#broken-weapon

Being a SHIELD agent was never dull.

Peggy had offered him the job way back in the beginning, after the war, but he hadn’t been able to take it. It had been too much. He’d gone home, reunited with his family, spent his time mourning Steve his own way and had then thrown himself back into the military. It had felt like all he knew, the best way to cope, and for forty years he’d done that, watching as he’d barely aged. Whatever Zola had done to him, not only had it enabled him to survive the fall from the train, it was keeping him like this.

When the other beckons him over, he moves close to Phil, rubbing his arms. He slicks his hair back and whimpers a bit because it sends cold water trickling down his back. He can’t help but try and press close to Phil, trying to get warm.

@broken-weapon

Fitz came to consciousness very suddenly, his eyes snapping open and his head jerking up. But his head swam and he covered his bleary eyes as he dropped it back onto the pillow under his head. 

He glanced around, seeing he was laying on the cot in the vibranium cell on the Bus for some reason. And it was bloody freezing. What was it with Coulson and the temperature?

But that was when memories began to come back to him. He’d given Jemma the oxygen and he was meant to be dead now, yet he wasn’t, he was here—alone.

Sliding his legs off the bed, he pulled back the blanket over him as his feet landed with a solid clunk on the metal floor. He tried to stand despite his foggy head and wobbly legs, but he suddenly realized there was an awful ache in his belly as if he hadn’t eaten in a month. 

“How long was I out?” he wondered aloud, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again to try to clear the grogginess.

He staggered two steps toward the door before his head began to clear somewhat. The cold was no better without the blanket. In fact, he felt as if he’d never get warm again. The emptiness in the pit of his stomach only seemed to grow worse as he made his way to the door. It was gnawing at him painfully.

Bracing himself on the wall by the door, he tried to turn the handle but it was locked. Which seemed odd, to say the least. He wasn’t a prisoner, he was...ill... Wasn’t he?

He’d drowned but perhaps Jemma had managed to get him to the surface in time? This made little sense. He should be in a hospital, not locked in a cell on the Bus.

He realized that he didn’t feel ill at all, however. He felt fine aside from the cold, his stomach and a slightly muzzy head. Better than fine, really. He felt...fit.

He banged on the door several times, the hollow clang of it making his head feel as if it were reverberating like a bell. 

“Hello?” he called through the door. Turning, he waved his arms at the camera that was mounted in the corner sending a direct feed to the briefing room. “Hello!” he called, waving his arms again. Then he turned and banged on the door several more times for good measure.

⧗meme⧗@broken-weapon​⧗accepting⧗        « if you need to yell, do it to my face. come on. » (not so innocent whistling)

He heard the person get out of the car, and he knew the walk length by heart. So by the time he reached the door, the person would be reaching the porch. Seven unlocks the door and begins to slowly open it. “Hi there, can I--” he felt like a hand suddenly wrapped around his throat. He knew the government types when he saw them, he’s spent his life being observed by them. Seven had to forcefully swallow the lump in his throat as he looks at the other wide eyed. Did they find out? Did they know? A trembling hand white knuckles the door now. “S-Sorry... how c-can I help you?” he forces. “I’m afraid my folks aren’t home at the moment if you’re looking for them.” Seven was 18 now, but that was besides the point.

At the look in his eye and the grip on his gun, Natasha’s hands went up. She wasn’t sure what had happened to him, when they had lost contact but, she didn’t think it was good. Especially with the fear in his eyes and the questions that he was asking.