#fitzschott

maybe this is the same universe where winn dropped out of the shield academy. he gets injured, for whatever reason can't go to the actual hospital about it- maybe he was guardian-ing or in an otherwise identity-compromising position. remembers jemma. who he doesn't talk to all that much anymore since moving away, aside from happy birthdays and merry christmases, but he knows she wouldn't tell. and for whatever reason they're in national city okay, go with it

after some careful sleuthing winn rocks up on her doorstep, a cold brownstone at least a forty minute walk from his apartment, bonus points if its raining and he's all bloodied and bruised or something, and simmons opens her door and just starts freaking out because A) she didn't know he was so close, B) she's not seen him in so long and C) he's been fucking beat up.

she ushers him in, he's being cagey about what happened, insisting he's fine he just needs a few stitches and can't go to the hospital about it, and fitz, who is also there, comes into the living room to see what the hell all the comotion is and he and winn lock eyes and just freeze.

the last time he saw winn is not super clear- mostly flashes of warm, freckled skin, bodies laid bare, entangled, sweaty sheets and gasping breaths and soft mouths. winn was gone the next morning. and now he's here, somehow, bruised and bloody and soaking wet like he fucking walked here on his own.

"what are you doing here?"

fitz speaking seems to snap winn out of his own memories. "was in the area. thought i'd pop by," he shrugs, monotonous, and lowers his gaze back to where simmons is cleaning blood off his skin and examining his wounds, clearly trying very hard to keep her face neutral.

"why didn't you go to the fucking hospital, you moron?"

"couldn't."

"jemma?" fitz jerks his head back towards the kitchen, gaze flicking between her and winn, who narrows his eyes at him very slightly.

she just shakes her head, pats winns knee and apologises and says she'll be right back, tells him not to go anywhere. fitz is leaning against the kitchen counter when she joins him, around the corner. "why is he here?" he asks her quietly. winn has good hearing. he turns away from the door, just in case.

"i don't know, he just got here! i hope you're not about to suggest we throw him out, obviously he feels he can't go to the hospital about it, or even work, he- he has a doctor friend, right, someone in biochem? karas sister? i don't know-"

"what's he told you?"

"not much of anything, really. I asked what happened, if anyone hurt him, he just shrugged. said he wouldn't be here if he had anywhere else to go, that he knew he needed stitches but he couldn't do them himself."

fitz sighs and rubs the back of his neck, curling into himself. "can i try?"

"what, talk to him? no offence, but if he won't talk to me i really don't think-"

"jemma, please- i'll do his damn stitches if you give us a minute, he might-"

"fine! just dont get squeamish, he doesn't need many, a couple in his eyebrow and a few more for the laceration on his arm, and for gods sake don't antagonise him, I know what you two are like-"

"i won't!"

simmons hands him a first aid kit (fully stocked, one of many stashed throughout the house) and sweeps her hair out of her face, looking worried and frazzled. she grabs a glass of water and sits quietly at the kitchen table, reluctant to go anywhere further away than the next room over.

fitz cleans the wounds some more, eyes dragging over winns face- carefully neutral, staring off into the middle distance, deliberately not looking at him. two or three stitches above his right eyebrow. neither says anything. six more on his left forearm, and still the silence stretches. winn is remarkably, maybe even worryingly, good at hiding any winces or hisses of pain, maintaining a level composure and even breathing that gives next to nothing away.

fitz is cleaning blood, he doesn't know whose, from between winns fingers (gentle, intimate, maybe overstepping a little, maybe on purpose) when winn speaks.

"james olsen is the guardian."

they lock eyes. winns shoulders look like they feel lighter. "what? the- the photography guy?"

"the one and only."

"what, did you get caught in the crossfire or something? and he didn't even check if you were alright?"

"I've been helping him. we were out tonight. it went sideways." winn scrubs his free hand over his face, smearing blood, and fitz has to bite back a retort about how he'd just cleaned that off of there, and dont rip out your damn stitches or i swear to god. "supergirl doesn't know. and agents medical records are in the deo system. they'd find out if I went to the hospital."

they don't say anything else while fitz cleans the rest of the blood from his skin. simmons gives him a hug before he leaves, tells him to call if he needs anything, and fitz stays in the living room, pretending to fuss around with the wipes and the first aid kit and the wet spot winn had left on the couch.

winn doesn't make a habit of it. he's careful about becoming dependent on other people, has had that instinct trained out of him a long time ago, when he learned over and over again that people leave, no matter what, so you'd better suck it up and do it on your own. he reinforces his van, upgrades james' armour, removes the stitches himself and doesn't worry that fitz or simmons will tell anybody about what he told them that night. well, what he told fitz- but if simmons hadn't overheard from her spot in the kitchen, fitz would have told her by now. they're a package deal, the way he and kara are. were.

but that doesn't mean he doesn't think about it, doesn't want to go back. doesn't mean that sometimes, occasionally, he lies in bed at night, staring at his ceiling, remembering the feeling of fitzs gentle, nimble fingers cleaning his hands. nails bitten down to the quick, trembling ever so slightly, smeared with blood. both of them.

fitz texts him, for the first time. hope you're okay, after his dad dies. he ignores it, leaves him on read. if he replied, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from replying to the next message, and the next, and the next. it's better if he doesn't. fitz doesn't pry.

he's in the warehouse with his mother, flat on his back, head throbbing from where he'd smacked it against the concrete floor, his throat tightening, and all he can think of is fitz. if he dies here, as the cord cuts into his skin, can't breathe, can't breathe, he thinks he'll regret not replying to that message. he slices his hand open, and there's so much blood, and he thinks of fitz and, oh, god, is that bone?

how he finds himself again on fitzs doorstep, he doesn't know. maybe he's dizzy from the blood loss, or at least thats what he tells himself, because it could've been worse, all things considered. actually, he'd been lucky as fuck, considering all his tendons were still in one piece. but fitz opens the door to winn standing on the front step of the same cold brownstone and his heart does something funny, and he tells himself its the blood loss. it's easier like that.

simmons is out. are she and fitz together, or just living together? do they live here permanently, or are they here only temporarily, and he'd once again gotten insanely lucky to have gotten beat up when he did? winn doesn't care to know, or to ask. he's not sure he could handle the answer.

fitz swears a lot as he examines his hand, peeling it away from where winn has it cradled against his chest. he honestly doesn't know how he'd managed to slip away from everyone after the ordeal was over. he'd heard karas voice say karaoke, heard his mother tentatively agree, and then he was already walking, phone turned off, and no one had come after him. he could have gone to the hospital this time. he could have had alex treat him at the deo. he doesn't really want to unpack why he hadn't.

"fuck, fuck, what the hell happened? winn, again? if guardian is- if he's-"

"no, this has nothing to do with him. or anyone else. this is.. this is all me. okay?" winn cuts him off. in the time it had taken for him to walk the hour from the warehouse to fitzs house, the bleeding had mostly stopped. unfortunately he'd had his hand curled up, protected, and the blood had crusted over the wound, dripped down most of his forearm, soaked his jacket. which is a shame. he liked that jacket, and dry cleaning is a bitch. fitz has to tentatively unfurl winns fingers, sticky and stained, and he can't bite back a hiss of pain as the wound is forced back open.

"jesus christ. fucking hell. come here, i need to wash it." fitz tugs his good arm towards the kitchen, turns on the sink and turns to face winn, weaving his head a little until winn catches his gaze properly. "this is going to hurt."

it does. the cool water is agonising as it flushes out winns hand- he can hardly stand to look, the sickening glint of white bone deep inside has his stomach turning. instead he watches the bottom of the sink, watches fresh red blood pour off of him, soaking into the threadbare sponge and washing down the drain. his fingers feel like they're on fire, not just because he'd walked here in the cold, unable to put his hands in his pockets. but he supposes that's a good thing, pain means no nerve damage. he can feel fitzs fingers, gentle again, warmer than his, delicately pulling and moving winns own to best flush out the wound.

fitz has been talking. winn doesn't know for how long, he hasn't been listening.

"huh?"

"your last tetanus vaccine."

"what about it?"

"when was it, idiot?"

"oh. recently, im not worried about that."

"fine. well, jemma isn't here, so you're stuck with me again." winn doesn't think that sounds like an entirely bad thing. which is strange, because when he'd first met fitz, he definitely would have. fitz doesn't say it like it's an entirely bad thing, either. "I'm not as good as her at all the medical stuff, but you'll live. it's deep but somehow you haven't sliced through any tendons. you wanna tell me how you did this?" He shuts off the tap, the water off winns hand running mostly clear.

"not really."

he's lead back through to the living room. sits in the same place as last time. fitz drags over the same ottoman, sits infront of him the same way, opens the same first aid kit that's been restocked since last time.

his hand holds winns in the right position before him. he hesitates, needle and thread hovering.

"is this just how it's going to be?" winn cocks his head, doesn't meet his eyes. he wants to. he's scared he might drown. "you show up here, injured, we patch you up, you don't tell me anything?"

he isn't sure what to say. he's afraid his voice might break if he tries anything. how to explain the day he's had. the week he's had, really. since his dad died he feels like he's been walking around in a haze. he hadn't cried, didn't know if he even really wanted to, and he didn't feel at peace. the last time he saw him was years ago, when he'd kidnapped him, and the last time before that was when he'd watched him get dragged away at eleven years old. but fitz doesn't know that. he hadn't told him anything, can only presume he saw the news and made the connection because they have the same fucking name.

"I don't know if I can," winn says quietly, and, as predicted, his voice breaks on the last word. fitz looks back down at their hands.

"this is going to hurt. again. you ready?"

it does. again. eleven stitches this time, from the base of his index finger all the way across to the base of his pinky. feeling the thread pull through his flesh is a feeling like no other.

"you said this had nothing to do with anyone else," fitz mumbles, tying off the thread on the final suture, and reaching for another alcohol pad to clean up the bleeding.

"I did."

"did you do this?"

"what? no! you think I'd- on purpose? of all the places to sabotage you'd think I'd cut my hand? well i- actually, well, I suppose I did, kind of on purpose, but it wasn't like that!" winn shakes his head. his hand throbs in time with his heartbeat, which, by this point, having had fitzs hands maneuvering him, brushing over his skin, cleaning him, is a little out of time. he fixes him with a hard stare, but after a beat it softens minutely.

"I know- I know you just lost your dad. if you're... struggling, then you should talk to someone. kara, or whoever. jemma. me."

"it wasn't like that," winn repeats dully. fitz is still holding his hand. not like that. but it could be.

when they were younger, winn couldn't ever have imagined fitz being able to bite onto a thread inside him, pull, and get him to spill his guts out to him voluntarily, retching acid and coughing up apologies as the cloying scent of rot fills the room. but here he is. hand sewed shut with eleven years, feeling the warmth of his fingertips leach into winns cold skin, and he can't stop.

"-and then my mum showed up, told me she just hated abandoning me when i was eleven but she had no other choice, went and got herself kidnapped, some crazy lady that worked for my dad tried to kill me, and- I don't know. now I'm here." winn takes a deep breath. he feels like he's just vomited all over himself.

fitz just stares at winns sutured hand, looking like he's trying to choose his next words very carefully.

"holy shit, man."

"yeah," winn sighs, suddenly exhausted.

"and how long ago did this happen?"

"how long ago did i get here? that plus the hour i walked."

"you walked here?"

winn misses jemma. this would have been a lot less messy if she'd been the one here tonight. exactly his luck. fitz lets go of winn, finally, sensing he won't get much more out of him, turns back to the first aid kit on the side table. he doesn't know what time it is, but he knows he'll have to walk back home. he knows, when he turns on his phone, which he won't until he's in bed, that he'll have missed calls and texts from kara and alex. he wants to stay here, just for a minute more, with the warmth of fitzs skin and the blissful almost-ignorance of something pointedly ignored.

"my dad left when I was ten," fitz says quietly, packing alcohol wipes back into the plastic case they'd come from. maybe a little slower than really needed. "I missed him, at first, and then I realised how much better life was with just me and my mum."

"I'm sorry," winn says. neither of them move.

he already has vomit down his front. "I missed you."

silence.

"I thought I was going to die today. and as that cord tightened round my neck, all I could think about was how I was going to regret not knowing you better." it's barely a whisper at this point. "and even though- even though my mum was right there, with a gun on her, and supergirl was there fighting evil robots, I- I was thinking about you."

it's quiet for a while. save for the cars rumbling by outside, the soft tick, tick, tick of the clock, the unsteady thump, thump, thump of winns heart. he can still feel it in his hand.

"I missed you too."

fitzs hand on his knee.

winn is exhausted. but he lies awake, at nearly three in the morning, phone still switched off on his bedside table, staring up at his bedroom ceiling. his thumb brushes over the bandages fitz had wrapped meticulously around his wounded hand, and he thinks long and hard about what today meant for him. he doesnt reach any particular conclusion, mind running circles, still stuck in the hazy fight-or-flight he's been drowning in since last week. but he'd felt calmer, earlier, with fitz.

winn still doesn't cry. the wild, frightened animal in his chest curls up, pleased, at the ghost of a memory, phantom hands cleaning his own. winn rolls over, and sleeps fitfully.