aubergines | ( #002 ) FAKE MARRIED AU

[ there's a flicker of interest in his expression at the names; skye's not entirely surprising, but raina is. the explanation doesn't earn much, otherwise. fitz isn't entirely sure he believes it. ]

Did you tell them anything?

[ that one's accusatory. it's also completely avoiding the question, because fitz gets the implication. the problem is that he doesn't know quite what the answer is — wants to see ward locked up just as much as he wants things to be like they used to be, knows that's a stupid, childish impulse. it's the reason the bite in his voice ends up more defensive than cagey. ]

[ ward rolls his eyes. ]

I'm disappointed that you have to ask.

[ his loyalty to skye has been used by shield enough times now that he thinks it shouldn't be up for question. raina is another matter, but he doesn't feel like going into the specifics of what he did and didn't say, the information he gave them. ]

[ he leaves everything but the screwdriver on the table for fitz, and then walks around the little suite, flipping it in his hand like it's a knife. the back wall is translucent glass: there's a shower on the other side, designed so that whoever's showering will be blurrily, tantalizingly silhouetted to anyone in the sleek queen sized bed — which has its own controls. the bathroom has no door. it does, however, have a ceiling grate, and ward hops up on the lid of the toilet to inspect it. ]

[ true. the loyalty to skye's a point of contention, if anything, but it's one of very few consistencies when it comes to grant ward. fitz doesn't respond, though he seems somewhat appeased by the answer. he waits until ward's moved to the bathroom to pick up one of the lock picks, stepping over to the open doorway and watching ward as he inspects the ceiling.

he turns his attention to the comms a moment later, then seems to think better of it, turning away from ward entirely and heading back into the other room as he starts to tinker with the device. it takes him several tries to loose one of the panels; longer than it should, really, and he tries to keep the effort out of ward's line of sight. ]

They must've abducted you for a reason.

[ half petty, half thoughtful, very belligerently not concerned. and then, almost as an afterthought but with deliberate finality (and definitely petty): ] You can't come back with us.

[ good luck getting back to earth, js. ]

[ it shouldn't surprise him, but somehow that sentiment still has the power to hurt him, and ward pauses in his concentration, drops his hands to slap against his thighs and looks at fitz in disbelief. ]

[ then he hops down off the toilet. ]

I've been a team player.

[ he reminds fitz evenly, pointing the screwdriver at him. ]

I'd say I think of you guys as family, but given what I think of my actual family, that doesn't seem like much of a compliment.

[ he tosses the screwdriver a couple of times, and he's angry, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach, that helpless, hurt anger that he's become so good at sublimating into action. he shrugs it away, stops well short of fitz' personal space, stance unthreatening. not that he couldn't still kill fitz from here if he wanted to. he wishes they'd appreciate that restraint — after all, fitz hadn't shown him the same courtesy. ]

But maybe you should be asking yourself if you can get off this ship without me.

[ 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. ]

We don't need your help.

[ it's distressing. more than any other consequence: garret's madness, his time in the cell, his brother's distancing campaign, may's beat down, skye's hatred. it was distressing when fitz first came to see and kill him, and it's distressing now, watching his own fury choke him. ]

[ the urge to finish each of fitz's sentences for him is enormous, but he resists. ]

You don't want my help.

[ he corrects, not bothered by the truth in it. he knows he won't just be accepted back into the fold with open arms. if this is a redemption story, it's one he's telling himself, all personal. and it doesn't matter how much skye hates him for the things he's done and can never undo, he knows that with her as his guiding light he truly can be a better man. ]

[ he tosses the screwdriver down next to fitz on the bed. ]

I'll help your stubborn ass anyway.

[ and because he'd like to say it at least once when he's not motivated by captivation and impending death: ]

I am sorry, you know.

[ he jumps slightly when the screwdriver lands on the bed beside him, subtle enough to be discarded as distraction, a quick glance in its direction.

ward's right. fitz started this off on the wrong foot, knows he's likely to draw attention or worse if he tries to engage the locals without ward's influence again, whatever it might be. realizes, belatedly, that he's already accepted ward's help by accepting the tools. he drops the lock pick on the bed by the screwdriver, irritated, then looks back up to ward.

sorry. it doesn't matter that there's a glimpse of sincerity in it, that familiar pull that makes him want to believe it. it doesn't mean anything. nothing ward ever said or did meant anything, and that's not changing now. ]

No, I don't want your help. You're a— you think you can just say sorry, when you— [ he fails to settle on the right word, and the comm's abandoned on the bed as he stands, steps forward into ward's space. ] You can't. It doesn't mean anything, not after what you've done.

[ the anger wavers, gives way to something unsteady and scared. ] You did this. You chose him, and you don't— you don't get forgiveness.

[ ward hears the unspoken words: you betrayed us. tries not to let it hurt. ]

Garrett raised me. Taught me. I would have followed him into fire.

[ not without questions, of course, garrett had taught him that, too. and not at the end, not after garrett died and lost his mind, became some other kind of monster. ]

[ he knows skye and the rest of them think that kind of blind obedience to evil is despicable, but the truth is he'd been feigning that exact sort of blind obedience to shield and they'd never reacted like this. it's hydra that changes things, and ward was never a true believer. he doesn't care for hydra anymore. ]

I won't apologize for that. But I'm sorry for what it cost you. You and Simmons... I wanted to keep you out of it.

[ he doesn't know how many times he has to say it, that he thought he was saving their lives. he's explained in multiple interviews that the cube was supposed to float once ejected over an ocean, that if he'd released them garrett would have simply had them both shot. but he watches fitz struggle with his words, his own mind, his one great weapon and tool, and he knows his intentions don't really mean much in the face of what fitz lost. ]

Yeah, well if you wanted to keep us out of it, maybe you shouldn't have— [ this time, fitz cuts himself off intentionally. he isn't supposed to be upset because ward acted like his friend, acted like something else entirely. he's meant to be upset on behalf of everyone, the team, simmons and skye and may.

he doesn't step back, but he does drop his gaze, anger briefly derailed by embarrassment. his focus catches on the nightstand when he does, the details of the room; it doesn't help. it's just a mockery of his own selfish, personal hangups, and he tries to push it all back, bottle up the anger and scrape together some self-control. ]

It doesn't matter. The team won't trust you.

[ he tries to make it sound detached and impersonal, but now that the anger's died down he just sounds upset. he turns away without meeting ward's eyes again, picks up the comm with every intention of acting like the conversation's over — then stops, attention shifting to his hand as the glowing mark flickers red. ]

[ the team. ward rolls his eyes: when he's playing at being by the book everyone's an individual with their own ideas but now that he's the bad guy they're all a unified team. go figure. still, that's not a statement he can argue with. ]

[ he also knows that it's personal for each of them. simmons' little crush when he rescued her; his affair with may; his devotion to skye; each of them feels personally betrayed, regardless of what he did and what amends he makes. and fitz is no different. but ward's never cared about people 'til he met the team, and he's going to keep caring about them whether they want him to or not. ]

[ and then the light goes on. ]

[ ward's eyebrows raise and he looks down at his own hand: nothing. ]

That's not good.

[ red is a bad color, everyone knows that. he's got fitz' hand in his own in moments, heedless if his anger or his personal space. ]

Hope they're not watching this room. Because you're making a pretty bad show of being my partner. Since I think they think that means we're...

[ a gesture around at the room. ]

[ fitz doesn't get a chance to step back before ward's in his space, and there's just a short, ineffective attempt to yank his hand out of ward's grip before he processes the words and goes still.

he follows the gesture with a quick look around the room, as if he's only just now seeing it — not true, and of course he'd already gotten the implications when they'd first stepped off the lift, but— ]

What? [ it's a bad habit, that startled filler. he hates it, but unlike apparently every other word, it's quick and instinctive. he looks back with every intention of expressing his discontent with that particular ruse, only to become distracted by his hand again. the color's turning, red giving way to a more neutral, if not completely comforting, orange. there's a beat of heavy silence while he thinks. when he speaks, his voice is guarded and wary. ]

Let me go.

[ he doesn't even look at ward as he says it, too busy watching to see how the mark reacts. ]

[ ward understands immediately, and when he lets fitz go it's part of an experiment rather than respect for his boundaries. and sure enough the light goes back to red again. ]

Partners.

[ he takes fitz's hand again, firmly, like there's to be no argument about the action. ]

To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, on Earth or on alien spaceships.

[ not if fitz has any opinion on the matter. he tries to yank his hand away, but the gesture's more annoyed than violent, easily countered by ward's firm grip. ]

That isn't funny. [ it's a terrible joke, even without the terrible context behind all of this. he says it almost petulantly, which might technically be a step up from seething anger. he's still distracted by the light, anyway, watching as it fades back to orange. ]

They're not watching. [ the light hadn't reacted when he was breaking the comm or when ward was snooping around in the bathroom. though that doesn't necessarily mean anything, and he isn't sure which of the two possibilities is actually the worse option. ] It's contact-based.

[ the neutral tone's verging on cold. same approach as ward, though for entirely different reasons — it's easier to deal with this when he removes himself from it, treats it like a project instead of something personal, just shy of intimate. the comm's dropped yet again, then he experimentally places his free hand on ward's arm, shoving his sleeve back in the process.

the light shifts yellow in response. his hand moves to his forehead, eyes shut as he lets out a frustrated noise. it's at least partly contact-based, and no matter what it's a problem. ] This isn't going to work.

[ red when they're not touching. orange for holding hands. yellow for closer contact. even a Neanderthal like ward can figure that much out. though ward is starting to wonder just what kind of things might make fitz' hand light up in the cooler end of the spectrum — and what the consequences are if he stays in the red. ]

These guys are definitely over-invested.

[ in where fitz' hands are going and by association the state of their marriage. is it an alien thing or a ward thing? he doesn't know and it's obviously making fitz uncomfortable. he lets him pull away and watches the light fade back to red. ]

Wanna take a bet what's going to happen if you leave it that color?

[ he offers, barely serious, though it's hard to tell with ward now: he never used to crack a lot of jokes and these days his poker face is really good. ]

Access. It'll be access, which... [ is the safest answer. probably a correct one, and hopefully the only one. fitz doesn't sound particularly sure of that, though, and there's a hesitant glance up towards ward before his eyes drop back to the mark and he searches for words. ]

It's the— um. The things— [ he's gotten past this. learned to slow down, think things through regardless of how long it takes rather than stumbling through it out loud. the backslide's frustrating, but he tries to ignore it, keep his tone neutral. ] Nanites. Or something like nanites.

[ uncertainty aside, he seems content to see just what happens if it stays red. he doesn't move to resume contact. he wants to cross his arms, shrink in on himself; instead he settles his hands on his hips, trying to act casual and in charge, but the gesture's a forced echo of his old habits. ]

This is your fault.

[ thanks again for bailing him out. or not. ]

[ ward lifts his hands, placating, palms open. like fitz is wounded in some way and likely to snap. ]

Hey, we're in this together right now.

[ he doesn't point out that he's done fitz a favor, is continuing to help him out. he's gonna let his actions speak for themselves, even if fitz won't trust him. he knows that if he just keeps acting like he used to, like agent grant ward, he can get it back. the admiration and respect, the position as a hero... he can get it all back. ]

Besides, you need access. If that goes green it's practically an all level's pass. Comms won't matter: you could just go straight to the team.

Yeah, but— [ ward's the one who said together, the reason things got so wildly misinterpreted, but that placating gesture still gets fitz to stop and listen. getting upset doesn't accomplish anything, anyway; it just makes words harder to come by.

so he calms down, if only just enough to stop throwing out petty accusations. placing blame isn't going to accomplish anything. it's certainly not going to get him out of this room, or in contact with the rest of the team.

the only thing that'll accomplish that is a green light, literally, and they've already established how to get it. he gives ward a steady look, too walled off and focused to convey anything more personal. ]

You think we should play along.

[ play along here meaning touch, but he leaves that up to inference. there's something testing in the inquiry, like he's asking what ward wants instead of what he thinks — wonders whether want ever had anything to do with any of it. ]

I do.

[ it's steady, direct, his eyes meeting fitz'. it's impossible to tell if there's something else underneath that earnest seriousness: the possibility of manipulation, maybe, of restoring fitz' faith in him simply by renewing what they were to each other. or perhaps at the core of this practicality is simple loneliness. he spent a long time in a shield cell. he's gone a long time without touching anyone. ]

It'd be faster and safer than crawling through the air vents.

[ he gestures back to the bathroom, though his gaze doesn't leave fitz. ]

[ safer. fitz seriously doubts that. he resists the urge to look away, but the way he watches ward is more akin to how someone would watch a dangerous animal, a threat — there's nothing open about it, nothing intentionally intimate.

faster's correct. the truth is that fitz can't think of any alternatives, doubts he'd have the gear or fine motor control to tamper with alien nanite technology if he even had a clue where to start. ]

Fine.

[ but he doesn't move. not right away, at least. it takes a few seconds to get up the nerve to do anything, and when he does all he does is offer his hand up, willingly this time. the gesture's still tense, running contrary to instinct. ]

[ ward looks at fitz's hand for a beat before brushing their fingers together, and then lacing fitz' through his own. watching the glow shift orange. ]

You can touch me however you want.

[ it's embarrassingly broad permission. what he doesn't add is that he won't touch fitz anywhere without an invitation, won't push like that. that's not really anything new: ward's continual obedience may have been tainted by the revelation of where his loyalties lay, but that doesn't make it any less real. ]

Whatever it takes.

[ it sounds sincere, embarrassingly honest. enough to cause his heartbeat to catch slightly, make it more difficult to hold ward's gaze.

he still can't trust it. if ward wants to play loyal, like he's suddenly still part of the team or a decent friend, fitz doesn't want to put stock in any part of it. that doesn't make it any less useful.

still, easier said than done. his gaze finally drops to their hands, and he tightens his grip when he realizes his is trembling slightly, isn't entirely sure if it's because of ward or... well, because of ward. the next step's obvious. more touching. maybe even just holding hands, except the idea of it's ridiculous, too innocent and tender to have any place in this. he spends enough time being treated like he could break, feeling like he's about to; this is only control in the most fucked up definition, but he's still desperate enough to take it.

when he looks back up, the anger's there, just at the edge of his voice. ] Kiss me.

[ there's a frisson of electricity down his spine at the contradiction between fitz' command and the look in his eyes. there's still so much hate in there, blame and fury and pain. and ward wants to respond to those edges with edges of his own, but that won't get them anywhere. ]

[ he touches fitz' face, first, just clinically, to tip his chin up, angling his mouth where ward wants it. he lets go after, hand hovering short of touching as he leans down and obeys orders. ]

[ it's gentle and not at a all chaste. he remembers how to do this, fit his mouth to fitz' just so, damp lips and a brush of his tongue, the promise of more and deeper, of ward's mouth however he wants it. ]

( #002 ) FAKE MARRIED AU

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this is so bad for my mdash fixation

i love mdashes this is great

lovingly smothers you in them

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pats ward on the head

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wasn't this fake married what happened here

we have failed at the meme that's what.