[ jemma doesn't quite notice the familiarity with his physical contact in this moment. honestly, she doesn't really have the attention to, enjoying the brush of his fingers, how everything he's doing is working to calm her down. this will be a point she thinks of later, wonder how he could be so confident with the tuck of her hair, the brush over her cheek. with each brush she feels the affection, the warmth, and it does wonders for the anxious bundle slowly easing away from behind her ribs.
except that the link works in both ways, meaning that the hesitation fitz gives at her question, the barely-there pause, is felt. it's noticed. it's seen. ]
Fitz- [ because he can't lie, and he's not lying, but she can tell there is something else to what he's not saying. and whether it's the link, or it's just knowing him, she can't stop herself from the spike of worry. ] What-
[ but then he is speaking again, directing the conversation, brushing calloused fingers over her cheek and she is nearly taken off her feet by the sheer force of how much she missed him. how long she's been looking for him. how much she knew, because she did, that he would find her.
( and will. will, who she left behind. will, who she doesn't even know where to begin to get back to. )
it's enough to bring tears back to her eyes, and as he glances over his shoulder she takes the moment to wipe them, trying to breathe and get a handle on the current of what is going around in her chest. fitz can probably feel it - the panic, the fear, the relief, the feeling of safety, the exhaustion of realizing how long it's been since she's really felt safe, the loss, the regaining, the uncertainty. it's a lot. it's too much. but jemma just tries to breathe.
one of her hands is fisted in the fabric at his chest, holding on more to keep herself upright than anything else. another sound rings out - maybe it's a car horn, maybe it's bags being dropped, maybe it's just the bark of a laugh of someone with the sort of voice that carries, but she tenses again, holding her eyes closed. ]
Quiet is- quiet would be preferred. [ there is so much noise. but there's something else that pulls her eyes open again, her attention up, just enough to see the way his mouth twitches, to feel how he says the words, a date to catch, and her stomach drops.
dinner. they were supposed to go to dinner, before everything. ]
How long has it been? [ since she's been gone is what she doesn't add. what she can't bring herself to say. she was keeping track of time, sure. she has an idea of just how much time she spent in that sand, with will. but she's also more than just a bit aware of einstein's theory, about the very real possibility it has been a wholly different period of time for fitz, or for anyone else. her eyes, shakily, run over his cheeks, his mouth, up his nose and back to his eyes again.
no subject
except that the link works in both ways, meaning that the hesitation fitz gives at her question, the barely-there pause, is felt. it's noticed. it's seen. ]
Fitz- [ because he can't lie, and he's not lying, but she can tell there is something else to what he's not saying. and whether it's the link, or it's just knowing him, she can't stop herself from the spike of worry. ] What-
[ but then he is speaking again, directing the conversation, brushing calloused fingers over her cheek and she is nearly taken off her feet by the sheer force of how much she missed him. how long she's been looking for him. how much she knew, because she did, that he would find her.
( and will. will, who she left behind. will, who she doesn't even know where to begin to get back to. )
it's enough to bring tears back to her eyes, and as he glances over his shoulder she takes the moment to wipe them, trying to breathe and get a handle on the current of what is going around in her chest. fitz can probably feel it - the panic, the fear, the relief, the feeling of safety, the exhaustion of realizing how long it's been since she's really felt safe, the loss, the regaining, the uncertainty. it's a lot. it's too much. but jemma just tries to breathe.
one of her hands is fisted in the fabric at his chest, holding on more to keep herself upright than anything else. another sound rings out - maybe it's a car horn, maybe it's bags being dropped, maybe it's just the bark of a laugh of someone with the sort of voice that carries, but she tenses again, holding her eyes closed. ]
Quiet is- quiet would be preferred. [ there is so much noise. but there's something else that pulls her eyes open again, her attention up, just enough to see the way his mouth twitches, to feel how he says the words, a date to catch, and her stomach drops.
dinner. they were supposed to go to dinner, before everything. ]
How long has it been? [ since she's been gone is what she doesn't add. what she can't bring herself to say. she was keeping track of time, sure. she has an idea of just how much time she spent in that sand, with will. but she's also more than just a bit aware of einstein's theory, about the very real possibility it has been a wholly different period of time for fitz, or for anyone else. her eyes, shakily, run over his cheeks, his mouth, up his nose and back to his eyes again.
something else is wrong. ]