When the screen blurred for a... something-th time, and again the stab of pain came in his head, Fitz could no longer hold back a groan.
Frustrated, impatient, he shoved himself to his feet– And immediately had to grab onto the edge of the table as the room swung wildly around him.
“Fitz!”
Hands gripped his arm, and he let himself be guided back into his chair. The worried face of Grant Ward swam into view above him.
“Easy, kid. Of course, you can't see straight after not eating, drinking, or sleeping for a week.”
Fitz shut his eyes, trying to gather himself, suddenly overwhelmed with the pain in his head, the sickening twisting of his stomach. Ward's voice was low, easy on the ear, which he was grateful for.
“Drink this.”
Something hard touched his hand, and he squinted down to see a mug, filled with some dark liquid.
“What is it?” he murmured.
“Tea.” Grant huffed before Fitz could even look at him. “Yes, I made it myself, and no, it isn't sweet tea. My grandmother would be horrified.”
Lemon and... something. Chamomile? Herbal. It wasn't steaming, but the curve of ceramic he wrapped his fingers around was more than warm.
“Drink.” Ward leaned back against the table, effectively blocking Fitz's view of the computer monitor. “I'm not leaving if you don't.”
The smell of the tea was comforting, soothing, and Ward was so very solid and determined, and suddenly he felt very weak and lost and uncertain of everything.
“Alright, alright,” he grumbled feebly, as if he'd put up some kind of fight.
“Coulson showed me some of the plans for his hand, you've been working on. Good stuff.” Ward talked quietly as he drank. “I'm surprised you're even bothering with him, when you've got Simmons to find.”
Fitz stared into the half-empty mug. “Good distraction,” he whispered.
He thought of the intricate circuitry required for prosthetic limbs, he mapped the hand's joint structure in his head, remembered the perfect angles of Jemma's face–
He downed the last of the mug without stopping for breath.
“There.” Fitz's attempt to slam the mug down on the table was interrupted by Ward's thigh, and then the handle was gently pulled from his trembling fingers.
“Okay, Leo.” Grant's hand was warm on his shoulder. “And now it's time for food. And sleep. Somewhere other than this lab.”
“You said you'd leave,” Fitz protested. He couldn't leave the lab, he had four simulations running, and calculations to finish that he didn't trust the computer with, because this was Simmons's life–
“I never said I would leave if you drank it; I only said I wouldn't if you didn't.” Ward sounded unbearably smug there. “And I know all of this is important, I know you're doing everything you can to rescue Jemma from God knows where, but listen to me.” Now he was dead serious, in that way only Grant Ward could be, and Fitz blinked at the man kneeling in front of him, those pleading eyes, found he had no anger left.
“When you get Jemma back,” Ward said firmly, “I am not handing her a skeleton of a boyfriend.”
“I'm- I'm not a skeleton.”
He was pulled gently to his feet, Ward's arm linking through his to pull him away from his work station. Fitz tried to turn back, tried to wrench away from the gentle grip, but even as he did so, the room spun again, and he saw the floor approaching rapidly.
Again, Ward caught him.
“Oh, really?”
The next moment, Fitz was swept off his feet, and being carried from the lab cradled in Ward's arms.
“You have definitely lost weight, kid. And do you even know what time it is?”
A hundred sharp replies swirled through Fitz's head, but at that moment he registered the last bit of Ward's little speech.
“I'm not her boyfriend!”
Grant actually laughed, his chest vibrating against Fitz's shoulder. “That's what you're gonna get mad at me for?!” He shifted his grip with a barely perceptible grunt, and Fitz hastily hooked one arm around Ward's neck, wary of getting slung over one those shoulders if he didn't cooperate to some degree. “You told me you asked her out! Right before she disappeared.” Ward's voice dropped, his amusement dying. “You're two halves of a whole, kid. You're soulmates, I get that. But asking her out for dinner? That makes you her boyfriend.”
She had been so surprised, but happy, Fitz remembered. Definitely happy, the tone of her voice, the curve of her lips, the way she looked at him. Definitely happy.
“Oh, shit.”
Fitz felt himself jostled slightly, Ward walking faster, and then he was set down on a cushion decently soft and squishy, and a hand was patting clumsily at his knee, as he tried to wipe his face, but it seemed as if now that he'd started, he couldn't stop.
There were no concrete thoughts, no words, only tears.
“Fitz...” Ward said, very quietly.
He gave up then, reaching blindly for something to hold on to, and Ward was right there, solid muscle and bone, warm sweater for Fitz to bury his face in, strong arms around Fitz's shoulders, a rock Fitz could cling to in this storm. Ward offered no platitudes, no comforting words; he just let Fitz cry until he had nothing left.
*****
“Fitz.”
The voice seemed to come from under water, before he was shaken lightly, and he squinted into Ward's face.
“Hey.” Quiet, gentle. “You sleep, and we'll get food when you wake up. Okay? I'll grab a blanket, and you can sleep right here on the couch.”
“Jemma,” he muttered, trying to hold onto the knowledge that he had to be up and doing, finding his Jemma.
“I'll get one of the techs to keep an eye on your stuff, and wake you if anything important happens. I promise.” Grant's gaze was unwavering.
“Jemma,” Fitz murmured again, but he felt himself being laid down, a pillow tucked under his head, and then a blanket draped over him.
“You're a good man, Fitz,” came a distant murmur. “One of the best I know.”
He thought it sounded like Jemma, and then he heard soft music, a piano playing quietly, something nice he thought he knew, but all he could imagine was Jemma in something nice and flowy, sitting across the table from him, and the candle flames dancing in her eyes.
*****
When he woke, stomach aching, at 4 am by the clock on the lounge wall, Ward was still sitting at the piano, playing quietly. A plastic wrapped sandwich and a glass of water sat on the coffee table in Fitz's easy reach.
When he sat up, Ward glanced over, smiled slightly, but his hands kept moving. Fitz ate the simple ham and cheese slowly, savouring it to the tune of something from Star Wars, something soft, but hopeful.
Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to.