Fitz had been working for the SHIELD 616 for just about two years. Becoming a firefighter hadn’t been his original plan for his life, but something about the team had just felt right, so he’d made the change from volunteer to full-time, and never looked back. Sure, it was dangerous, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes consider the what-ifs, but he liked his work, liked his team.

When one of the EMTs had left, having finished medical school and moved on to become a trauma doctor, there had been an open position. The fire captain, Coulson, and the paramedic captain, had interviewed people to fill Lincoln’s spot, though Fitz hadn’t had a chance to meet them until today.

It had been a relatively easy day, with the crew taking advantage of the gap between calls. Fitz was flat on his back on the creeper seat, only his feet sticking out from under the rig, when he heard a new voice call out a hesitant hello.

“Jus’ a second!” he called back, shifting his feet so he could push himself out from under the firetruck. He was sure that he looked a right mess, his hands greasy, his face, too. He was also sure that he’d have to change, his shirt dirty from being on the floor.

When he finally resurfaced from under the truck, he was immediately looking up at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing the EMT uniform. ( So she was Lincoln’s replacement, then. ) For a moment, Fitz couldn’t remember how to breathe, his mouth open slightly as he stared up at her, still flat on his back, covered in engine grease.

Fitz had seen her come in before. The first time, she had been with another woman, the pair of them laughing and smiling, sipping wine at their table. She looked over in his direction from time to time, but it was only ever a passing glance, just looking at the art on the walls or the chandelier above his head. Maybe once she looked at him, just to see who was playing the piano, but he wasn’t sure. Regardless, he kept his head down and focused on the keys under his fingers.

She was back again about two weeks later. Her hair had been cut shorter, and her dress was the same as the one her friend had been wearing last time. Maybe they shared wardrobes, or something. Was that weird of him to notice?

It seemed like she was there for some sort of meeting, if the other fancily dressed people were anything to judge by, and the short conversations about what... seemed like business, maybe? Still, he focused on the keys, focused on the sheet music and the tablet in front of him.

The third time he saw her, it was in the corner of his right eye. She was talking to Hunter at the bar, and the pair of them kept nodding towards him. He tried to keep his focus on the composition he was playing, but a pop-up on his tablet alerted him that Hunter and this mystery woman were indeed talking about him, as Hunter had slyly texted him under the bar without ever breaking eye contact or conversation with the woman.

HUNTER: Incoming - lady wants to talk to you

Fitz blinked at his tablet and his mouth moved a little, no words or distinguishable sounds passing his lips. And, sure enough, the woman was walking towards his piano now, lingering near the rear leg as he played. She was still far enough away from him that she wouldn’t see his wheelchair, wouldn’t really notice the way he was sitting or that his head tilt wasn’t just a matter of him focusing.

Leopold had always been seen as a rather simple fellow. The only reason he had a job at all was because of his mum, the cook for the Simmons family. People in town always said that he would never really amount to much, far too quiet, too simple-brained, his hands always shaking. He was lucky to be alive, others said.

But the Simmons family liked his mum, thought well of her, and had agreed -- with some trepidation -- to give Leopold a job at the manor, just serving and tidying up at the ends of the day. Some of the other stewards and servants made mention of how he was specifically being hidden from the others, working the nights when most everyone else was asleep. Maybe it was to keep up appearances.

But Leopold didn’t mind much. He liked the quiet, gave him time to think, to be alone, time to practice his words, to try and manage a few without stuttering and stammering each time. It wasn’t often that people spoke WITH him, just at him, giving him commands and jobs to do. He’d show them. Eventually...

On that particular night, Leopold had been sent to tidy the library, the aftermath of a small gathering that the Simmons patriarch had had earlier in the day. What he wasn’t expecting when he opened the door though, just after ten in the evening, was to see the Simmons girl there, sitting in her nightgown with a book in her lap.

He’d seen her before -- Jemma, her name was -- but that was only in passing, coming in to serve meals or bring new blankets, then quickly leaving. And he’d always thought her beautiful, a magnificent young woman about his age. He’d always wanted the courage to speak to her, and now...

To say that Fitz had lost track of TIME would be an understatement. Did time even exist anymore? Without the sun rising and falling, it was hard to tell. All he really knew anymore was dust and blue. Dust and blue and IT. It that lived in the shadows and the sandstorms and the dark moments.

It that whispered and tried its absolute damndest to lure him out and kill him, drive him insane just like it did to the others. 

There was nothing on this hellscape of a planet left. It was just Fitz. Just Fitz...

Until he heard her.

It wasn’t uncommon for It to use voices, to try and call for him and lure him out, but most of those voices had been men, but this... this voice was new. And it was close. Just above the trapdoor near the lake...

He watched her, sometimes, hidden in the reeds, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe It had gotten smarter and was trying something new... Either way, he had to catch It, to find out what It wanted.

So, he lured her over, tossing rocks at the reeds, the noise of it attracting her until she was standing right on top of the trapdoor. The moment she fell through, he ran, covering up the hole in trap again.

Truth be told, Daisy was exhausted with these interviews. She was tired of having to interview people and try to find someone that could help. She was losing count of them all. If Lincoln hadn’t... if things were different, she wouldn’t need to interview people, wouldn’t need to hire someone to be a caretaker to help her best friend. If things were different and if Fitz hadn’t been in his accident...

There was only one interview set for that morning, a young woman called Jemma Simmons. She kept going over the resumé, looking over the credentials that said she had no prior experience in caregiving, no prior experience in any of the fields that Daisy had specified necessary.

@biochemiist​

The only thing Fitz could hear was the roaring of the engines. If he strained, he could probably make out the distress call that the pilot was making, the desperate, “MAYDAY, MAYDAY!” or the frantic beeping from the plane’s machinery.

The turbulence was tossing all the agents around, and Fitz desperately clung to Jemma’s hand. The last time they’d held each other this tightly, Henry was being born. The last time they’d clung to each other’s hands with tears in their eyes was when a doctor was telling them that Henry couldn’t hear them. They’d buried their eyes in each other’s shoulders and cried, and did their best to think to the future.

Just that morning they’d left Henry on the base with Bobbi and Hunter, signed a goodbye to him that he didn’t quite understand yet, and promised to be home for bedtime. The infant only smiled around his teething ring, paying his parents no mind as they left.

They might not be making it home like they thought.

Fitz turned to meet Jemma’s eyes, tears already falling down his cheeks. Carefully, he lifted a hand, making one small, last sign to her, the first one he’d taught her.

I love you.

When the dust started to settle, the sight was worse than imaginable. Everyone was dead. A hole was ripped through the side of the Quinjet, smoke pouring from the controls and the engines. Agents were dead, blood was everywhere, bones were broken. It was silent. Just by the gaping hole in the Quinjet, caught on the torn metal and soaked in blood was just a scrap of a jacket, the name badge and the SHIELD insignia.

L. FITZ-SIMMONS

@biochemiist​

The crew had been called to an apartment fire late that evening. A kitchen fire, nothing out of the ordinary, so Fitz didn’t really expect anything to be too different from previous fires he’d been to, just the same old, same old. Get in, get everyone out, help the others put the flames away, go home.

He and Mack and the others had gone into the building and started searching every apartment, calling out for people to leave if they could walk. The landlord had said most residents had left, having gathered out of the building the moment the alarms had gone off, but some were unaccounted for.

The apartment next to the one where the fire had started was where Fitz and Mack found them. The flames had gone through one of the walls, filling the air with smoke, leaving the two women coughing from where they were slumped on the ground.

“Hey! Hey!” Fitz yelled. “Can y’hear me?” he asked. He kneeled down beside one of the girls, taking her arm and pulling it over his shoulders, his other arm picking her up under her knees to lift her into his arms. “I’ve got you, s’okay, miss.”

Fitz had been keeping mostly to himself since boarding the ship. He’d spent most of his time going from the engine room to the cramped third class stateroom they’d assigned him to. He wasn’t technically a member of the crew, but he’d put enough blood, sweat and tears into helping with the engines to be considered part of it. And besides, it put some extra money into his pockets to help when he got to shore.

He’d been lingering around on the decks that night, laying back on the bench to stare up at the sky, watching the stars and the steam from the smokestacks. He was starting to think that maybe he’d sleep out on the deck tonight, just to get away from the crowd in the stateroom.  

And he was starting to nod off when he heard footsteps, running across the deck. He sat up with a start, just in time to see a young woman rush past him and towards the rails, overlooking the stern, above the rotors. He was almost certain he’d seen her crying, and curiosity got the better of him, and he started to follow after her. He approached slowly, fighting the urge to run when he saw her climb over the railing and hold on tight, ready to jump.