Summary: An accumulation of FitzSimmons drabbles, originally posted individually on my Tumblr.
Disclaimer: AoS is the property of Marvel and ABC Productions. I own nothing.
I've Got You
. . .
She's falling again, the air rushing past her with a freight train's roar. Her mouth is open in a silent scream as she plummets and reels, and despite her disorientation, she's explicitly aware of two things.
One: she's going to die.
Two: she'll never see Fitz again.
She doesn't know which grieves her more.
The nightmare fades as a warm presence materialises at her back and a pair of arms ground her.
"Shh. I've got you."
She feels the press of lips against her temple and lets out one final quavering whimper before her terror subsides.
"You've got me."
The Name Game
. . .
"There's no way we're calling it that."
Fitz looked so affronted that Jemma couldn't help but let her stern look melt away.
"What's wrong with 'Junior'?"
"It's so…" Jemma wrinkled her nose. "Generic."
Fitz scoffed, but pulled her closer regardless. "Well if you'd just let them tell you the gender-"
"But I want to be surprised." She shot him her best pout. He sighed.
"Fine. Since you've obviously got better ideas, spill."
"How about 'Alastair' for your father, if it's a boy? 'Megan' for a girl?…"
Fitz's smile was mischievous. "I still think 'Junior' has a nice ring to it."
The Female of the Species
. . .
"Give me the device," says the brute in his thick Russian accent.
While the night-night gun is not entirely steady in Jemma's hands, her expression is deadly, and beneath his panic Fitz feels both pride and something else. Something that makes his blood run hot.
He clears his throat nervously.
"Maybe we should give the man what he wants."
"Not helping," Jemma sings.
The big Russian suddenly lunges with a growl, and Jemma shrieks, instinctively pulling the trigger.
Their attacker drops like a sack of potatoes.
"See? Nothing to-"
Fitz smothers the remainder of Jemma's comment with a kiss.