Who: Leo Fitz, Jemma Simmons, and Alya Fitzsimmons Where: The Lighthouse When: Sunday, January 16, 2019 | evening What: Jemma introduces Fitz to his daughter. Rating/Warnings: Only feels. Status: Complete
"Wait wait wait wait," Fitz said, stalling in the middle of the hall and turning back the way they'd come. He made it a few steps before he paused again, groaning in frustration. Hands on his hips, he looked upward as if the high ceilings and dim lighting could give him answers that his head couldn't. He'd been thinking of little else since Jemma had suggested it earlier that day, through every second that he wasn't in the lab, and he'd thought that he'd be fine. But he was decidedly not fine.
"Are you sure about this?" He looked over at her. "I'm not—" For once, there were too many words he wanted to say. He wasn't the man Alya knew as her father. He wasn't the man he knew right now. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't good enough for this.
But he said none of those. He only looked at Jemma with a pained, questioning expression.
Reaching the decision to tell Alya about her da's disappearance and then reappearance had been one of the most difficult things she'd ever done—and she'd gone undercover in an active HYDRA facility, let alone countless other ways her life had been on the line in the past. No, she almost admitted aloud, but instead she said, "You are, though. You are right now. We've discussed this, Alya and I, and I did my very best to explain things in a way she could understand, but all she wants is to see you. To get to know you. But I won't do that if you're not ready."
All she wants is to see you. Fitz thought again, for the hundredth time, of the little hand drawn family portrait that was taped at his workstation in the lab. It had been drawn for another him, one who'd known what it was to spend years more with Jemma, to have this beautiful life that he'd dreamed of when he was too afraid to even tell her how he felt about her. He hadn't lied when he'd told her that he wanted to be that man. Even faced with this strange situation where he could end up switched with his other self (or, god forbid, another self) at any point in time, he still wanted it.
He nodded, swallowing back the tightness that was forming in his throat. "Okay." Another nod and another, "Okay." He wasn't entirely convinced he'd ever feel ready, but he couldn't keep his daughter waiting. That wasn't the kind of father he ever wanted to be. "Will you do the introductions so I don't have to"—he swallowed, pushed through—"stutter through them?"
"Yes, of course," she said as they began to walk back down the hallway to Alya's room. But it turned out to not be immediately necessary, because the very little girl in question sprang out of her room as though summoned, and pelted down the hallway so she could barrel right into Fitz's legs before Jemma could tell her to stop. So much for understanding. But she could see the heart wrenching moment when the understanding hit her, because she froze and leaned her head away from where she'd had her face pressed into his leg.
"Oh. You're not Da." Alya's mouth twisted with some kind of complicated emotion that Jemma couldn't begin to unravel. She, too, was very still, breath held, as she waited for Fitz's reaction.
The trembling in Fitz's hands had nothing to do with brain damage and everything to do with the twist of emotions swirling in his chest at the little blonde ball of energy that had attached herself to his person. She was somehow everything he'd imagined and nothing he could have ever expected, all rolled into one.
"No, I'm not yet. But—" He swallowed, and his good hand dropped to the top of her head, ruffling her hair lightly in some fatherly instinct he'd never really consciously considered. "But your da was me once."
It seemed like her heart had taken up permanent residence in her throat, but especially as she watched them together. Alya was staring at him like she was trying to figure out an extremely difficult puzzle, and it was so Fitz Jemma almost burst into tears right there in the hallway. She thought that's what her daughter was about to do, what with the very tiny lip tremble she detected, but then Alya pulled back with something like a resolute nod and looked between his hands. "Mummy said you had an accident, and you hurt your hand. Which one is your hurt one?"
(The highly sanitized version of the story went:
One day, a very bad man caused an accident that hurt your Da. [where did he get hurt?] It hurt his hand and his head. [did he die? o_o] No, my love, he didn't die. He became your Da, my silly goose. [did he get better?] Indeed, he did. [and did the bad man get in trouble?] Eventually, yes.)
Fitz hesitated only half a second before slowly, carefully dropping to his knees in front of the little girl. He could see her better that way, feel like they were really talking to each other rather than putting on a show for someone. He was still wholly aware of Jemma's presence near them, but for the first time in probably ever, she wasn't the one who had the majority of his attention.
"This one." He lifted his left hand so that she could see it. "The hurt's—it's all on the inside." He tapped his temple with the fingers of his other hand. "My brain has trouble talking to my hand, so sometimes it does the wrong things." He flexed it, though that did little to demonstrate his point.
Difficult as it was, this moment was precious, and Jemma knew it. She watched the careful way Alya reached over and touched the fingers of Fitz's upheld hand, while she looked from the hand to his forehead and then back down to his face. "Like when you stub your toe or when you bump your elbow and it comes over all wiggly on the inside? Did anyone try to kiss it better? Sometimes that helps me."
And then Alya leaned over and lightly kissed the tip of his finger. All Jemma could do was cover her mouth to keep from laughing while also trying to retain her solid form. Any more of this, and she would be an awful puddle on the floor.
Only the serious expression on Alya's face kept Fitz from laughing at her questions. He pressed his lips together to smother the urge, though a smile still poked through. "Yeah, sort of like that. My insides do get pretty wiggly."
But everything went a little wavy as the little girl—his daughter—kissed his hand. She knew that Fitz wasn't the man she knew, and yet she still offered up this tiny bit of comfort, of healing, as far as her young mind understood it. Before he even realized it, his eyes had gone all damp around the edges. He glanced instinctively over at Jemma, and wasn't that a mistake, because then he had to sniffle even harder to force back the emotions.
"Thank you, sweet girl. I'm sure it will help." He held his hand there for a moment before allowing it to drop to his side again. Another quick glance at Jemma, almost against his will, and he added, "Do you know what else—" He pushed down the usual frustration, dug deep for the words. "What else I'd like? Will you show me your room?"
As though he'd spoken literal magic words, Alya's entire person brightened up as she nodded rapidly. "Oh, yes, please!" She'd had nary a reaction at his pause, except for a quizzical kind of curiosity that blessedly went uncommented, and Jemma was so proud of her daughter, of her innate kindness. Alya reached for his "good hand" and held it while he stood before she began to tug him to her door. She paused for a moment to look back at Jemma, who was watching the entire thing bemusedly and still reeling from Fitz's casual and easy use of the endearment they both favored so much. "Mummy, we're going to my room now, all right?"
"Of course, my love. I'll be just down the hall." Because she trusted Fitz. Any Fitz. Trusted him more than he trusted himself sometimes. He was so, so capable and strong and compassionate. And she could see the sparks of the wonderful father he was and would be in just their initial meeting. She just hoped he could see it too.
There were a dozen things Fitz wanted to say to Jemma right now, and a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but all of those were swallowed up in the sheer light that was his daughter. All he had time for was another quick glance and a rather watery smile before he followed Alya down the hallway.
The whole place was a sea of industrial metal gray, door after door, until they reached the one that very obviously belonged to her. It was painted lighter, and, like his workstation, dotted with stickers among the more traditional decoration. He followed her inside, expecting to be assaulted by far more visual stimuli than was comfortable, but while the room was certainly colorful and cheery, it was also restrained in a way that he appreciated. There was no lack of rainbows or unicorns and their associated paraphernalia, but it didn't make his head spin as he took it all in. He could see himself helping pull together something like this for her, see things he might have suggested. It was a little unsettling, but mostly it made him smile.
"Should I sit there?" He pointed to one of the vaguely cloud-shaped chairs pushed against one wall. "Or will I float away if I do?"
Rather than buzz around the room, rattling off all her favorite toys, Alya watched him carefully. She laughed and pointed authoritatively at the chair. "No!" she dragged the word out. "It's not made of—of Gravitonium." Clearly something she'd heard her parents talk about—they'd never shied away from talking to her about science, even if she didn't always understand. "You sit here, please."
She waited for him before settling in right next to him, quiet and intense in the way the very young could get sometimes. "Mummy says you're my Da before you were my Da. What can I call you?"
Fitz sat where she indicated with growing amusement, fueled by her casual mention of concepts well above her age (That's my girl, sang some deep part of him) and the serious way she contemplated his question. He had the space of a few more seconds to keep taking in the room and considering what he'd ask her next before her question triggered a burst of panic that nearly overrode the general cheerfulness he was finding.
"You—" He started to answer immediately, but all his brain was giving him for the moment was a big white space of all emotion and no thought whatsoever. He looked down at her, and it struck him suddenly that Alya had Jemma's cheekbones and his eyes, and they were gazing up at him with such a familiar expression that she couldn't be anything other than theirs. Hesitantly, he put an arm around her tiny shoulders. "You can still call me Da, if you want. He—I won't mind. When I'm your Da later. I'm only a little different."
And for the first time since his injury, since struggling through months of trying to get better, since trying to sort through his more-than-complicated feelings about how Jemma had handled it, he thought maybe that was the truth.
Her pause as she considered this was minute, and then she was nodding and cuddling into his side. "Do you like to read? Uncle Enoch made sure we had books, and you and Mummy would read to me before bed time. Uncle Henry's been reading Narnia to me, and I like it, but the Witch is scary. I have books here. And I have picture books! I like to make up stories for those. Do you want me to tell you a story?"
Fitz was glad she wasn't looking at him to see the tear that slipped down his cheek. There was a war going on inside him where he simultaneously hated everything—that he wasn't better, that he was here, that Alya didn't have her real Da, that he'd missed so much—and also was boggled by what he'd done to deserve the wonder and trust of this perfect little thing that one day he would help make. Had helped make.
"I love to read." Nevermind that most of the time these days that meant theoretical texts written by so-called peers in his field. He tightened his arm around her just a little. "Of course I do. What kind of stories do you like to tell? They won't be too scary for me, will they?"
Alya shook her head, and then tilted it as she thought seriously about it. There was more of her parents in the gesture. "Hmm, no? I don't think so. Well, there's some times when Princess May is doing science experiments, and they start to go wrong, but it's okay in the end. I don't think it's very scary. But we can change the stories, if you want to! I also like the ones with Sir Mack and his adventures with his Super Jet."
"Princess May?" It was all Fitz could do to smother a laugh, and that he didn't do very well. By the time she got to Mack, he was positively vibrating with poorly-suppressed amusement. He could see parental hands in it, perhaps the desire to tease their teammates with the little girl's tales. Except—he didn't actually know if Alya knew those people, what exactly had happened to them in the intervening years. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Let's start with your stories as they are. Always better to learn the current state before you try to experiment." Words were coming far easier with his daughter than with anyone else, but he was too absorbed in it to really notice. "Do you have pictures to go with your stories? Or can we make some later?" His workstation told him enough about her interest in art to make the question a good bet. "I have a lot to catch up on, and I bet stories and pictures will help."
If Alya found his amusement odd, she didn't comment on it, other than to nod resolutely and say, "Princess May! She's the best in all the land! And she's secretly in love with the Wizard Coulson. They're going to get married someday." She grinned brightly at him and then cried, "Yes, I do!" before she scrambled down from the chair to run to her desk in order to grab a sketchpad that was nearly as big as she was. She sat back down beside her Da-before-Da, and laid it across both their laps. "I have lots of pictures, but we can always make more."
And then she spent the next half hour telling him the sprawling epic of the boy who went to another planet to find his heart, and then about the man whose head was like a candle flame who saved the world from turning into living dolls. So many stories, each lovingly crafted, and through them all, there was a sense that maybe they were taken from events that had really happened, that Jemma and Fitz had told their daughter their story, but turned it fantastical.
Towards the end of it, Alya began to yawn and rub her eyes. Her little body became a heavier and heavier weight against his side.
"With...with Coulson?" That was too much for Fitz, and he lost it in mostly-silent laughter. Thankfully, she chose that moment to hop up and retrieve her artwork, so he had the moment to compose himself. He didn't hesitate to put his arm around her again as she sat, or to pull her close so that they could look over her drawings as she rambled on with some surprisingly articulate tales of more familiar-sounding people on fantastical adventures.
He was mostly quiet, though every once in a while she looked up at him, eyes searching for some bit of input from him. He did his best, hoping that he wasn't flubbing some usual line, but if she was disappointed in his performance, she didn't look it. He lost the thread of what she was saying more than once, and his bad hand had started to go numb from being in the same position for too long, but he didn't care. Alya was like a thread, a lifeline, tied to some distant place in his future and now pulling him along toward it. Resisting it would have been the stupidest thing he ever did.
And so he didn't.
He brushed his hand over her tiny head and down her back, making a soothing circuit as she began to drop off to sleep tucked into his side. The end of the tale became almost unintelligible between yawns, but he stayed quiet and let her tell it; he didn't much like people filling in his gaps, either. And when she went quiet and her breathing evened out, he kept her pulled close and just watched her. He hadn't known the little girl existed until a few days ago, but he knew with absolutely certainly that his future self would die for her—which meant that now he would, too.
Jemma hadn't been eavesdropping by any stretch, but at least part of her ear had been set on the cadence of their voices. She recognized the signs of her daughter dropping off, but wasn't surprised. It was relatively late as far as bedtime went, but she couldn't exactly begrudge a few more minutes if they were spent with Fitz. It was as much about what Alya would want as it had seemed important for Fitz to have this time with her. She gravitated toward her daughter's room, but lingered at the door, so she could capture this moment in her mind, this closeness that transcended space and time.
After a moment, she crossed into the room and spoke quietly. "I can do this next bit, if you'd like? She can get a bit fussy when you have to wake her up to get ready for bed."
Fitz looked up as Jemma entered, a bit wide eyed and wondering at even being there at all. As much as he wanted to continue with Alya, he was all-too aware that he knew nothing about putting a little girl to bed. That knowledge ached, because she should have had her dad to help, but for once he managed to push back everything except for the tiny victory. "Can I stay?" Help or not, he didn't want to leave her just yet. "She's—" He pressed his lips together, determined to keep his composure in front of Jemma, even if his insides were, well, wiggly. "I'd like to stay...until she's asleep again."
Her hesitation was only as long as a breath, and then Jemma nodded. After seeing him with her, there was no way she'd ever deny him any time with this perfect creature they'd made. Would make. Just as she said, Alya made grumpy sounds when Jemma pulled her gently into her arms. She set up a smoothing hand over her back immediately, and Alya quieted down. "Come along, monkey, it's bed time."
"Is Da here?" She leaned away from Jemma's shoulder, but only so she could rub her little fists in her eyes.
"Yeah, I'm here." Fitz glanced sideways at Jemma as he stepped up to her side and brushed his hand over Alya's head. He'd told the little girl she could still call him Da, but Jemma didn't know that, and he wasn't sure whether she would approve or not. A defiant part of him didn't care. He wasn't so broken that he didn't know a little about himself, years in the future or not. "Thank you for telling me stories tonight."
That word sent a complicated jolt through Jemma, but it was all internal. She might ask him about it later, but maybe not. Maybe this was just a thing they both needed. Jemma had never been made to feel like an outsider in their family of three, and she didn't think that would change just because Fitz had. At least she hoped it wouldn't. "You're welcome," she piped up, very clearly struggling against her tiredness and losing. "Mummy, there's time for another one."
"We can do more tomorrow, sweet girl. Now, let's get you into your pyjamas, and then off you go to dreamland." This was the work of a moment, and then Jemma sent her off to brush her teeth, which she insisted on doing on her own. It left her with Fitz, and the silence stretched, until she finally broke it by looking at him. "Are you all right?"
"Yes...no." Fitz ran a hand through his hair as he hummed a bit nervously. He looked toward the door and waved a hand at it. "She's—" Another hum, this one more frustrated than the last. "Jemma, she's amazing. And smart. And creative. And funny. And—she's mine. Or she will be…or she is. And I don't know how to—" He gestured to himself, a bit wildly, before finally pressing a hand to his chest.
She'd be back any moment, and he didn't want her to see anything wrong with him. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths and release them slowly.
Jemma moved to him, only this time she didn't stop herself from putting her hand against his. "You do. She'd know if you didn't. Children just know, and she's ours, so you know she knows, too. Take a breath, and let it sink in."
The pitter-patter of feet was approaching, so Jemma swiped at her face quickly and had a smile already in place when Alya came back in. She ran right into Jemma's arms with a flying leap, and the momentum was used to swing her into bed with an accompanying giggle. Alya looked between them, and then settled on Fitz. "Do you know the song? The birdie song?"
Fitz thought his chest might burst, though whether it was from the emotions Alya brought out in him or the heartfelt way Jemma was looking at him, he didn't know. Or maybe it was her hand on his, but that was beyond his capacity to think about right now. Thankfully, Alya's return gave him some time to process.
Or so he thought.
"The...birdie song." It came out as a statement, but his eyes were all question—and probably a hint of panic—as he glanced at Jemma. It sounded like something he should know, a shadow of a memory, but otherwise he was a blank. "I'll let your mum start first." He only hoped he could remember.
This was what Jemma had been afraid of, but she didn't let her concern play across her face at all. No, she sat on the edge of her daughter's bed and made sure the blankets were pulled up to her shoulders and then smoothed a hand over her fine blonde hair. The melody was simple enough, although Jemma knew her accent wasn't at all right, but that hardly mattered when she and Fitz sang together. She hummed a bit at first before starting on the lyrics; without looking back, she held her hand out for him. Even if he didn't remember, it was enough to have him here. "Hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon…"
Fitz wasn't sure what surprised him more: Jemma reaching for his hand or the fact that he did recognize the song. There was still no connection between the name—or Alya's name for it, anyway—and the song, but he felt Jemma's soft humming in his bones. Or, more accurately, in the part of his brain that processed melodies. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes for a brief moment, a trick he used so often to try to calm external input and concentrate, but this wasn't the usual struggle for words; they simply weren't there tonight.
But the music.... He opened his eyes to look at his daughter, gave Jemma's hand a light squeeze (bad hand though she held) and started to hum along. It was so soft at first that it was barely more than a vibration in his chest, but a couple more lines into the tune and his volume matched Jemma's. Another couple, and his voice dropped lower, harmonizing with the melody she'd set. There were several repeats that he let her lead, but he could feel it when the song was building to an end, slowing just the slightest bit to round out with a soft finale.
Lips curled into a peaceful smile and chest in a deep rise and fall, the song had very clearly done the trick; Alya was out like a light. As loath as she was to break the spell, Jemma let go of Fitz's hand and left the bed to turn on the nightlight that made stars on the ceiling and floor. She waited at the door for him and then closed it partway when he joined her in the hallway. After leading him down the hall a bit, she turned to him and gave him the best smile she could muster, considering the continuous ache in her chest. "Thank you. That was lovely. You didn't have to do any of that, but I know how much she adored it, and—and how much I appreciated it." She felt her body drift toward him—to do what? To hug him? Kiss him? Just be near him?—but stopped herself before it became too obvious. "Goodnight, Fitz."
Fitz was relieved that his performance had satisfied the little girl, and, as much as he'd loved his time there tonight, was relieved to be outside the room again. That relief lasted as long as it took him to remember that this left him once again alone with Simmons and the complicated (impossible) feelings that went along with that. He tried to smile back, but all he could think about was the huge gap of time that stood between him and her. "Yeah, um, goodnight."
He turned away and got several steps down the hall before he spun back, a little unsteadily. He spoke softly, aware of the partly open door nearby. "But I did. I did have to do it." As afraid as he'd been to meet her in the first place, of messing up or upsetting her, and even of how to handle it himself after...it was all slowly, steadily being replaced with a quiet determination. He would be what Alya needed, for whatever time he was here instead of her real Da. "She deserves it, and I needed it, and you—thank you. For—for letting me—" For letting me be who I am right now, even if that's not him. He was quiet for a moment before he shook his head and in an even quieter voice said, "Goodnight, Jemma."
Then he turned away again to find the room he'd been assigned.