[ fitz looks up from his work when ward steps off the toilet, watching him as he gestures with the screwdriver, starts to toss it in easy, controlled movements as he approaches. his gaze skips down to the tool for a few beats before moving back to ward's face, and there's a guarded wariness in it.
he keeps still, neutral. the truth is that he has to resist the urge to step back, the way he had when ward found him and simmons plotting to access the bus. the way he'd stumbled back away from the cell when he'd first seen ward, trapped behind that invisible wall. the pace of his heart feels heavier, louder in his ears, and he tells himself it's anger instead of fear.
it only shows in the unnatural stillness as he watches and listens, the way he doesn't blink. he considers putting on a nonchalant ruse, continuing to fuss with the comm instead of giving ward a direct response, but his control doesn't extend quite that far. ]
I don't need— [ help, saving; the words don't quite say enough. ] You. This— [ the comm is temporarily forgotten, and fitz gestures between them with the hand holding the lock pick, movements short and agitated. ] I'd rather be stuck on this damn ship than go— [ this time the words catch, lost, and he struggles for a few restless seconds before his patience snaps. he wants to throw the comm, watch it shatter. instead he breaks eye contact, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead before sitting on the edge of the bed. his grip on the comm's tight, white-knuckled.
one steady breath, and his voice is quiet when he speaks; it doesn't do anything to disguise the anger. ]
no subject
he keeps still, neutral. the truth is that he has to resist the urge to step back, the way he had when ward found him and simmons plotting to access the bus. the way he'd stumbled back away from the cell when he'd first seen ward, trapped behind that invisible wall. the pace of his heart feels heavier, louder in his ears, and he tells himself it's anger instead of fear.
it only shows in the unnatural stillness as he watches and listens, the way he doesn't blink. he considers putting on a nonchalant ruse, continuing to fuss with the comm instead of giving ward a direct response, but his control doesn't extend quite that far. ]
I don't need— [ help, saving; the words don't quite say enough. ] You. This— [ the comm is temporarily forgotten, and fitz gestures between them with the hand holding the lock pick, movements short and agitated. ] I'd rather be stuck on this damn ship than go— [ this time the words catch, lost, and he struggles for a few restless seconds before his patience snaps. he wants to throw the comm, watch it shatter. instead he breaks eye contact, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead before sitting on the edge of the bed. his grip on the comm's tight, white-knuckled.
one steady breath, and his voice is quiet when he speaks; it doesn't do anything to disguise the anger. ]
We don't need your help.