[ he claps onto her shoulder, and it's a greeting that seems so quintessentially fitz that for the briefest of moments, daisy forgets she's in a cyberpunk hellscape.
if she closes her eyes and focuses on the sensation of his hand firm against the curve of her shoulder, if she takes in a deep breath to smell the blend of woodsy fragrance and metallic tang that defines leopold fitz, and if she lets the sound of the passing skytram fill in for the soft whoosh of an opening hangar door, she might just convince herself she's back on the quinjet. the memory feels real for just a half-second long enough that she's left feeling a little disappointed when she opens her eyes again. good thing there's fitz there in the flesh to take the edge off, his familiar face a much-needed pick-me-up. ]
I did, didn't I? [ not really, but "i need you" can be said in many different ways. ] Anyway, I'm glad you made it. I wanted to show you this.
[ one of the door prizes had been something quite boring — a digital clock, meant to sit on a nightstand or dresser, but one with the futuristically snazzy capability of projecting a sleep-inducing holographic video for the owner who might suffer from bits of insomnia. or, at least, it had been a clock. it's not the "this" in question, though. that'll come next.
daisy bends down for a moment to scoop up the lumped object in question; once back upright, she holds it out for fitz to view, channeling her best vanna white impersonation before lifting her free hand to hover a few inches away from the edge. after a beat, the mass of metal and plastic begins to vibrate in place, bits and bobs pulling themselves loose with each passing second only to fall unceremoniously against daisy's outstretched hand. each fallen piece still vibrates, but waits in place, as if awaiting further telepathic instruction from their master builder.
illuminated by the faint glow of blue peeking through her sheer black top, it's a neat little scene. quietly, daisy adds: ] Ta-da.
no subject
if she closes her eyes and focuses on the sensation of his hand firm against the curve of her shoulder, if she takes in a deep breath to smell the blend of woodsy fragrance and metallic tang that defines leopold fitz, and if she lets the sound of the passing skytram fill in for the soft whoosh of an opening hangar door, she might just convince herself she's back on the quinjet. the memory feels real for just a half-second long enough that she's left feeling a little disappointed when she opens her eyes again. good thing there's fitz there in the flesh to take the edge off, his familiar face a much-needed pick-me-up. ]
I did, didn't I? [ not really, but "i need you" can be said in many different ways. ] Anyway, I'm glad you made it. I wanted to show you this.
[ one of the door prizes had been something quite boring — a digital clock, meant to sit on a nightstand or dresser, but one with the futuristically snazzy capability of projecting a sleep-inducing holographic video for the owner who might suffer from bits of insomnia. or, at least, it had been a clock. it's not the "this" in question, though. that'll come next.
daisy bends down for a moment to scoop up the lumped object in question; once back upright, she holds it out for fitz to view, channeling her best vanna white impersonation before lifting her free hand to hover a few inches away from the edge. after a beat, the mass of metal and plastic begins to vibrate in place, bits and bobs pulling themselves loose with each passing second only to fall unceremoniously against daisy's outstretched hand. each fallen piece still vibrates, but waits in place, as if awaiting further telepathic instruction from their master builder.
illuminated by the faint glow of blue peeking through her sheer black top, it's a neat little scene. quietly, daisy adds: ] Ta-da.