[ They're at opposite ends of the spectrum, with Fitz's nervous energy metered out by twisting hands and gestures. A lack of eye contact. The jitteriness that comes from lack of sleep has permeated his waking hours.
And yet here Markus is, offering well wishes and personal details. Markus and Connor's relationship remains a mystery to Fitz — obviously close, inevitably bound by shared circumstances, but the details elude him. Points of contention aren't surprising, given their differing ways of presenting themselves, but he still wonders about them now. Markus had talked about loss as a motivator for change, and androids being the ones to help him. He still wants to puzzle that out. ]
Not at all like how you are normally, then. [ a mild reassurance, offering with sudden attention. That wasn't you. ] I hope you haven't had any trouble after the fact.
[He turns his head slightly to meet Fitz’s attention, blue and green eyes sharp with focus.]
Not at all, no, and not how I’d ever want to be again.
[He’s dealt with mending what had threatened to be broken between the two of them. An understanding that who they were that day is never who they want to be, even if the potential existed. Yet it doesn’t make the memory of it easier. Doesn’t keep the guilt perpetually asleep, sometimes rising up and still raking its claws across the interior of his ribs.]
The worst of us, coming to the surface. Anger, violence, a lack of self-control to keep it all mitigated. Having felt wronged.
[For a moment, only the sound of concurrent footsteps down the trail.]
...which made me feel justified in hurting others. But that’s not what we came here to talk about.
[ Markus' eloquence is always impressive to Fitz, who struggles to cobble together any summaries of his scattered state. His description rings true of Fitz's own experience, too, only the anger, violence, a lack of self-control — the worst lives at the surface now, barely concealed by a shaky approximation of his former personality. No toxin required to activate it, just a split-second decision to drop the pretenses. ]
No, but it's a, uh, a jumping off point. I'm — I suppose I should say that Daisy was right to — [ his hand drifts upward, hovering near his neck and face. she was right to what, go for the throat? he wants to say I'm not a good person, and I didn't want you to know that, but it feels like a cop-out. Still doesn't answer Markus' actual question, either. ] I left some events out of our first conversation.
[confess your sins to robojesus, he's ready to hear them
But the demeanor he's adopted is of a purposeful sort. It counteracts Fitz's nervous energy, meant to offer calm and the space to give the other man to think, to speak. Yet his words are firm, ushering the man to continue, in that strange push-and-pull, of slight overawe-and-openness that is so very distinctive of someone drenched in expected leadership.]
Before you tell me what they are, let me ask you something — what made you decide to hem away certain parts of the truth? Did you think I’d take badly to it, being what I am?
[Not wrong, but maybe not in the way that Fitz might've assumed. He wonders.]
[ He makes a noise of frustration, searching for the words to explain himself. Markus conducts himself well, precisely the sort of personality that Fitz responds to, instinctively following another's lead, even with the ground uneasy beneath them. He tries very hard, then, to avoid hearing Daisy's analysis of his conversations with Markus and Strange. You want him to tell you it's not your fault. What a thing to want from a stranger. ]
It was just — too much. You were so nice. [ a potentially clinical talk had turned intimate, just like that. he looks skyward, mouth twisting. ] I thought you might take it badly, yeah. As someone recently changed. [ ophelia's case study wouldn't have been reassuring. ] As a good person. [ a belief further solidified by Markus' demeanor during the outbreak. ] So, I prioritised my interests and left out the rest.
[ he pauses then, a flicker of uncertainty before he clarifies. ]
Priority one, what made you and Connor human — and was it via the same process that I perfected for Ophelia? Most likely not, but it would appear to be close. [ consciousnesses being lifted and dropped into new bodies. ] And priority two, were you coping with the alterations to your person?
[ Markus might remember that his only comment on how Ophelia coped was, You're handling it better. An inequality of information. ]
Conflicting emotions well up at that. Gratitude, really, and difficulties blaming Fitz for wanting to treat it like the fragile subject it was. It tugs his mouth into a frown, pressing his gaze forward as they come across the same little wooden bridge from before. But Markus never wants to live obliviously; never wants to be sheltered from the truth of any situation, no matter how harsh or difficult to process it might be. This makes him feel indignant, led astray by censored information, and the two sides meld with each other to create something frustratingly complicated.
He thinks on how to reply, and while they don’t stop at the bridge this time, a single hand comes out to glide along the railing as they walk.]
I can’t blame you for that. And maybe it’s my own fault for leading you to believe that I would’ve taken it badly. What I told you about my past isn’t the whole of who I am, or what I’m trying to… do for my kind. [Maybe there’s been two instances of withholding information. Markus, in his caution, only illuminating pieces of himself at a time — different than Connor, in that way.]
When it comes to AI life interacting with humanity, whether for good or ill, I want to know the consequences of it. It’s relevant to me. I don't care if the experiences themselves originate from another world altogether.
[He exhales, feeling exhausted across each nerve ending, but keeping his shoulders aligned.]
So, please. Tell me exactly what happened, and let me choose how to feel about it.
[ This is worse than he expected. The measured understanding, the willingness to withhold blame — won't someone just tell him off? Why pry open the complexities?
Only he knows why. 'Cause it matters. Because it's not just about him. He said it himself before: Resonances between worlds, overlaps, every possible connection is worth exploring on behalf of individual and collective interests. He cards a hand through his already disheveled hair and exhales, giving in to the weight of this conversation. His gait slows on the bridge, but he doesn't stop. ]
Okay. Okay.
[ if he says it twice, maybe it will be okay. From then on, he manages an even tone. ]
As an Agent of SHIELD, I'm sworn to protect the earth against domestic, global, and extraterrestrial threats. [ what it says on the tin, really. ] I only began working on an artificial intelligence project at the behest of my mentor, Dr Holden Radcliffe. [ a name tinged with bitterness. ] For some time, he worked in secret, knowing that our organisation wouldn't fund anything risky after we made very public mistakes in the years prior. [ what with being HYDRA all along. ] Together, we'd been working on a virtual reality training simulator for months. Called it the Framework. I saw him more than my bloody girlfriend, sorting it out. He was —
[ He lifts both hands, grasping at nothing, unable to find the words. He was a genius, maybe. Or like a father to me, too. It doesn't matter, anyway. This should be about the truth, not his feelings. And Radcliffe was, not is. ]
By the time I found out what he was working on after hours, he'd already made AIDA. [ he swallows, then, unable to brush past her name — one of her names — easily. ] When I discovered her, I threatened to report him to our superiors, but — he convinced me that the aim of this project, of AIDA and any android like her was to be a shield. [ a look to Markus, finally, snapping to attention. His voice ticks up, a shade desperate to communicate that he thought this, at least, was right at the time, however horrible it may seem. ] Our agents were dying in the field. The threats were getting bigger. Inhuman, alien, godlike. This was a safeguard against that, just like the virtual training simulator. Agents who could recover from injuries immediately, be equipped with all the medical knowledge of a trained doctor and keep a cool head, who could keep going, indefatigable. [ pausing. ]
And if I grassed him up, our superiors would dismantle AIDA, too.
[A sweltering breeze makes overhead branches shudder as they walk. Markus listens without interrupting, taking every word that Fitz grants him, every detail that he hadn’t known until this very moment. Background forming itself around Fitz’s recollection of events, able to provide him with growing context where he had none before.
AIDA’s means of creation — or rather, the reasoning behind her activation — makes his insides jar in their grooves, makes something twist up with distaste. AI life, androids, to be used as tools; for their purpose to be dictated to them upon activation, and to be a means of tireless frontline combat because humans wouldn’t take the risk to life and limb themselves. Markus cannot hope to comprehend the threat that they’re fighting in Fitz’s world (godlike beings, aliens) and therefore cannot hope to know the degree of necessity, but this is never an idea that will settle well in a mind so concerned with freedom, choice, and agency.
Lips thin, a frown more severe, words inlaid to reflect it. Eyes meet Fitz’s, and while he doesn’t doubt the other’s good intentions, it’s hard to mete out approval in his look.]
Creating a life, a brand-new consciousness, for the sake of pushing through a multitude of… hardships with the expectation of it having no affect on them. If only anything was ever that straightforward.
[ Is it strange that Markus' expression hardening, the slight reproach — that it's all a relief, even though nausea threatens to overwhelm him. Finally, someone to pull him out of the grey area. He was right, or he was wrong. Can't be both.
And particularly after speaking with Markus and Connor, it feels as though everything he did was misguided, even at the start. It's what tips his decision now, opting for the truth, at least as filtered through his perception. ]
They were both lying. [ said simply. ] Radcliffe didn't want a shield, he wanted to cheat death — a way to upload human minds into new bodies or a better, virtual world. Leave the androids behind to fight all our battles for us, yeah? [ his delivery turns cold. ] Without my knowledge, he started replacing our agents with android duplicates. As soon as I helped him fine-tune the AI to the point where people wouldn't be able to tell the bloody difference, he forced me into the Framework, [ he snaps his fingers. ] same as the others he was replacing. And in there, it's as real as anything out here. All the vibrancy of memories, the sensations of touch and pain. Even death. It's real. In there, you're still you. [ A frantic gesture between them. This matters. ] Every choice is your own, even if it's made under different circumstances.
[ Fitz ensures he catches Markus' eye when he says that. ]
He and AIDA changed everyone's circumstances, rectified things they thought we regretted and the effects rippled out, creating an entirely different, parallel life for everyone who was hardwired into it. But AIDA wanted — [ his hands flex and curl, making a fist and then flattening again. ] I guess I don't really know what AIDA wanted. [ he has theories, some more flattering than others. ] I only know what she did: Killed Radcliffe, put herself in the Framework, and out of the lot of us, all the agents in there — it's my life that she shows up in, walks right up to me on my first day at SHIELD Academy, introduces herself as Ophelia, and it doesn't take long at all for me to fall for her.
[ No judgment in his tone there, not against her. Whether or not she planned to recruit him to her cause, he still chose her. That's the terrible beauty of the Framework. He brings a hand down on the railing at the end of the bridge, enjoying the thwack of the hit and the slight pain shooting up his good arm. It's not unlike the suddenness with which he reacted during the outbreak, a foreign instinct, suddenly overtaking him.
He exhales, then, voice thick with emotion. ]
So when the love of my life says, “Leopold, this world isn't real. I need you and that brain of yours not just to make me human; I need you to make me better than human, so that we can get the hell out of here." [ he huffs a breath of air, unable to stop himself. a choked sort of laugh that only tumbles out of your throat when you face something unreal and horrible. ] It’s not a question of if I’ll do it, Markus, it’s how far I’ll go to get it done. That’s not on her. [ his bandaged hand settles over his chest. ] That’s on me. 'Cause that's when people were hurt and killed. Not by the androids, but by the shitty humans who engineered them.
[ not the android uprising as a collective, just Radcliffe sending robots after individuals — and then the singular interests of Ophelia and Fitz, tearing their way through the Framework to get back to the real. ]
[It warrants stopping just as they past the crest of the bridge. The words stilling even Markus’ step as he tries to imagine all that Fitz is telling him; he’s detailed in his explanation this time, providing context that might still be difficult for Markus to wrap his mind around if he tried to puzzle out the logistics overlong. But that was hardly the point — as his eyes skate over Fitz, measured clarification soon becomes weighted with emotion, body language starting to eke and bleed anxiety. A self-punishing gesture, as the wooden railing vibrates with the quick strike, and one idea rings poignantly in Markus’ mind above all others — guilt.
The stress of it being Fitz’s choice, after all, made that so very obvious.
And the idea of agency, of free will and the power of being able to choose that comes with it; Markus has hinged so much of that onto himself, pinned it to his body to let it inform every action and every word, that he gives this the right measure of thought before replying. This is a heavy, uneasy admission, with no direct line that shears down the middle of black and white, right versus wrong.
Yet one thing sticks in his thoughts like a bur, demanding clarification despite the looming issue of lives having been taken.]
It may have been your choice, but it was a choice wrought from circumstances that were… manipulative, Fitz. This reality, in the Framework, that was all couched in a lie.
[He’s quick to add, in a voice that’s lost its edge of reprisal-]
What you felt was real, is real, and yet surely you can see how your actions were pushed down a certain path by AIDA herself.
[Is he really bearing the brunt of all the blame?]
[ His features loosen, taken aback both by Markus' composure and his clear-headed read on the Framework, while Fitz feels as though he might tip over, unsteady on his feet. Wetness pricks at the corners of eyes, but all he can think now is straighten up, boy. What he feels was, is real, yes, and the acknowledgment of that is too much, prompting him to drag a hand across his face, pinching at his nose, a sensation to focus on and stop any tears. ]
Only one type of person could choose — [ his voice cracks, betraying his infirm conviction. Prove him wrong, comes the voice again. All it would take is a step and a proper shove to reject the glimmer of redemption that Markus offers. ]
Plenty of people have been backed into tighter corners, and they never hurt anybody.
[ So Fitz will heave the weight on his shoulders and stumble forward until he can't go on any longer. It's not a sustainable approach, when the person he was in the Framework is still rattling around in his skull, slipping out in every other gesture and jagged word. Every Ophelia instead of AIDA. He steps forward, edging into Markus' personal space, lifts his hands —
And drops them at his side. Weak. ]
[ then, resigned. ] When you deviated — whatever you lost, whoever you lost, when no human was willing to help you… did you hurt anyone?
[ Androids, inhumans, people, there are rotten ones in every bunch, yet Fitz doubts Markus is one of them. Markus, who looked at him with concern even when faced with evidence of lies. He hears echoes of better agents than himself in his friend, those unafraid of softness because of their inner strength.
Perhaps that's why he gravitated towards Markus in the first place — and part his reason for lying, too. Can't even prove his point about being shitty 'cause even if he won't admit it aloud, he can choose to be a better man out here than he was in there. That's the thing about free will. Even if you've chosen something for yourself, the universe asks again: Is that really what you want? ]
[Markus doesn’t move when Fitz steps forward, remaining still — too still, as only an android can manage. The sort of quietude that threatens to dip into uncanny valley, were it not for the obvious twist of emotion on his features. Nothing like defiance, nothing at all like a man who feels threatened; only an expression that has his brow cinching, has him frowning in a sort of sorry empathy towards the other man. There’s desperation that he can see, and its claws wrap around Markus’ insides, threatening to carve them hollow, bleeding heart that he is.
Plenty of people have been backed into tighter corners, and they never hurt anybody.
He tilts his chin upwards, intonation soft, as only could be heard between the two of them. Fitz is quick to reject the mote of absolution that he offers, but Markus keeps it held out, figuratively entwined in his own fingers, for as long as he’ll allow him.]
It isn’t so simple. What you’ve told me… the blame isn’t just yours to carry. [It isn’t all or nothing. It wasn’t choice unburdened by the manipulation of someone else. Guilt might weigh him down, might blind him to the rest of it, but Markus knows that if there's blame to divvy out, not all of it should rest on Fitz’s shoulders. Without even knowing the whole of the tale, he’s already decided upon this much.
Fitz’s hands drop to his side, the question is turned on him, and Markus’ jawline tightens with the threat of memory.]
No. I didn’t. [He had so many opportunities to. He could’ve ripped parts out from still-living androids in the junkyard. He could’ve threatened and hurt the humans at Stratford. He could’ve sent a message that decried a willingness to co-exist peacefully, with terms that were more demanding than they were conciliatory.
He could have. But he didn’t. And yet-]
But do you think the potential didn’t exist, the same as yours? You had Ophelia, someone you loved, asking you to act on her behalf, steered by matters of the heart. Of love. And I had Carl, the ghost of the memory of a man who was like a father to me, doing the same. He wouldn't have wanted me to hurt anyone. He wanted me to be… to be a good person. And so I acted accordingly, to his will. To what he shaped me to be. We're both constructs of someone else's wishes in a way, merely manifested differently.
[Pushing down melancholy coiling up, he continues.] Don’t paint me as a man very different than you, Fitz. I don’t belong on that kind of pedestal.
[ The hands at his side move to his hips, bracing, as he hangs his head, like he can't face Markus this close, correcting and offering in equal measure. Potential, circumstance, programming, was scrawled across his file. It's what every one of his friends said the second they were back together. You may be that man — but you're also this one. As ever, Markus articulates his point in a way that translates for Fitz, outlines their similarities and unwittingly pinpoints the figure looming in Fitz’s life in the Framework, the one change beyond Ophelia, his father. Objectively, he can recognise the ripple effects of that, alongside his unhealthy relationship, as key factors for altering the timeline and psyche of the person stood in the midst of it.
He bites back the instinctive and self-destructive retort: It’s not potential for me. It's already in there, spreading like rot. Because if he gives in to that, he rejects Markus’ sound argument and allows for the possibility that he’ll lose his mind before he makes it back to Jemma, too. ]
Okay. [ A choked utterance, issued toward his feet. Acquiescence buys him time to offer something solid, more like the scientist he is at his best. ] I’m sorry. You’re not just what I — you know who you are.
[ And he doesn't need Fitz to tell him or idealise him as a point of contrast, or to ask him to prove himself as lesser (crueller) if he's to claim some understanding. Markus is cleverer than all that and not without complexity, besides. The bit about Carl is new information, shading in the person before him. ]
And I know you’re… well, you're what saying is... it's right. Logically, it's all right there. [ He lifts a hand again, only this time it’s obvious that the gesture is him grasping at words, unable to pluck the right ones for the moment. Finally, Fitz looks up, expression open and unguarded. ] I just can’t — I’m not there yet, [ a rolling, twisting gesture. ] too stuck in my head.
[ Particularly without a steady presence at his side to guide him, Fitz gets lost. In his head, in his heart. Twisted and turned around until the only way back to the start is labyrinthine and convoluted, but Bobbi already asked him to choose where he aims to end up. "What do you want Fitz?" I want Jemma and SHIELD and all of you. And the people who matter to him here already, like Markus and Connor. Only wanting it all isn't enough. His choices and words have to stay the course.
Yet, he says, because he'll get there — or die trying. ]
[Markus’ remains unmoving, feet rooted to the ground, as he watches Fitz withdraw into himself. Hears that paroxysm of an acquiescence, the way the other man hangs his head and casts his eyes to the ground. A more prideful individual would take some victory in that, even if it were only the barest whisper of success, of his point being made and his own stance unshaken. But Markus can’t. Can’t see anything but someone lost, someone still trying to find a solid path to walk upon after having been so completely diverted — as if he had been split in two, and now expected to fit the two halves together when the pieces would no longer align.
A part of Markus wants to correct Fitz. His friend claims that he knows who he is, when the reality is that he knows who he needs to be. A leader or a guiding hand. A man who can’t falter, who has to appear like he can hold the weight of the world and the problems of others, let them press greatly into his back, and not stumble as he moves forward. That sometimes he can’t completely differentiate who the real him is supposed to be, versus what expectation will mold him to become.
But it isn’t the same. Markus can’t hope to compare himself to Fitz’s situation, the latter possessing two lives, two sets of experiences. He wishes he could relate. He wishes he could truly understand.
He wishes he could help.]
I realize… that we don’t know each other that well. And I won’t do you a disservice by claiming that I know what it feels like, that I know exactly what it is you’re experiencing. What you’re trying to sort through.
[The space is non-existent between them, and Markus adds the connection of touch; a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. A gesture that Fitz has provided for him in the past.]
But you can’t do it alone. You can’t leave yourself in the thrall of your own mind, and expect for… guilt to do anything but self-deprecate. To apply all the blame to yourself, because you might feel like you deserve it. We’re all our own worst critics, you know. [Sentiment of art, applied to sentiment of the soul.]
Talk it through with someone. With your friends, with someone you trust. Give yourself time and the benefit of the doubt, and most importantly, be willing to forgive yourself. I know you’re a good person. You’ve proven that to me already.
[ This was supposed to be an exercise in truth-telling, giving Markus the whole of it, and explaining why people from his world and his team will be hesitant to trust anyone in the android category — even someone like Markus, who so easily proves to Fitz time and again that he's a person worth being around.
He allows himself to look, then, where he'd been unwilling to linger before, gaze tracing the lines of Markus' features as he processes the allowances being offered, utterly disarmed. A singular focus, as if Markus might take a stab piecing together the multiverse just 'cause he's here, anyway, and believes that's his role in all this (dimly, he recognises those traits as unsustainable, with as much potential to lead to burnout and ruin as Fitz's own hamartia — something to consider, when he replays this conversation). The touch at his shoulder has a knock-on effect on his person, with their insignificant physical distance as his last defense against his poorly compartmentalised grief. For the person he was, and for Ophelia, too. ]
Yeah, but you don't know — you don't know the person I was before, or the one I was in there, either. It's just me here with you, Markus. [ no before or after, just Fitz, a hastily stitched together version who dragged himself out of the wreck when the first human shipment arrived, who'd been held offsite in a prison for six months, with too much time alone to do anything but lose himself. Ultimately, it's not a bad thing. On the contrary, the distance is a crucial piece of what facilitates this conversation. In Fitz's eyes, Markus has clarity as an outsider, despite his personal investment, where his friends are biased in their (understandable) want for the old Fitz, earnest in his warmth and heroism.
And yet he knows he should tell them, too, Daisy and Bobbi both.
You can’t do it alone warrants a stuttered nod, but it's I know you're a good person that unstoppers his tears, eking out at the corners of his eyes. Given that he isn't in a position to argue anything, he lets that be the truth, at least for this moment, standing in the light of the sky park with someone unwilling to turn him away. Then, he closes the gap between them, slipping his arms around Markus' back in a grateful, if shaky, hug. Inevitably, the bond activates, inviting Markus into the potent coalescence of relief and sorrow that has Fitz leaning up and sniffling into his shoulder.
It's a sloppy cry, long overdue. ]
Was supposed to be about telling you the truth — apologising, not — not just bloody — crying all over you.
[He’s right. He doesn’t know the sort of person Fitz was before New Amsterdam. Doesn’t know the extent of the choices made, of the paths tread, where and how all that deep-seated guilt manifested beyond what he was told. Yet it hardly changes his mind on the matter. Though the specters of the past might hover and loom just behind Fitz's shoulder, baleful and ill-gotten, what stands in the foreground is more clearly defined, cast into stark relief. The make of a man as defined by words and actions of the present; a willingness to help Markus, again and again. He’s shown him kindness, friendship, a want to be honest with him — and he’s shown him guilt, choked by the stuff, tangled up in every word that leaves his lips.
And isn’t that enough? A want to do better, to be better than one’s past? That speaks for the good of his character, that desperate desire to wring a better person out of the misaligned pieces of himself. To feel no such inclination would be telling. It would almost be damning.
So goes Markus’ thoughts as the tears eke past the corner of his friend’s eyes, and he’s drawn close and draws him close both, allowing what the other needs — a messy cry on his shoulder, what the android hopes can act as some small amount of relief.]
The you of right now is all that matters. The kind of person you want to become.
[The empathy bond blossoms between them, a wave that laps at both of their feet, and Markus feels himself being dragged under the surface. Enveloped by sadness and solace, and fingers press tensely into the man's back after having looped his own arms around him.
And by way of the bond, he offers up his own emotions in turn. Sorrow kept afloat by a trove of empathy, and hopeful confidence alike. Believing, completely, that Fitz can find the redemption he's seeking in himself, lain beneath shale and bedrock.]
[ Markus affirms the hopes that he hadn't dared to admit he still has for himself, and that's beyond what Fitz expected anyone to give him. He twists his hands in the fabric of Markus' shirt, finding purchase despite the way his right-hand smarts with the movement. Against his instincts, he holds the moment, prolonging their contact. It helps that Markus offers emotional and physical steadiness with his grip, bringing him past the breaking point and into the aftermath. Give him a minute to release the last of his shuddery exhales. ]
Stop being so understanding. [ cry-hiccup-laughed into Markus's shoulder. ] It's — terrible.
[ said in the tone of someone who does not, in fact, think it's terrible, the beginnings of gratitude rising from his side of the bond, tinged with an unabashed fondness for Markus, in this moment. He allows that to linger, too, as his breathing evens out. Finally, Fitz pulls back enough to leave only a hand on Markus' shoulder, the other rubbing at his eyes. ]
God, I'm really. [ he stops himself, bothered by how croaky his voice sounds. ] I'm dragging this out. Hanging off you. Not that you aren't — comfortable. [ When he lifts his head, hand dragged back through his half-curls, he cringes at his own wording. An improvement on his formerly heartbroken, at least. Mm-hmm, there's Fitz, pulling himself together in the messiest way possible, perhaps the only way he knows how. ]
[ in a bit of mumble, though it hardly matters when they're this close. ] Swear I'm not normally this needy, as a [ a brief hesitation, as he wonders if the classification still applies, despite how good Markus has been to him. ] friend.
[ Now that's a lie. He's absolutely needy, across the board, but let him have this shitty joke. ]
[None of it enough to dissuade Markus from being this pillar in the storm. Emotions both tumultuous and steadfast are rubberbanding between them, but the android lets Fitz cry, lets him cling, allows himself to be anchor made of iron so that when the other is done, there’s something still fixed and grounded waiting for him when words return.
When there’s space between them again, after Fitz steps back with a hand still on his shoulder, the confirmation of the term comes easily enough. He replies with only the smallest tremor of ebbing, shared emotion inlaid in each syllable.]
And what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let you be needy every once in a while? [Friend slingshotted back without any hesitation at all — confirmation for the other, an unerring absolute. It takes more than an uncertain identity and omission of information to shake something rooted more deeply into the ground.]
I suppose. [ still soft. ] Just the once in a while. [ another concession and acceptance. They are friends, aren't they? Stronger still for the possibility of truth between them, when there are so few in this world who can walk that path alongside any of the displaced.
His hand twists in the fabric at Markus' shoulder, still a little needy and uncertain, as he collects himself. ]
I ought to, ah, finish off the details, now that you know the, uh, context. [ the framework, aida as ophelia, the androids. ] If that's what you still want, I mean — no more blindsides by my teammates in the future. [ a final commitment to the truth, belated though it may be. ] Not when it could be avoided.
[ not that they would mean to be insensitive or accusing but, well, a faint memory reminds fitz how far they, too, were willing to go to save the world. best make it concise and get it over with ]
[Honesty is like the application of tempering to a steel blade; though the conversation they've had — and will continue to have — may not be easy, they’ll only walk away from it stronger than before. More assured in each other’s trust, being closer allies and better friends. He has no doubt of that.
And so, Markus nods.]
I want to hear the rest of it. If you’re still willing to share it with me.
[A hand to reach up behind Fitz, to lightly press into his shoulder, and Markus turns to urge Fitz to walk with him. A slower pace than before, as if detaching them slowly from the magnetic pull of passing emotion and insecurity; as if the summer heat filtering through the trees might continue to provide both of them a tired sort of focus and realignment.]
[ if he's willing, like Markus isn't the one who deserves the choice — the truth. ]
Yeah, yeah, okay.
[ walking steadies him, much like the touch as his shoulder, the final confirmation that they're in this together. He can barrel through this, condense it to the most necessary parts. His hands flex and ball again, unable to find purchase. A slow exhale follows, as if he'll need to air to push through what's to come. ]
[ finally, in a forcibly even tone. ] In there, we — I experimented on Inhumans, people with powers like us now, like Daisy had before, too. [ added to contextualise her instinctive feelings toward the androids, who targeted her. ] and in doing so, I cracked it. Figured out how to make her human and give her any of the abilities she wanted. Teleportation, superhuman strength, regeneration, electrokinesis. [ the list goes on, each one stolen from someone else. ] My friends tried to wake me up — the love of my life from this world, too, fought to reach me, but I couldn't, wouldn't.
[ His shoulders lift, a shrug that pains him, so recently after his injuries. There's no excuse to be made. A hell of his own making is just another thing to overcome. ]
When we got out, we didn’t have long to, uh, [ rolling one hand. ] acclimate. [ The duality, two lives worth of memories crashing down on him, threatening to tear him in two. ] But I do know this: Ophelia said that in the Framework, she didn't have a choice, either, and that she wanted. [ He stops himself. No, he can't omit this part. ] She wanted me to be the first thing she chose. [ a somber admission, paired with a lookup, into the light. Not a confession that fosters warmth, then. ] And when I asked her — begged her to hold onto that, to empathy, to think about how she felt for me, how it would feel to help my friends who were still in trouble, that’s what she chose, Markus. [ His voice rises, impassioned in his final defense of her, one that he knows won’t withstand this conversation. ] Not fear for her new mortality or vengeance for how we’d wronged her, but compassion. And if we'd been in a...a vacuum, or if it hadn't been me that she chose, she could have — might have stayed on that path.
[Experimenting on powered people. Markus feels his insides twist at the idea for multiple reasons — the inhumanity of it, the idea of placing the wishes of a single individual as more important than another’s wellbeing. And that Ophelia’s transition into her humanity would be one in which she would wield so much; too much. A mind still leaning into self-discovery, equipped with that kind of power — Markus can’t imagine it. Like being given a blade without knowing of the consequences of carving someone in two.
But he makes no remark on that. Again, he doesn’t interrupt. And again, he judges the changes in Fitz’s tone, where he pauses and where he stumbles. Where defense flares up for the sake of Ophelia, even if it means he offers himself up to the altar of blame and self-deprecation once more.]
What she chose. [—comes the quiet echo. The word that all of this seems to hinge on, the conversation pivoting on the idea of conscious choices and the consequences of them. Of having power over your own actions, versus these same actions being influenced by outside sources.]
You give her agency, but then you’re quick to take it back by placing the blame of her other choices squarely on your shoulders.
[The one thing worth pointing out, worth mentioning in its strange paradox of itself.
But because it feels like a story unfinished, loose ends still dangling, Markus adds nothing else just yet. Only an even push forward.]
[ It's complicated, he wants to say, but Markus has stood here for ages untangling this already. Too clever and too patient to ignore, not flinching away despite the most gruesome detail coming moments earlier. Complicated is an excuse like all the others. Either Ophelia shares the blame, or she doesn't. He rubs at his temple, considering. No, conceding. ]
I guess we both deserve the blame. [ but she's the one that everyone blames, so he makes a point to shoulder as much of it as he can. Hard to say if that's born of his instincts (and the undying loyalty) fostered in the Framework, when Fitz has always been inclined to blame himself the second anything he touches turns to rust. ]
Maybe if it was your first day feeling like that, [ a pleading look, head tilted to assess Markus' reaction. ] feeling everything without being able to compartmentalise or, or, or reflect, with too much power at your fingertips, fresh out of world where you were willing to kill for someone, and still ready to help him — to help me and save all my friends, even though I wanted something different now than I did in the Framework, you would — she did expect the same in return. [ what she had when they in the virtual was supposed to carry over, the same as the rest. The powers, the human body, the partner. ] Y'know, she chose me, [ gesturing between them. ] so I'm supposed to choose her, too.
[ his mouth thins, features caught in indecision. Should he feel guilty that he couldn't give that to her? Should he have been more careful, at least on day fucking one? He was a mess at the time, still reeling, and her actions after the fact aren't defensible, not even to him. ]
Only when she was talking about it, I thought she meant — I thought she meant she would understand if I chose my partner in this world 'cause Jemma — [ a noise of disbelief. AIDA absolutely read his file, knew his flaws and head inside and out, how could she not have accounted for the Jemma of it all? Telling, then, that his tone shifts, no longer uncertain, when he speaks about Jemma Simmons. If there's one thing he believes in, it's this. Her. ] — a love like ours has crossed galaxies and time and the bottom of the bloody Atlantic Ocean. [ he lifts his hands, as if helpless. ] S'not going away just because I've got a double life in my head.
[ He hadn't been sure the sentiment was shared, at first, only that his love wouldn't ever fade. Now, he knows she feels the same way. ]
So, when I said that, when I chose wrong, she went off. [ that, he doesn't blame himself for, though he frames it from her perspective and punctuates the statement by crashing his fist into his other hand. Again, a little bit of pain in his stitches. Noise, the slap of skin. Grounding and punishing. ] Started killing my coworkers and friends. [ a pause before the inevitable, gaze unflinching on Markus, even as he watches for flickers of emotion (judgment, unease) in his friend's face. ] We had to kill her first to keep the body count from climbing higher. [ and with finality — ] She's gone.
[ gone to wherever androids turned humans go, when they're burned in SHIELD bunker by inhuman hellfire. That's it. The whole of the truth, at least from Fitz's own perspective, tinged by his biases in the Framework and beyond it. ]
[The concession is enough for Markus to lose only the smallest line of tension in his shoulders. But the seriousness of this conversation still looms over the both of them, the deepest kind of unseen shadow, and his expression doesn’t change. Brow still creased with consideration as he turns over each word, and he glances back to Fitz on occasion to gauge his reaction — and so that the other can catch glimpses of this rumination, dancing behind blue and green eyes.
There’s approval, at least, in divvying out the blame between both Fitz and AIDA, for what it’s worth.
But when he’s asked to employ empathy (maybe if it was your first day feeling like that), it’s impossible for Markus to not consider how he might have felt, how he might’ve acted. To be willing to do so much for a single person, out of that wretchedly powerful emotion, that beautiful and terrifying many-clawed sensation: love. And its opposite, the dark twist that it takes when not given back freely and equally in return.
He doesn’t know how he would’ve reacted. He had so many years, so much time, to grow into someone completely different with Carl. He can only imagine what it must be like, so fresh with awakening, to experience everything with such newness that pleasure and pain alike would be so very… raw. That each offense must have felt like being rent in two.
As perceptive as Markus tries to be, as much understanding as he tries to apply to each side of the equation, it’s still difficult for him to relate to.
And it’s endlessly telling that Fitz possesses no hesitation in his words when he speaks of Jemma. A love that would pervade and overturn space, time, and the depth of the ocean itself. Romanticism, painted as fact. Ophelia was fated to be met with only disappointment.]
…I’m sorry. [-is a simplistic reply, but sincere on all fronts. The snippets of emotion that flicker across Markus’ expression isn’t judgment, not even disconcertion, just the sort of resign that comes from hearing a multi-faceted tragedy unfold, step by step.] For all those you lost. I know it doesn’t mean much, in the face of everything that you’ve been through.
[A beat.]
What you’ve just told me… it’s less about an android becoming human, but someone who was ill-equipped to deal with a very poignant human emotion. You understand that much, don’t you?
[ "I'm sorry," makes him duck his head. As if he has any right to accept this, the figure who survived his own tragic play, when it would have been kinder if fate claimed him in the second act.
Easier to focus on the latter line of conversation. ]
I do. [ He nods, then pauses, glances at Markus for confirmation. ] I think I do.
[ To say Fitz understands the androids or Ophelia just because of the time he spent building AIDA or working with her, being with her, the fleeting hours where he just watched as she processed, talking him through how it felt — ]
There were too many other factors in play. [ Radcliffe's programming, the Framework, Leopold James Fitz. Love, then loss. ] And it was extreme, all of it. [ the physical and emotional drain more than any being could bear. He's eight months out and still in shambles. In truth, Fitz thinks he lives in the swing, always going from one end to the furthest reaches of the other — a quiet crest of emotion with Markus here, or a deadly slash at Daisy during the outbreak — but there are people catching his hand, fingers slipping through his own, trying to help him reach equilibrium until he can maintain it alone.
He doesn't know how to say what that means to him. Instead, it's something he'll need to show, when the opportunity presents itself. ]
That's what I told Daisy, when she asked me about her. And you. [ exhaling. ] Only no one else sees it that way, not yet. [ his voice lowers. ] Ophelia is our Elysian. More localised, but.
[ When Daisy, when anyone from his team meets Markus or Connor — or someone like them — they're going to see her. The man Fitz was with her. What she did. How she couldn't cope with being human for a mere forty-eight hours. ]
I should have told you the truth from the jump. [ because Markus deserves that, even though it's hard, complicated, much more than artificial intelligence gone haywire. He holds steady, then. ] I’m sorry I didn't.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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And yet here Markus is, offering well wishes and personal details. Markus and Connor's relationship remains a mystery to Fitz — obviously close, inevitably bound by shared circumstances, but the details elude him. Points of contention aren't surprising, given their differing ways of presenting themselves, but he still wonders about them now. Markus had talked about loss as a motivator for change, and androids being the ones to help him. He still wants to puzzle that out. ]
Not at all like how you are normally, then. [ a mild reassurance, offering with sudden attention. That wasn't you. ] I hope you haven't had any trouble after the fact.
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Not at all, no, and not how I’d ever want to be again.
[He’s dealt with mending what had threatened to be broken between the two of them. An understanding that who they were that day is never who they want to be, even if the potential existed. Yet it doesn’t make the memory of it easier. Doesn’t keep the guilt perpetually asleep, sometimes rising up and still raking its claws across the interior of his ribs.]
The worst of us, coming to the surface. Anger, violence, a lack of self-control to keep it all mitigated. Having felt wronged.
[For a moment, only the sound of concurrent footsteps down the trail.]
...which made me feel justified in hurting others. But that’s not what we came here to talk about.
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No, but it's a, uh, a jumping off point. I'm — I suppose I should say that Daisy was right to — [ his hand drifts upward, hovering near his neck and face. she was right to what, go for the throat? he wants to say I'm not a good person, and I didn't want you to know that, but it feels like a cop-out. Still doesn't answer Markus' actual question, either. ] I left some events out of our first conversation.
[ #confessionaltime ]
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But the demeanor he's adopted is of a purposeful sort. It counteracts Fitz's nervous energy, meant to offer calm and the space to give the other man to think, to speak. Yet his words are firm, ushering the man to continue, in that strange push-and-pull, of slight overawe-and-openness that is so very distinctive of someone drenched in expected leadership.]
Before you tell me what they are, let me ask you something — what made you decide to hem away certain parts of the truth? Did you think I’d take badly to it, being what I am?
[Not wrong, but maybe not in the way that Fitz might've assumed. He wonders.]
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It was just — too much. You were so nice. [ a potentially clinical talk had turned intimate, just like that. he looks skyward, mouth twisting. ] I thought you might take it badly, yeah. As someone recently changed. [ ophelia's case study wouldn't have been reassuring. ] As a good person. [ a belief further solidified by Markus' demeanor during the outbreak. ] So, I prioritised my interests and left out the rest.
[ he pauses then, a flicker of uncertainty before he clarifies. ]
Priority one, what made you and Connor human — and was it via the same process that I perfected for Ophelia? Most likely not, but it would appear to be close. [ consciousnesses being lifted and dropped into new bodies. ] And priority two, were you coping with the alterations to your person?
[ Markus might remember that his only comment on how Ophelia coped was, You're handling it better. An inequality of information. ]
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Conflicting emotions well up at that. Gratitude, really, and difficulties blaming Fitz for wanting to treat it like the fragile subject it was. It tugs his mouth into a frown, pressing his gaze forward as they come across the same little wooden bridge from before. But Markus never wants to live obliviously; never wants to be sheltered from the truth of any situation, no matter how harsh or difficult to process it might be. This makes him feel indignant, led astray by censored information, and the two sides meld with each other to create something frustratingly complicated.
He thinks on how to reply, and while they don’t stop at the bridge this time, a single hand comes out to glide along the railing as they walk.]
I can’t blame you for that. And maybe it’s my own fault for leading you to believe that I would’ve taken it badly. What I told you about my past isn’t the whole of who I am, or what I’m trying to… do for my kind. [Maybe there’s been two instances of withholding information. Markus, in his caution, only illuminating pieces of himself at a time — different than Connor, in that way.]
When it comes to AI life interacting with humanity, whether for good or ill, I want to know the consequences of it. It’s relevant to me. I don't care if the experiences themselves originate from another world altogether.
[He exhales, feeling exhausted across each nerve ending, but keeping his shoulders aligned.]
So, please. Tell me exactly what happened, and let me choose how to feel about it.
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Only he knows why. 'Cause it matters. Because it's not just about him. He said it himself before: Resonances between worlds, overlaps, every possible connection is worth exploring on behalf of individual and collective interests. He cards a hand through his already disheveled hair and exhales, giving in to the weight of this conversation. His gait slows on the bridge, but he doesn't stop. ]
Okay. Okay.
[ if he says it twice, maybe it will be okay. From then on, he manages an even tone. ]
As an Agent of SHIELD, I'm sworn to protect the earth against domestic, global, and extraterrestrial threats. [ what it says on the tin, really. ] I only began working on an artificial intelligence project at the behest of my mentor, Dr Holden Radcliffe. [ a name tinged with bitterness. ] For some time, he worked in secret, knowing that our organisation wouldn't fund anything risky after we made very public mistakes in the years prior. [ what with being HYDRA all along. ] Together, we'd been working on a virtual reality training simulator for months. Called it the Framework. I saw him more than my bloody girlfriend, sorting it out. He was —
[ He lifts both hands, grasping at nothing, unable to find the words. He was a genius, maybe. Or like a father to me, too. It doesn't matter, anyway. This should be about the truth, not his feelings. And Radcliffe was, not is. ]
By the time I found out what he was working on after hours, he'd already made AIDA. [ he swallows, then, unable to brush past her name — one of her names — easily. ] When I discovered her, I threatened to report him to our superiors, but — he convinced me that the aim of this project, of AIDA and any android like her was to be a shield. [ a look to Markus, finally, snapping to attention. His voice ticks up, a shade desperate to communicate that he thought this, at least, was right at the time, however horrible it may seem. ] Our agents were dying in the field. The threats were getting bigger. Inhuman, alien, godlike. This was a safeguard against that, just like the virtual training simulator. Agents who could recover from injuries immediately, be equipped with all the medical knowledge of a trained doctor and keep a cool head, who could keep going, indefatigable. [ pausing. ]
And if I grassed him up, our superiors would dismantle AIDA, too.
[ even though she didn't do anything wrong. ]
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AIDA’s means of creation — or rather, the reasoning behind her activation — makes his insides jar in their grooves, makes something twist up with distaste. AI life, androids, to be used as tools; for their purpose to be dictated to them upon activation, and to be a means of tireless frontline combat because humans wouldn’t take the risk to life and limb themselves. Markus cannot hope to comprehend the threat that they’re fighting in Fitz’s world (godlike beings, aliens) and therefore cannot hope to know the degree of necessity, but this is never an idea that will settle well in a mind so concerned with freedom, choice, and agency.
Lips thin, a frown more severe, words inlaid to reflect it. Eyes meet Fitz’s, and while he doesn’t doubt the other’s good intentions, it’s hard to mete out approval in his look.]
Creating a life, a brand-new consciousness, for the sake of pushing through a multitude of… hardships with the expectation of it having no affect on them. If only anything was ever that straightforward.
[But this is surely only a half-complete story.]
What happened after that?
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And particularly after speaking with Markus and Connor, it feels as though everything he did was misguided, even at the start. It's what tips his decision now, opting for the truth, at least as filtered through his perception. ]
They were both lying. [ said simply. ] Radcliffe didn't want a shield, he wanted to cheat death — a way to upload human minds into new bodies or a better, virtual world. Leave the androids behind to fight all our battles for us, yeah? [ his delivery turns cold. ] Without my knowledge, he started replacing our agents with android duplicates. As soon as I helped him fine-tune the AI to the point where people wouldn't be able to tell the bloody difference, he forced me into the Framework, [ he snaps his fingers. ] same as the others he was replacing. And in there, it's as real as anything out here. All the vibrancy of memories, the sensations of touch and pain. Even death. It's real. In there, you're still you. [ A frantic gesture between them. This matters. ] Every choice is your own, even if it's made under different circumstances.
[ Fitz ensures he catches Markus' eye when he says that. ]
He and AIDA changed everyone's circumstances, rectified things they thought we regretted and the effects rippled out, creating an entirely different, parallel life for everyone who was hardwired into it. But AIDA wanted — [ his hands flex and curl, making a fist and then flattening again. ] I guess I don't really know what AIDA wanted. [ he has theories, some more flattering than others. ] I only know what she did: Killed Radcliffe, put herself in the Framework, and out of the lot of us, all the agents in there — it's my life that she shows up in, walks right up to me on my first day at SHIELD Academy, introduces herself as Ophelia, and it doesn't take long at all for me to fall for her.
[ No judgment in his tone there, not against her. Whether or not she planned to recruit him to her cause, he still chose her. That's the terrible beauty of the Framework. He brings a hand down on the railing at the end of the bridge, enjoying the thwack of the hit and the slight pain shooting up his good arm. It's not unlike the suddenness with which he reacted during the outbreak, a foreign instinct, suddenly overtaking him.
He exhales, then, voice thick with emotion. ]
So when the love of my life says, “Leopold, this world isn't real. I need you and that brain of yours not just to make me human; I need you to make me better than human, so that we can get the hell out of here." [ he huffs a breath of air, unable to stop himself. a choked sort of laugh that only tumbles out of your throat when you face something unreal and horrible. ] It’s not a question of if I’ll do it, Markus, it’s how far I’ll go to get it done. That’s not on her. [ his bandaged hand settles over his chest. ] That’s on me. 'Cause that's when people were hurt and killed. Not by the androids, but by the shitty humans who engineered them.
[ not the android uprising as a collective, just Radcliffe sending robots after individuals — and then the singular interests of Ophelia and Fitz, tearing their way through the Framework to get back to the real. ]
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The stress of it being Fitz’s choice, after all, made that so very obvious.
And the idea of agency, of free will and the power of being able to choose that comes with it; Markus has hinged so much of that onto himself, pinned it to his body to let it inform every action and every word, that he gives this the right measure of thought before replying. This is a heavy, uneasy admission, with no direct line that shears down the middle of black and white, right versus wrong.
Yet one thing sticks in his thoughts like a bur, demanding clarification despite the looming issue of lives having been taken.]
It may have been your choice, but it was a choice wrought from circumstances that were… manipulative, Fitz. This reality, in the Framework, that was all couched in a lie.
[He’s quick to add, in a voice that’s lost its edge of reprisal-]
What you felt was real, is real, and yet surely you can see how your actions were pushed down a certain path by AIDA herself.
[Is he really bearing the brunt of all the blame?]
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Only one type of person could choose — [ his voice cracks, betraying his infirm conviction. Prove him wrong, comes the voice again. All it would take is a step and a proper shove to reject the glimmer of redemption that Markus offers. ]
Plenty of people have been backed into tighter corners, and they never hurt anybody.
[ So Fitz will heave the weight on his shoulders and stumble forward until he can't go on any longer. It's not a sustainable approach, when the person he was in the Framework is still rattling around in his skull, slipping out in every other gesture and jagged word. Every Ophelia instead of AIDA. He steps forward, edging into Markus' personal space, lifts his hands —
And drops them at his side. Weak. ]
[ then, resigned. ] When you deviated — whatever you lost, whoever you lost, when no human was willing to help you… did you hurt anyone?
[ Androids, inhumans, people, there are rotten ones in every bunch, yet Fitz doubts Markus is one of them. Markus, who looked at him with concern even when faced with evidence of lies. He hears echoes of better agents than himself in his friend, those unafraid of softness because of their inner strength.
Perhaps that's why he gravitated towards Markus in the first place — and part his reason for lying, too. Can't even prove his point about being shitty 'cause even if he won't admit it aloud, he can choose to be a better man out here than he was in there. That's the thing about free will. Even if you've chosen something for yourself, the universe asks again: Is that really what you want? ]
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Plenty of people have been backed into tighter corners, and they never hurt anybody.
He tilts his chin upwards, intonation soft, as only could be heard between the two of them. Fitz is quick to reject the mote of absolution that he offers, but Markus keeps it held out, figuratively entwined in his own fingers, for as long as he’ll allow him.]
It isn’t so simple. What you’ve told me… the blame isn’t just yours to carry. [It isn’t all or nothing. It wasn’t choice unburdened by the manipulation of someone else. Guilt might weigh him down, might blind him to the rest of it, but Markus knows that if there's blame to divvy out, not all of it should rest on Fitz’s shoulders. Without even knowing the whole of the tale, he’s already decided upon this much.
Fitz’s hands drop to his side, the question is turned on him, and Markus’ jawline tightens with the threat of memory.]
No. I didn’t. [He had so many opportunities to. He could’ve ripped parts out from still-living androids in the junkyard. He could’ve threatened and hurt the humans at Stratford. He could’ve sent a message that decried a willingness to co-exist peacefully, with terms that were more demanding than they were conciliatory.
He could have. But he didn’t. And yet-]
But do you think the potential didn’t exist, the same as yours? You had Ophelia, someone you loved, asking you to act on her behalf, steered by matters of the heart. Of love. And I had Carl, the ghost of the memory of a man who was like a father to me, doing the same. He wouldn't have wanted me to hurt anyone. He wanted me to be… to be a good person. And so I acted accordingly, to his will. To what he shaped me to be. We're both constructs of someone else's wishes in a way, merely manifested differently.
[Pushing down melancholy coiling up, he continues.] Don’t paint me as a man very different than you, Fitz. I don’t belong on that kind of pedestal.
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He bites back the instinctive and self-destructive retort: It’s not potential for me. It's already in there, spreading like rot. Because if he gives in to that, he rejects Markus’ sound argument and allows for the possibility that he’ll lose his mind before he makes it back to Jemma, too. ]
Okay. [ A choked utterance, issued toward his feet. Acquiescence buys him time to offer something solid, more like the scientist he is at his best. ] I’m sorry. You’re not just what I — you know who you are.
[ And he doesn't need Fitz to tell him or idealise him as a point of contrast, or to ask him to prove himself as lesser (crueller) if he's to claim some understanding. Markus is cleverer than all that and not without complexity, besides. The bit about Carl is new information, shading in the person before him. ]
And I know you’re… well, you're what saying is... it's right. Logically, it's all right there. [ He lifts a hand again, only this time it’s obvious that the gesture is him grasping at words, unable to pluck the right ones for the moment. Finally, Fitz looks up, expression open and unguarded. ] I just can’t — I’m not there yet, [ a rolling, twisting gesture. ] too stuck in my head.
[ Particularly without a steady presence at his side to guide him, Fitz gets lost. In his head, in his heart. Twisted and turned around until the only way back to the start is labyrinthine and convoluted, but Bobbi already asked him to choose where he aims to end up. "What do you want Fitz?" I want Jemma and SHIELD and all of you. And the people who matter to him here already, like Markus and Connor. Only wanting it all isn't enough. His choices and words have to stay the course.
Yet, he says, because he'll get there — or die trying. ]
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A part of Markus wants to correct Fitz. His friend claims that he knows who he is, when the reality is that he knows who he needs to be. A leader or a guiding hand. A man who can’t falter, who has to appear like he can hold the weight of the world and the problems of others, let them press greatly into his back, and not stumble as he moves forward. That sometimes he can’t completely differentiate who the real him is supposed to be, versus what expectation will mold him to become.
But it isn’t the same. Markus can’t hope to compare himself to Fitz’s situation, the latter possessing two lives, two sets of experiences. He wishes he could relate. He wishes he could truly understand.
He wishes he could help.]
I realize… that we don’t know each other that well. And I won’t do you a disservice by claiming that I know what it feels like, that I know exactly what it is you’re experiencing. What you’re trying to sort through.
[The space is non-existent between them, and Markus adds the connection of touch; a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. A gesture that Fitz has provided for him in the past.]
But you can’t do it alone. You can’t leave yourself in the thrall of your own mind, and expect for… guilt to do anything but self-deprecate. To apply all the blame to yourself, because you might feel like you deserve it. We’re all our own worst critics, you know. [Sentiment of art, applied to sentiment of the soul.]
Talk it through with someone. With your friends, with someone you trust. Give yourself time and the benefit of the doubt, and most importantly, be willing to forgive yourself. I know you’re a good person. You’ve proven that to me already.
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He allows himself to look, then, where he'd been unwilling to linger before, gaze tracing the lines of Markus' features as he processes the allowances being offered, utterly disarmed. A singular focus, as if Markus might take a stab piecing together the multiverse just 'cause he's here, anyway, and believes that's his role in all this (dimly, he recognises those traits as unsustainable, with as much potential to lead to burnout and ruin as Fitz's own hamartia — something to consider, when he replays this conversation). The touch at his shoulder has a knock-on effect on his person, with their insignificant physical distance as his last defense against his poorly compartmentalised grief. For the person he was, and for Ophelia, too. ]
Yeah, but you don't know — you don't know the person I was before, or the one I was in there, either. It's just me here with you, Markus. [ no before or after, just Fitz, a hastily stitched together version who dragged himself out of the wreck when the first human shipment arrived, who'd been held offsite in a prison for six months, with too much time alone to do anything but lose himself. Ultimately, it's not a bad thing. On the contrary, the distance is a crucial piece of what facilitates this conversation. In Fitz's eyes, Markus has clarity as an outsider, despite his personal investment, where his friends are biased in their (understandable) want for the old Fitz, earnest in his warmth and heroism.
And yet he knows he should tell them, too, Daisy and Bobbi both.
You can’t do it alone warrants a stuttered nod, but it's I know you're a good person that unstoppers his tears, eking out at the corners of his eyes. Given that he isn't in a position to argue anything, he lets that be the truth, at least for this moment, standing in the light of the sky park with someone unwilling to turn him away. Then, he closes the gap between them, slipping his arms around Markus' back in a grateful, if shaky, hug. Inevitably, the bond activates, inviting Markus into the potent coalescence of relief and sorrow that has Fitz leaning up and sniffling into his shoulder.
It's a sloppy cry, long overdue. ]
Was supposed to be about telling you the truth — apologising, not — not just bloody — crying all over you.
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And isn’t that enough? A want to do better, to be better than one’s past? That speaks for the good of his character, that desperate desire to wring a better person out of the misaligned pieces of himself. To feel no such inclination would be telling. It would almost be damning.
So goes Markus’ thoughts as the tears eke past the corner of his friend’s eyes, and he’s drawn close and draws him close both, allowing what the other needs — a messy cry on his shoulder, what the android hopes can act as some small amount of relief.]
The you of right now is all that matters. The kind of person you want to become.
[The empathy bond blossoms between them, a wave that laps at both of their feet, and Markus feels himself being dragged under the surface. Enveloped by sadness and solace, and fingers press tensely into the man's back after having looped his own arms around him.
And by way of the bond, he offers up his own emotions in turn. Sorrow kept afloat by a trove of empathy, and hopeful confidence alike. Believing, completely, that Fitz can find the redemption he's seeking in himself, lain beneath shale and bedrock.]
It's okay. You can cry. As long as you need to.
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Stop being so understanding. [ cry-hiccup-laughed into Markus's shoulder. ] It's — terrible.
[ said in the tone of someone who does not, in fact, think it's terrible, the beginnings of gratitude rising from his side of the bond, tinged with an unabashed fondness for Markus, in this moment. He allows that to linger, too, as his breathing evens out. Finally, Fitz pulls back enough to leave only a hand on Markus' shoulder, the other rubbing at his eyes. ]
God, I'm really. [ he stops himself, bothered by how croaky his voice sounds. ] I'm dragging this out. Hanging off you. Not that you aren't — comfortable. [ When he lifts his head, hand dragged back through his half-curls, he cringes at his own wording. An improvement on his formerly heartbroken, at least. Mm-hmm, there's Fitz, pulling himself together in the messiest way possible, perhaps the only way he knows how. ]
[ in a bit of mumble, though it hardly matters when they're this close. ] Swear I'm not normally this needy, as a [ a brief hesitation, as he wonders if the classification still applies, despite how good Markus has been to him. ] friend.
[ Now that's a lie. He's absolutely needy, across the board, but let him have this shitty joke. ]
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When there’s space between them again, after Fitz steps back with a hand still on his shoulder, the confirmation of the term comes easily enough. He replies with only the smallest tremor of ebbing, shared emotion inlaid in each syllable.]
And what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let you be needy every once in a while? [Friend slingshotted back without any hesitation at all — confirmation for the other, an unerring absolute. It takes more than an uncertain identity and omission of information to shake something rooted more deeply into the ground.]
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His hand twists in the fabric at Markus' shoulder, still a little needy and uncertain, as he collects himself. ]
I ought to, ah, finish off the details, now that you know the, uh, context. [ the framework, aida as ophelia, the androids. ] If that's what you still want, I mean — no more blindsides by my teammates in the future. [ a final commitment to the truth, belated though it may be. ] Not when it could be avoided.
[ not that they would mean to be insensitive or accusing but, well, a faint memory reminds fitz how far they, too, were willing to go to save the world. best make it concise and get it over with ]
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And so, Markus nods.]
I want to hear the rest of it. If you’re still willing to share it with me.
[A hand to reach up behind Fitz, to lightly press into his shoulder, and Markus turns to urge Fitz to walk with him. A slower pace than before, as if detaching them slowly from the magnetic pull of passing emotion and insecurity; as if the summer heat filtering through the trees might continue to provide both of them a tired sort of focus and realignment.]
Either way, let’s keep walking.
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Yeah, yeah, okay.
[ walking steadies him, much like the touch as his shoulder, the final confirmation that they're in this together. He can barrel through this, condense it to the most necessary parts. His hands flex and ball again, unable to find purchase. A slow exhale follows, as if he'll need to air to push through what's to come. ]
[ finally, in a forcibly even tone. ] In there, we — I experimented on Inhumans, people with powers like us now, like Daisy had before, too. [ added to contextualise her instinctive feelings toward the androids, who targeted her. ] and in doing so, I cracked it. Figured out how to make her human and give her any of the abilities she wanted. Teleportation, superhuman strength, regeneration, electrokinesis. [ the list goes on, each one stolen from someone else. ] My friends tried to wake me up — the love of my life from this world, too, fought to reach me, but I couldn't, wouldn't.
[ His shoulders lift, a shrug that pains him, so recently after his injuries. There's no excuse to be made. A hell of his own making is just another thing to overcome. ]
When we got out, we didn’t have long to, uh, [ rolling one hand. ] acclimate. [ The duality, two lives worth of memories crashing down on him, threatening to tear him in two. ] But I do know this: Ophelia said that in the Framework, she didn't have a choice, either, and that she wanted. [ He stops himself. No, he can't omit this part. ] She wanted me to be the first thing she chose. [ a somber admission, paired with a lookup, into the light. Not a confession that fosters warmth, then. ] And when I asked her — begged her to hold onto that, to empathy, to think about how she felt for me, how it would feel to help my friends who were still in trouble, that’s what she chose, Markus. [ His voice rises, impassioned in his final defense of her, one that he knows won’t withstand this conversation. ] Not fear for her new mortality or vengeance for how we’d wronged her, but compassion. And if we'd been in a...a vacuum, or if it hadn't been me that she chose, she could have — might have stayed on that path.
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But he makes no remark on that. Again, he doesn’t interrupt. And again, he judges the changes in Fitz’s tone, where he pauses and where he stumbles. Where defense flares up for the sake of Ophelia, even if it means he offers himself up to the altar of blame and self-deprecation once more.]
What she chose. [—comes the quiet echo. The word that all of this seems to hinge on, the conversation pivoting on the idea of conscious choices and the consequences of them. Of having power over your own actions, versus these same actions being influenced by outside sources.]
You give her agency, but then you’re quick to take it back by placing the blame of her other choices squarely on your shoulders.
[The one thing worth pointing out, worth mentioning in its strange paradox of itself.
But because it feels like a story unfinished, loose ends still dangling, Markus adds nothing else just yet. Only an even push forward.]
What happened to her after that?
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I guess we both deserve the blame. [ but she's the one that everyone blames, so he makes a point to shoulder as much of it as he can. Hard to say if that's born of his instincts (and the undying loyalty) fostered in the Framework, when Fitz has always been inclined to blame himself the second anything he touches turns to rust. ]
Maybe if it was your first day feeling like that, [ a pleading look, head tilted to assess Markus' reaction. ] feeling everything without being able to compartmentalise or, or, or reflect, with too much power at your fingertips, fresh out of world where you were willing to kill for someone, and still ready to help him — to help me and save all my friends, even though I wanted something different now than I did in the Framework, you would — she did expect the same in return. [ what she had when they in the virtual was supposed to carry over, the same as the rest. The powers, the human body, the partner. ] Y'know, she chose me, [ gesturing between them. ] so I'm supposed to choose her, too.
[ his mouth thins, features caught in indecision. Should he feel guilty that he couldn't give that to her? Should he have been more careful, at least on day fucking one? He was a mess at the time, still reeling, and her actions after the fact aren't defensible, not even to him. ]
Only when she was talking about it, I thought she meant — I thought she meant she would understand if I chose my partner in this world 'cause Jemma — [ a noise of disbelief. AIDA absolutely read his file, knew his flaws and head inside and out, how could she not have accounted for the Jemma of it all? Telling, then, that his tone shifts, no longer uncertain, when he speaks about Jemma Simmons. If there's one thing he believes in, it's this. Her. ] — a love like ours has crossed galaxies and time and the bottom of the bloody Atlantic Ocean. [ he lifts his hands, as if helpless. ] S'not going away just because I've got a double life in my head.
[ He hadn't been sure the sentiment was shared, at first, only that his love wouldn't ever fade. Now, he knows she feels the same way. ]
So, when I said that, when I chose wrong, she went off. [ that, he doesn't blame himself for, though he frames it from her perspective and punctuates the statement by crashing his fist into his other hand. Again, a little bit of pain in his stitches. Noise, the slap of skin. Grounding and punishing. ] Started killing my coworkers and friends. [ a pause before the inevitable, gaze unflinching on Markus, even as he watches for flickers of emotion (judgment, unease) in his friend's face. ] We had to kill her first to keep the body count from climbing higher. [ and with finality — ] She's gone.
[ gone to wherever androids turned humans go, when they're burned in SHIELD bunker by inhuman hellfire. That's it. The whole of the truth, at least from Fitz's own perspective, tinged by his biases in the Framework and beyond it. ]
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There’s approval, at least, in divvying out the blame between both Fitz and AIDA, for what it’s worth.
But when he’s asked to employ empathy (maybe if it was your first day feeling like that), it’s impossible for Markus to not consider how he might have felt, how he might’ve acted. To be willing to do so much for a single person, out of that wretchedly powerful emotion, that beautiful and terrifying many-clawed sensation: love. And its opposite, the dark twist that it takes when not given back freely and equally in return.
He doesn’t know how he would’ve reacted. He had so many years, so much time, to grow into someone completely different with Carl. He can only imagine what it must be like, so fresh with awakening, to experience everything with such newness that pleasure and pain alike would be so very… raw. That each offense must have felt like being rent in two.
As perceptive as Markus tries to be, as much understanding as he tries to apply to each side of the equation, it’s still difficult for him to relate to.
And it’s endlessly telling that Fitz possesses no hesitation in his words when he speaks of Jemma. A love that would pervade and overturn space, time, and the depth of the ocean itself. Romanticism, painted as fact. Ophelia was fated to be met with only disappointment.]
…I’m sorry. [-is a simplistic reply, but sincere on all fronts. The snippets of emotion that flicker across Markus’ expression isn’t judgment, not even disconcertion, just the sort of resign that comes from hearing a multi-faceted tragedy unfold, step by step.] For all those you lost. I know it doesn’t mean much, in the face of everything that you’ve been through.
[A beat.]
What you’ve just told me… it’s less about an android becoming human, but someone who was ill-equipped to deal with a very poignant human emotion. You understand that much, don’t you?
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Easier to focus on the latter line of conversation. ]
I do. [ He nods, then pauses, glances at Markus for confirmation. ] I think I do.
[ To say Fitz understands the androids or Ophelia just because of the time he spent building AIDA or working with her, being with her, the fleeting hours where he just watched as she processed, talking him through how it felt — ]
There were too many other factors in play. [ Radcliffe's programming, the Framework, Leopold James Fitz. Love, then loss. ] And it was extreme, all of it. [ the physical and emotional drain more than any being could bear. He's eight months out and still in shambles. In truth, Fitz thinks he lives in the swing, always going from one end to the furthest reaches of the other — a quiet crest of emotion with Markus here, or a deadly slash at Daisy during the outbreak — but there are people catching his hand, fingers slipping through his own, trying to help him reach equilibrium until he can maintain it alone.
He doesn't know how to say what that means to him. Instead, it's something he'll need to show, when the opportunity presents itself. ]
That's what I told Daisy, when she asked me about her. And you. [ exhaling. ] Only no one else sees it that way, not yet. [ his voice lowers. ] Ophelia is our Elysian. More localised, but.
[ When Daisy, when anyone from his team meets Markus or Connor — or someone like them — they're going to see her. The man Fitz was with her. What she did. How she couldn't cope with being human for a mere forty-eight hours. ]
I should have told you the truth from the jump. [ because Markus deserves that, even though it's hard, complicated, much more than artificial intelligence gone haywire. He holds steady, then. ] I’m sorry I didn't.
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