[ 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.
[Parts of his friend still retreat at condolences, the I’m sorry causing Markus to lose Fitz’s gaze. Not what the other is really looking for, he knows, not when guilt will take that phrase and turn it inside out until it’s shaped like an ugly thing — but Markus says it because he means it. There's sympathy there; Fitz is a friend and therefore to hear these retroactive revelations still makes his insides twist, because the curtain is being drawn back to reveal just what kind of damage was done, made clearer with each branch the conversation takes.
Markus wishes he could halve that burden and sling a part of it onto his own shoulders. Or even just the tiniest sliver, the smallest degree, to remove it from the other man if it meant that he could feel steadier on his feet, even imperceptibly. Conversation might be all he can manage; concessions, emotions, regret, memory that circles over and over in one’s mind like a restless predator. But giving life to them with words can make them tangible, make them more present — and as they walk down the skypark trail in the wretched heat of the New Amsterdam summer, perhaps with some small miracle they might leave some of those shadows behind, like footsteps pressed into loam.]
I would’ve liked to have known the truth from the start. [He won’t lie about that. After this world’s disastrous experience with AI life, after having left his own still in the lurch, the interest is a poignant one for Markus. As if he might divine the best route for himself to take, based on the failures of others. Like there might be something illuminating in these histories; advice unspoken, a clearer path. A warning.
And yet—]
But I was a stranger. A man who called himself an android, when all you could associate with the term were experiences still too raw to share with someone you’d just met.
[A highly personal story, a retelling that still seems to shake Fitz’s core. He can’t blame him, and he definitely can’t really be upset with him.]
Daisy and I aren’t unfriendly with each other, you should know. Even if our initial meeting was less than ideal. Take that seed of hope and latch onto it for now, the potential that your friends might learn to see it as something… not so cut and dry, not so black and white. [He mulls over his next statement, trying to apply the right words to his meaning.] I don’t ever want to be like Elysian, and I hope to never give the impression that I should be any world's version of it. I always hope to be a better example to anyone who has a troublesome history with AIs.
[And finally, all that being said:] Thank you for telling me everything.
[ Hope does slip in — through the same cracks in his guilt and condemnation that Markus has pried wider, simply by listening, clarifying, questioning where no one else has before, acknowledging where Fitz misstepped and where he ought to be kinder, at least to himself. Not a blanket forgiveness, the kind he can't accept, but something more nuanced. ]
Thank you. [ faint again, still walking through the skypark on autopilot, as if the world around them has blurred, nothing but greens and light filtering this strange and intimate moment. Fitz does that sometimes. A focused single-mindedness that obscures all but the task or person in his sightline: Markus, offering him something he can't reject, no matter how much the self-punishment might satisfy the destructive impulses rolling around in his head. ]
It's only you who I've — well, Jemma, obviously, and Daisy was there — but you're the only one I've told the lot of it. [ Ah. Hastily, he adds: ] As I remember it. [ Memory takes a lot of poetic license, he thinks. Can't recall who said that. Fitz only knows he can't be trusted any longer, not with memory and not with this (despite this is the essential truth of what happened; it's hard for him to know that). ] You listening, everything you've said, what you're saying, you — it means a lot to me.
[ Fitz exhales, working two fingers under the collar of his shirt and brushing over the bandages there. ]
You are a good example, you know. Not just of AI's. Of all the examples. [ a tug at his collar, slight frustration over the effort of this. Trying to find the right words. Markus deserves the closest ones he can find, whatever he can string together to convey what he means. ] Of people. [ a beat. ] Only you don't have to be. Not all the time. I mean, that's a lot to ask of someone who's more than a — than an idea. [ His pace quickens, as if he's overstepped in saying that. ] You probably know that. Just. If you don't. [ an aborted shrug. ] I liked hearing about where you worked, what you get up to, before we were caught up in this again. [ He frees his hand from his collar, sweeping it across the nearby fixtures (a floral sculpture, a cluster of benches and trees, shading other wanderers). ] As a friend. As your friend. [ dropping his hands at his side. ] That's all.
[ Reiterated with greater confidence than before. Maybe if he can offer Markus a small reassurance (attention, companionship, honesty), he can allow this friendship, regardless of whether he deserves it or not. ]
[It’s an imperceptible change. Jaw setting, muscles there going taut, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. The rest of Markus’ demeanor remains the same, looking only affected by the gratitude of his friend, ready to accept it and always willing to be there to aid him. Even if it’s only via a trek through the skypark, exchanging burdens with each other under lazy, whispering branches.
Even if Markus has a tendency to make that a lopsided exchange at best.
Because the talk of being an example — about not always having to be an example — doesn’t quite bring him unease, but it dredges up a part of him that’s hooked so deeply into duty, into obligation, into pressing forward for a purpose higher than his own, that makes it hard to think of himself as anything else. He is still all calmness to Fitz’ nervous energy, but there’s a hitch in his own words this time.]
I appreciate it, but— [A pause, readjusting his thought process, verbiage chosen carefully.] But I’m what others need to me to be, when they need me to be it. Especially when it comes to friends.
[Reaffirmation, the tug of a smile that he forces to not look apologetic in any way possible. But he affords Fitz the honesty he deserves.]
Just a part of who I am. It was that way back in Detroit, too. [Another hand stuffed into a pocket, a casual sort of air he doesn’t quite align to.] But if you’re signing yourself up to be someone I can complain to about the difficulties living in a human body, then I won’t say no.
[ Not so imperceptible that Fitz doesn't clock something shift with his unrelenting focus, the eyes of an engineer who knows a misplaced wire could shock him dead or rattle a base full of precious people. Can't say what passes over Markus' features, but there was movement there. He knows it.
Lightly, he knocks his fist against Markus' shoulder, more friendly than comforting. Fitz worries that something softer would be rebuffed, just like his statements seconds earlier. ]
If that's what you want. [ Who is he to deny that? A part of who Markus is, like Fitz's earth-shaking, heart-shattering devotion. A more clinical assessment is arranged and metered out. ] Sounds like a tough way to live, when people need different things. Yourself included. Dunno if I'd call it sustainable. [ then, as if brushing it off. ] Maybe that's just the scientist in me.
[ the logic side of his brain, throwing around terms like "sustainable" and wondering if you can divvy up yourself that much without losing pieces along the way. ]
You know I'll always answer, if it's you calling, at any rate.
[ a purposeful redirect. He'd like to field more than complaints, if he can. ]
[It’s well-employed, that scientific skepticism. Just casually enough stated to question Markus’ borderline martyr-like stance without actually questioning it. Observation, utilized in a way that allows Markus to reply, or to let it slide off of his shoulders like a thing ignored.
He finds he can’t do the latter, not completely. That Fitz has unwound so much of himself before him, that should allow him at least the same in return — if even by a small amount. His shoulder jostles a little with the friendly gesture, his grin tilting lopsided.]
Unsustainable? Maybe not. But sometimes it isn’t a matter of sustainability, only necessity that you keep pushing forward for reasons that are beyond yourself.
[But even so, the offer does not go unnoticed nor under appreciated.]
That being said, I know that I can rely on you. And I appreciate it more than you know.
[ Their pace evens and steadies, more at ease in the aftermath. In some ways, Markus gives the answer that Fitz anticipates. Fitz has known better (or perhaps equally good) and worse men in the style of Markus, built to rise above their contemporaries and stand with pride for something greater. And Fitz, while not in that league of heroes, fights as if he’s running out of time, every hour stolen from the spectre in his head.
Not sustainable. Necessary.
Repaying all of his vulnerability and concessions with one admission of his own, Markus gives a fraction, enough for the moment. Then he turns the conversation back on Fitz, terming him a known quantity, proven to be reliable despite all the evidence to the contrary. It makes his chest ache. People here as warm as his team, their specific configuration of atoms and memory only possible in this multiversal hub, and destined to blink out of this reality, by force or by choice.
We don’t need a martyr, he thinks, and forces the words to stay in his throat. Maybe they do. Maybe they will. The best causes always have one. If the time comes, if it’s necessary — ]
I know enough. [ His mouth curves, smile slight and sad. There nonetheless, persisting. ] You’re good at saying it. Showing it. [ He looks askance at Markus. ] And it means a lot. When it’s you.
[ clearing his throat, then. That’s enough sincerity for one day, isn’t it? ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Markus wishes he could halve that burden and sling a part of it onto his own shoulders. Or even just the tiniest sliver, the smallest degree, to remove it from the other man if it meant that he could feel steadier on his feet, even imperceptibly. Conversation might be all he can manage; concessions, emotions, regret, memory that circles over and over in one’s mind like a restless predator. But giving life to them with words can make them tangible, make them more present — and as they walk down the skypark trail in the wretched heat of the New Amsterdam summer, perhaps with some small miracle they might leave some of those shadows behind, like footsteps pressed into loam.]
I would’ve liked to have known the truth from the start. [He won’t lie about that. After this world’s disastrous experience with AI life, after having left his own still in the lurch, the interest is a poignant one for Markus. As if he might divine the best route for himself to take, based on the failures of others. Like there might be something illuminating in these histories; advice unspoken, a clearer path. A warning.
And yet—]
But I was a stranger. A man who called himself an android, when all you could associate with the term were experiences still too raw to share with someone you’d just met.
[A highly personal story, a retelling that still seems to shake Fitz’s core. He can’t blame him, and he definitely can’t really be upset with him.]
Daisy and I aren’t unfriendly with each other, you should know. Even if our initial meeting was less than ideal. Take that seed of hope and latch onto it for now, the potential that your friends might learn to see it as something… not so cut and dry, not so black and white. [He mulls over his next statement, trying to apply the right words to his meaning.] I don’t ever want to be like Elysian, and I hope to never give the impression that I should be any world's version of it. I always hope to be a better example to anyone who has a troublesome history with AIs.
[And finally, all that being said:] Thank you for telling me everything.
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Thank you. [ faint again, still walking through the skypark on autopilot, as if the world around them has blurred, nothing but greens and light filtering this strange and intimate moment. Fitz does that sometimes. A focused single-mindedness that obscures all but the task or person in his sightline: Markus, offering him something he can't reject, no matter how much the self-punishment might satisfy the destructive impulses rolling around in his head. ]
It's only you who I've — well, Jemma, obviously, and Daisy was there — but you're the only one I've told the lot of it. [ Ah. Hastily, he adds: ] As I remember it. [ Memory takes a lot of poetic license, he thinks. Can't recall who said that. Fitz only knows he can't be trusted any longer, not with memory and not with this (despite this is the essential truth of what happened; it's hard for him to know that). ] You listening, everything you've said, what you're saying, you — it means a lot to me.
[ Fitz exhales, working two fingers under the collar of his shirt and brushing over the bandages there. ]
You are a good example, you know. Not just of AI's. Of all the examples. [ a tug at his collar, slight frustration over the effort of this. Trying to find the right words. Markus deserves the closest ones he can find, whatever he can string together to convey what he means. ] Of people. [ a beat. ] Only you don't have to be. Not all the time. I mean, that's a lot to ask of someone who's more than a — than an idea. [ His pace quickens, as if he's overstepped in saying that. ] You probably know that. Just. If you don't. [ an aborted shrug. ] I liked hearing about where you worked, what you get up to, before we were caught up in this again. [ He frees his hand from his collar, sweeping it across the nearby fixtures (a floral sculpture, a cluster of benches and trees, shading other wanderers). ] As a friend. As your friend. [ dropping his hands at his side. ] That's all.
[ Reiterated with greater confidence than before. Maybe if he can offer Markus a small reassurance (attention, companionship, honesty), he can allow this friendship, regardless of whether he deserves it or not. ]
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Even if Markus has a tendency to make that a lopsided exchange at best.
Because the talk of being an example — about not always having to be an example — doesn’t quite bring him unease, but it dredges up a part of him that’s hooked so deeply into duty, into obligation, into pressing forward for a purpose higher than his own, that makes it hard to think of himself as anything else. He is still all calmness to Fitz’ nervous energy, but there’s a hitch in his own words this time.]
I appreciate it, but— [A pause, readjusting his thought process, verbiage chosen carefully.] But I’m what others need to me to be, when they need me to be it. Especially when it comes to friends.
[Reaffirmation, the tug of a smile that he forces to not look apologetic in any way possible. But he affords Fitz the honesty he deserves.]
Just a part of who I am. It was that way back in Detroit, too. [Another hand stuffed into a pocket, a casual sort of air he doesn’t quite align to.] But if you’re signing yourself up to be someone I can complain to about the difficulties living in a human body, then I won’t say no.
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Lightly, he knocks his fist against Markus' shoulder, more friendly than comforting. Fitz worries that something softer would be rebuffed, just like his statements seconds earlier. ]
If that's what you want. [ Who is he to deny that? A part of who Markus is, like Fitz's earth-shaking, heart-shattering devotion. A more clinical assessment is arranged and metered out. ] Sounds like a tough way to live, when people need different things. Yourself included. Dunno if I'd call it sustainable. [ then, as if brushing it off. ] Maybe that's just the scientist in me.
[ the logic side of his brain, throwing around terms like "sustainable" and wondering if you can divvy up yourself that much without losing pieces along the way. ]
You know I'll always answer, if it's you calling, at any rate.
[ a purposeful redirect. He'd like to field more than complaints, if he can. ]
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He finds he can’t do the latter, not completely. That Fitz has unwound so much of himself before him, that should allow him at least the same in return — if even by a small amount. His shoulder jostles a little with the friendly gesture, his grin tilting lopsided.]
Unsustainable? Maybe not. But sometimes it isn’t a matter of sustainability, only necessity that you keep pushing forward for reasons that are beyond yourself.
[But even so, the offer does not go unnoticed nor under appreciated.]
That being said, I know that I can rely on you. And I appreciate it more than you know.
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Not sustainable. Necessary.
Repaying all of his vulnerability and concessions with one admission of his own, Markus gives a fraction, enough for the moment. Then he turns the conversation back on Fitz, terming him a known quantity, proven to be reliable despite all the evidence to the contrary. It makes his chest ache. People here as warm as his team, their specific configuration of atoms and memory only possible in this multiversal hub, and destined to blink out of this reality, by force or by choice.
We don’t need a martyr, he thinks, and forces the words to stay in his throat. Maybe they do. Maybe they will. The best causes always have one. If the time comes, if it’s necessary — ]
I know enough. [ His mouth curves, smile slight and sad. There nonetheless, persisting. ] You’re good at saying it. Showing it. [ He looks askance at Markus. ] And it means a lot. When it’s you.
[ clearing his throat, then. That’s enough sincerity for one day, isn’t it? ]