his features at the promise of having someone else to talk to for a while ------------ regardless of the fact that everything he and skye ever talked about was hydra ------------ and expecting for his brown orbs to fall upon the those of skye’s. this time, however, instead of finding the familiar brown orbs of skye looking back at him, it’s blue hues colored with shock and fear that stares back at him. and just as the air rushes out of his own lungs, his heart twists painfully in his chest.
truth be told, he has hoped for fitz to come down and see him, and the longer he keeps asking coulson and skye about the scientist and receiving no answer, his worry grows. but as the concern intensifies, his hope dwindled. at one point, he even thought the two didn’t make it out of the pod, but eventually, he managed to convince himself that if they had not made it and ended up drowning, then he’d be dead by may’s hand by now. the only source of comfort he has for receiving no visit from fitz and simmons is that they hated him too much to even look at him. better be hated than for them to be dead.
as he looks back at fitz, however, he could not find relief in the fact that he finally received a visit from the engineer. not when the look on the other man’s face is that of pure and unadulterated fear mingled with shock. had the situation been calmer, grant would have realized that the reason why fitz has not come down until now is most likely because the scot didn’t even know they had a prisoner in their basement. but as it is, he can barely think straight. his thoughts are fogged by panic as he watches fitz crumple to the floor, struggling to get air back into his lungs, and it’s absolutely one of his nightmares come to life.
how many times has he had a nightmare that involved knocking the air out of fitzsimmons’ lungs by different ways ?? sometimes choking, drowning, smothering. multiple times, and at the wake of these nightmares and seeing it happen right in front of his eyes, he cannot remember what valid reason he even had to push that pod out of the plane in the first place. because what, what reason, could be enough to cause such destruction ?? n o t h i n g . he could remember nothing in that moment.
❛ fitz, breathe... please, please, breathe. try to calm down, listen to me... ❜ he repeats the string of requests yet again. even as a voice in the back of his head tells him that he might be having a nightmare, that this can’t be real, he cannot resist the reaction. as the panic gnaws on his chest, he falls to the floor, crawling towards fitz, his instincts screaming for him to help, and only recalling the existence of the barrier once it’s glowing bright orange at his face the closer he approaches. even so, he dares come as close as he could, until he no longer can, and he can only be thankful that the barrier is not electrified, otherwise he’d have been electrocuted by now as he plants his palm onto the barrier, feeling its warm temperature against his trembling hand. ❛ you need to get air into your lungs, fitz... ❜
