I'm told it's girls' night at home, so your company is all I'm after today. Well, and a place to go, if your sofa's free for the next few hours.
[ all true, and it's likely not an unusual occurrence for Fitz to stop by Markus (and Connor's) flat in the hours left between one job and the other, but Fitz knows that if he did the math, with only missed messages and a courtesy call to the safety office, Markus has been living with the answer. ]
[Not an unlikely occurrence at all, but one that heralds the start of a conversation he knows will happen not long after Fitz arrives — it is, after all, difficult to notice the void left behind by someone gone missing.
Regardless, Markus is never one to turn down needed company, believing himself to be the one offering refuge in this case.]
[The humor lands, causing enough ripples to pull the corners of his mouth into something resembling a smile. But the stone sinks soon after, leaving Markus in sorry resignation once more.]
See you soon.
[Ten minutes late or otherwise, Markus doesn’t leave Fitz waiting at the door. It opens, revealing the android to greet him — tired eyes, a strain of a faint grin, but standing tall all for it. It’s a fine summation of his general mood.]
[ Fitz is in his mechanic blacks today, more casual than he'd be otherwise (not a blazer in sight to cover his short-sleeves, scandalous). ]
Reckon they've scrubbed my name from the lease already.
[ And if this were any other day, he'd stride on by, nattering and clapping a hand on Markus' shoulder in greeting.
Today, however, he takes in the slight lines of Markus' features, spying the little tells he's picked up from falling into a fast and deep friendship. Has he been dealing with this all by his lonesome? Markus doesn't want for friends, to be sure, but he doesn't ask much of them, either. He thinks to tease, Don't tell me you've been on your own, but it hurts too much to acknowledge Connor's gone in that way.
The curve of Fitz's smile shows no sign of strain, although it's sad in the way it so often is, in this world. The door slides shut, and his quick steps forward take him toward Markus, lifting his arms to encircle his friend's shoulders, thrown loosely around his neck. It requires a lean upward — a bit of tiptoes — and sends a pang through Fitz's aching ribs that he promptly ignores. For all Fitz struggles with inner clutter (cruel impulses and conflicting memories and and and), he knows how to thread control through the chaos and establish a temporary sense of calm, bleeding through the bond. ]
You could have called. [ softy and steady. ] S'okay that you didn't, but.
[ It's not a guilt trip. Fitz is a grown man, and he can figure out when things go wrong (when a friend blinks out of this world — and potentially out of his life for good) all on his own. ]
[ tightening his hold. ] Would've come to get you.
[For a moment, he imagines how this will go. That they’ll enter the living room, see proof of two people having once thrived in this apartment in neat little pockets all around, making the absence of Connor hang over their heads all the more stringently, like the point of a blade ready to fall. Markus would have to broach the subject, not hover around it like it was a fire that would burn him to touch, would have to stand straight-backed, look Fitz in the eye, and tell him that Connor (friend, partner, lover, the balancing half of him) is gone.
It was a risk inherent in them all, disappearing without a trace, leaving others behind. A reality that any of them might be surprised with someday; and so Markus would shape his words to form a quiet understanding of this, all to lead up to the point: he’s fine. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be all right, he’ll pick up and move on because he has no choice and it’s all he’s ever done.
But Fitz dislodges all of that with a singular gesture — a hug, caught tight around his shoulders, empathy bond going alight between them, sharing, sharing. (Markus is the deep sadness of loss and frustration. Fitz is calm, controlled steadiness that threads through him and anchors him to the spot, a net that gathers up all those emotions and makes Markus face them fully. Makes him feel safe enough to let his own middling sense of control slowly unwind.)
He’s still until he isn’t. Until a hand comes up to return the gesture, a single arm wrapped around the other, fingers gripping weakly into the fabric of his shirt. Markus’ head lowers, his voice a soft register.]
Sorry. I... [He what? Words string together haphazardly in his head.] Thought it’d be easier to deal with it on my own for a while, we’re all so busy, and it’s not fair to dump this on anyone else.
[“This” being the emotions bubbling through to the other side. “This” being Markus’ own problems, always better ignored in favor of the bigger picture.]
[ He can feel the point at which Markus dissembles his defences, not only in the way he dips down to return the embrace (as Fitz rests back on his heels) — but also in the connection that aches between them. These emotions are familiar, undoubtedly, only they drag across old wounds with renewed sharpness. It takes his acquired ability to compartmentalise (the one gift, if it can be called that, from the Framework), and let Markus' sorrow sweep over him without eroding his foundations.
Hesitation and inelegance make an uneasy home in Markus, who Fitz has often viewed as the counterweight to those traits in himself. ]
You couldn't — [ A little catch in his throat ('cause Fitz was built on empathy long before it became something that flowed through him). He moves one hand up, purposefully smoothing over the nape of Markus' neck and resting there, calloused fingers light on his skin, a statement of intent. ] — sharing this couldn't ever be unfair, Markus.
[ Dump, he says, like they're a burden. Despite Fitz's turmoil over exposing his own vulnerabilities, it's easy to tip his head against Markus', instinctive comfort. ]
What's busy, anyway? [ Just a hint of his wry humour in the exhale. All of them are too busy to manage, aren't they, living two or three lives in a shaking universe. He and Markus share a tendency to shoulder the weight of the world unasked, besides. Affection and care suffuse their haptic connection, but Fitz forgoes a poignant appeal to state his case simply, ] Time's nothing for us.
[ They're spacetime travellers, after all, displaced and flickering. ]
[Ever the obstacle to surmount, to think that he can share some of that load. Perhaps it goes against grain of what a caretaker is designed to be, or maybe it’s something harder to pin down, drawn-up in personality and given life through the self-recognition of his status a person — warts and all.
Regardless, the touch at the nape of his neck unravels more of that knotted discontent, and though it lays messily at both of their feet, at least it’s been given a chance to breathe. He should thank Fitz for it later; he should thank Fitz for it now. But his thoughts lay in that tangled weave, hard to align themselves in straightforward thought, at least in this moment.
A huff of air, barely-there acknowledgment of amusement stolen from him. A low tone means nothing when they stand this close.]
Time’s nothing, and yet we never have enough of it. [Twisted up in timelines and multiple universes, the whole of New Amsterdam still feels like a giant pressing its heel against the displaced. They need to be cautious, they need to take action, they need to look after themselves, they need to help the world, they need need need so much and this is so small, this loss he keeps crystallized in his chest—]
It’s always a risk that someone might… disappear. We all know this as a reality, and wallowing in it is just going to be detrimental to me. It’s selfish to wish that he was still here.
[ It's not selfish, when they don't know where people go, when Connor and Vanessa and Ciri (and Mack and Jemma) could be stuck in the liminal space between universes or held by the group that drops off the displaced (and likely experiments on them, too).
Fitz knows better than to think that comforting. Instead, he smooths reassuring circles into Markus' shoulder. Oh, Markus. His dear friend, who gives so much of himself away, wanting to bypass his own pain. To what end? Is that an android's instinct — or a leader's? Perhaps it's just someone younger than he seems, yet to pause long enough to grieve for the losses that come one after the other, like tumbling down step after step. Carl and home, a cause and a body, and the one, vibrant connection to his own universe. ]
C'mon, now, feeling it isn't wallowing. [ as firm as his touch, that, though his tone is gently chiding. ] And loving somebody enough to want them by your side isn't selfish, either. [ Lest Markus insist on critiquing that trait in himself, Fitz has a claim to such "selfishness," too. ] Not a day goes by that I don't wish for Jemma.
[ A moment as small as passing another lab tech hunched over their desk, hair pulled back in a style so like hers, can be as devastating as facing the gravity of displacement alone. Quite a strange feeling, isn't it? Never wanting to be without someone. ]
There's nothing wrong with that. Just can't let it — drown you.
[ You can't allow the sadness to carve the heart from your chest — or do the deed yourself, cutting out the ache as a means to salvage the whole. You have to carry it with you; that's all there is to do. ]
[His jaw feels tight, though the rest of him is messily unwound at his core. There’s a self-awareness that he’s never quite reached, maybe never will, that would aid him in realizing that this is what he would tell another, that there’s nothing wrong with feeling. That it’s proof of a heart beating in a chest, a soul kept snug against each curve of a body, of being alive. But criticism rains down harshest upon himself —the trait of an android? a leader? an RK200? — and disallows him even that moment to breathe, so desperately and ironically needed so he doesn’t suffocate (drown, Fitz says) in merely existing.
Too used to being the support beam, unwilling to act as anything else, he’s simply lucky that he has someone like Fitz to tell him it’s okay, feeling like a part of him has been stripped away, that wishing for it back is only natural. That’s the truth of the matter; alone, and Markus would’ve let himself be buried in his self-imposed silent suffering, pressing forward with a weight knotted through him.
The reassurance that his friend’s given him through their bond — ever lingering, even as he puts quiet space between them when he straightens — is that injection of space, breathing room, air, and he can find his words again. For a moment, he doesn’t know where to place his eyes, casting them down the hallway.]
All I’ve ever done is kept looking forward. I won’t— [He thinks of Carl, and his breath hitches. He thinks of Jericho, a universe away from him. And he thinks of Connor, and the empty space of himself he’s left imprinted everywhere in their once-shared apartment.] I won’t drown.
[ Their shared hypocrisy makes it difficult to climb through firewalls and dig into vulnerabilities, despite how indefatigably one tries to reach the other. For the first time in months, however, Fitz finds it easy to squash the voice in his head that whispers, We cannot afford the luxury of sympathy. No son of Alistair Fitz buckles to sentiment, but this Fitz feels a rush of compassion all the same, sparking at every point of contact, like a fraying wire.
When Markus pulls back enough to breathe, Fitz follows suit, a tip back to look up at his friend. His grip shifts, hand braced on Markus' shoulder. There's some give there, in the implication that he feels this way, that he looks forward, always (that he doesn't know how to stop, Fitz hears). The way his features curve, apologetic, when there's nothing to be sorry for, makes Fitz's chest pang.
But it isn’t that Markus has to understand the whole of himself, or want to tell Fitz everything at once, or even know, beforehand, what he needs to say, it only means that the possibility of telling may seem frightening, but not unbearable — 'cause Markus has unravelled Fitz's own stuttered and imprecise words, recognising that while he rarely does himself justice, he's trying. I won't drown. I promise, sounds much the same. That's enough. ]
Good. [ Fitz brings up his hand, fingers gliding over Markus' cheek, like Jemma and Mack always do for him. Touch pulls focus. Take a breath, Turbo. ] And when you need to take a breath — [ not if, when. As soon as you think you've faced the worst that may come, something deeper and darker springs forth. ] — say something, and I'll give you a hand.
[ Fitz drops his hand then, and one corner of his mouth tugs upward, hesitant. ]
[Touch does pull focus, it picks up those fraying threads and directs them gently towards Fitz, pulling out an exhale. Breathe. Air in his lungs representing the space in his mind, all of it feeling too loose and easily shaken — always has, ever since his forced transition into a human body, twisting the world into sensitivity that he can’t keep partitioned behind militant lines of code, multitasking and prioritizing. Even Markus, emotional creature that he is, misses the feeling of an organized spirit.
(Or so he tells himself, believing that the loss would sting less, in a mind able to parse it better.)
And yet the question is an easy one, the easiest thing said between them thus far.]
Of course you are. An irreplaceable one.
[The quirk of his lips, barely-there.]
One of the best humans I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, even if you do fret too much.
[ The answer, one he knows to be true on some level (even without the bond to ensure he faces it), still manages to disarm him. Where it might've knocked him off balance before, here, it solidifies his resolve. Still takes effort to resist the kickback that has his mouth tightening (the voice that counters with all the reasons he's undeserving of that praise, everything he's done and remains willing to do). He wants to be that person for Markus, at any rate.
Ultimately, all that matters is that he was right to come and try to unpack some of the burdens on his friend. ]
My fretting got me to you, didn't it. [ a clap of his hand on Markus' shoulder as he heads further into the flat. ] Can't be all bad.
[ Concern flashes again, when he looks to Markus. ]
Figured we could talk however much you want. [ His weight shifts from one leg to the other, wanting to push just enough. Markus knows why he came here now, so may as well speak plainly, even while offering him an out. ] Or we could watch the first half of the game if that's better. [ scratching behind his neck. ] It's New Amsterdam versus New Athens in the footie today, y'know.
[ A means of offering lower pressure company (also, he's just still really into football). ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@leo.fitz
[ markus doesn't ask for help, so he doesn't offer it — not in the strictest terms. ]
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I am. What can I do for you?
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I'm told it's girls' night at home, so your company is all I'm after today.
Well, and a place to go, if your sofa's free for the next few hours.
[ all true, and it's likely not an unusual occurrence for Fitz to stop by Markus (and Connor's) flat in the hours left between one job and the other, but Fitz knows that if he did the math, with only missed messages and a courtesy call to the safety office, Markus has been living with the answer. ]
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Regardless, Markus is never one to turn down needed company, believing himself to be the one offering refuge in this case.]
Of course. I’ll clear off space just for you.
[As if it isn’t impossibly clean already.]
Come over whenever you like.
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Cause you know I've been bulking up. Taking up more space every day.
[ never... even if he weren't still bruised from their latest mission.
a beat. ]
I'll buzz up in about 30.
Thanks, Markus.
[ and he'll do just that, only he's ten minutes later than anticipated, as per. ]
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See you soon.
[Ten minutes late or otherwise, Markus doesn’t leave Fitz waiting at the door. It opens, revealing the android to greet him — tired eyes, a strain of a faint grin, but standing tall all for it. It’s a fine summation of his general mood.]
So, officially kicked out for the evening?
[He steps aside to let him in.]
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Reckon they've scrubbed my name from the lease already.
[ And if this were any other day, he'd stride on by, nattering and clapping a hand on Markus' shoulder in greeting.
Today, however, he takes in the slight lines of Markus' features, spying the little tells he's picked up from falling into a fast and deep friendship. Has he been dealing with this all by his lonesome? Markus doesn't want for friends, to be sure, but he doesn't ask much of them, either. He thinks to tease, Don't tell me you've been on your own, but it hurts too much to acknowledge Connor's gone in that way.
The curve of Fitz's smile shows no sign of strain, although it's sad in the way it so often is, in this world. The door slides shut, and his quick steps forward take him toward Markus, lifting his arms to encircle his friend's shoulders, thrown loosely around his neck. It requires a lean upward — a bit of tiptoes — and sends a pang through Fitz's aching ribs that he promptly ignores. For all Fitz struggles with inner clutter (cruel impulses and conflicting memories and and and), he knows how to thread control through the chaos and establish a temporary sense of calm, bleeding through the bond. ]
You could have called. [ softy and steady. ] S'okay that you didn't, but.
[ It's not a guilt trip. Fitz is a grown man, and he can figure out when things go wrong (when a friend blinks out of this world — and potentially out of his life for good) all on his own. ]
[ tightening his hold. ] Would've come to get you.
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It was a risk inherent in them all, disappearing without a trace, leaving others behind. A reality that any of them might be surprised with someday; and so Markus would shape his words to form a quiet understanding of this, all to lead up to the point: he’s fine. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be all right, he’ll pick up and move on because he has no choice and it’s all he’s ever done.
But Fitz dislodges all of that with a singular gesture — a hug, caught tight around his shoulders, empathy bond going alight between them, sharing, sharing. (Markus is the deep sadness of loss and frustration. Fitz is calm, controlled steadiness that threads through him and anchors him to the spot, a net that gathers up all those emotions and makes Markus face them fully. Makes him feel safe enough to let his own middling sense of control slowly unwind.)
He’s still until he isn’t. Until a hand comes up to return the gesture, a single arm wrapped around the other, fingers gripping weakly into the fabric of his shirt. Markus’ head lowers, his voice a soft register.]
Sorry. I... [He what? Words string together haphazardly in his head.] Thought it’d be easier to deal with it on my own for a while, we’re all so busy, and it’s not fair to dump this on anyone else.
[“This” being the emotions bubbling through to the other side. “This” being Markus’ own problems, always better ignored in favor of the bigger picture.]
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Hesitation and inelegance make an uneasy home in Markus, who Fitz has often viewed as the counterweight to those traits in himself. ]
You couldn't — [ A little catch in his throat ('cause Fitz was built on empathy long before it became something that flowed through him). He moves one hand up, purposefully smoothing over the nape of Markus' neck and resting there, calloused fingers light on his skin, a statement of intent. ] — sharing this couldn't ever be unfair, Markus.
[ Dump, he says, like they're a burden. Despite Fitz's turmoil over exposing his own vulnerabilities, it's easy to tip his head against Markus', instinctive comfort. ]
What's busy, anyway? [ Just a hint of his wry humour in the exhale. All of them are too busy to manage, aren't they, living two or three lives in a shaking universe. He and Markus share a tendency to shoulder the weight of the world unasked, besides. Affection and care suffuse their haptic connection, but Fitz forgoes a poignant appeal to state his case simply, ] Time's nothing for us.
[ They're spacetime travellers, after all, displaced and flickering. ]
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Regardless, the touch at the nape of his neck unravels more of that knotted discontent, and though it lays messily at both of their feet, at least it’s been given a chance to breathe. He should thank Fitz for it later; he should thank Fitz for it now. But his thoughts lay in that tangled weave, hard to align themselves in straightforward thought, at least in this moment.
A huff of air, barely-there acknowledgment of amusement stolen from him. A low tone means nothing when they stand this close.]
Time’s nothing, and yet we never have enough of it. [Twisted up in timelines and multiple universes, the whole of New Amsterdam still feels like a giant pressing its heel against the displaced. They need to be cautious, they need to take action, they need to look after themselves, they need to help the world, they need need need so much and this is so small, this loss he keeps crystallized in his chest—]
It’s always a risk that someone might… disappear. We all know this as a reality, and wallowing in it is just going to be detrimental to me. It’s selfish to wish that he was still here.
no subject
Fitz knows better than to think that comforting. Instead, he smooths reassuring circles into Markus' shoulder. Oh, Markus. His dear friend, who gives so much of himself away, wanting to bypass his own pain. To what end? Is that an android's instinct — or a leader's? Perhaps it's just someone younger than he seems, yet to pause long enough to grieve for the losses that come one after the other, like tumbling down step after step. Carl and home, a cause and a body, and the one, vibrant connection to his own universe. ]
C'mon, now, feeling it isn't wallowing. [ as firm as his touch, that, though his tone is gently chiding. ] And loving somebody enough to want them by your side isn't selfish, either. [ Lest Markus insist on critiquing that trait in himself, Fitz has a claim to such "selfishness," too. ] Not a day goes by that I don't wish for Jemma.
[ A moment as small as passing another lab tech hunched over their desk, hair pulled back in a style so like hers, can be as devastating as facing the gravity of displacement alone. Quite a strange feeling, isn't it? Never wanting to be without someone. ]
There's nothing wrong with that. Just can't let it — drown you.
[ You can't allow the sadness to carve the heart from your chest — or do the deed yourself, cutting out the ache as a means to salvage the whole. You have to carry it with you; that's all there is to do. ]
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Too used to being the support beam, unwilling to act as anything else, he’s simply lucky that he has someone like Fitz to tell him it’s okay, feeling like a part of him has been stripped away, that wishing for it back is only natural. That’s the truth of the matter; alone, and Markus would’ve let himself be buried in his self-imposed silent suffering, pressing forward with a weight knotted through him.
The reassurance that his friend’s given him through their bond — ever lingering, even as he puts quiet space between them when he straightens — is that injection of space, breathing room, air, and he can find his words again. For a moment, he doesn’t know where to place his eyes, casting them down the hallway.]
All I’ve ever done is kept looking forward. I won’t— [He thinks of Carl, and his breath hitches. He thinks of Jericho, a universe away from him. And he thinks of Connor, and the empty space of himself he’s left imprinted everywhere in their once-shared apartment.] I won’t drown.
[He looks back at Fitz, almost apologetic.]
I promise.
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When Markus pulls back enough to breathe, Fitz follows suit, a tip back to look up at his friend. His grip shifts, hand braced on Markus' shoulder. There's some give there, in the implication that he feels this way, that he looks forward, always (that he doesn't know how to stop, Fitz hears). The way his features curve, apologetic, when there's nothing to be sorry for, makes Fitz's chest pang.
But it isn’t that Markus has to understand the whole of himself, or want to tell Fitz everything at once, or even know, beforehand, what he needs to say, it only means that the possibility of telling may seem frightening, but not unbearable — 'cause Markus has unravelled Fitz's own stuttered and imprecise words, recognising that while he rarely does himself justice, he's trying. I won't drown. I promise, sounds much the same. That's enough. ]
Good. [ Fitz brings up his hand, fingers gliding over Markus' cheek, like Jemma and Mack always do for him. Touch pulls focus. Take a breath, Turbo. ] And when you need to take a breath — [ not if, when. As soon as you think you've faced the worst that may come, something deeper and darker springs forth. ] — say something, and I'll give you a hand.
[ Fitz drops his hand then, and one corner of his mouth tugs upward, hesitant. ]
[ softer. ] 'Cause we're friends, aren't we?
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(Or so he tells himself, believing that the loss would sting less, in a mind able to parse it better.)
And yet the question is an easy one, the easiest thing said between them thus far.]
Of course you are. An irreplaceable one.
[The quirk of his lips, barely-there.]
One of the best humans I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, even if you do fret too much.
no subject
Ultimately, all that matters is that he was right to come and try to unpack some of the burdens on his friend. ]
My fretting got me to you, didn't it. [ a clap of his hand on Markus' shoulder as he heads further into the flat. ] Can't be all bad.
[ Concern flashes again, when he looks to Markus. ]
Figured we could talk however much you want. [ His weight shifts from one leg to the other, wanting to push just enough. Markus knows why he came here now, so may as well speak plainly, even while offering him an out. ] Or we could watch the first half of the game if that's better. [ scratching behind his neck. ] It's New Amsterdam versus New Athens in the footie today, y'know.
[ A means of offering lower pressure company (also, he's just still really into football). ]