[I'm here- it still surprises him, how quickly Fitz can disarm him. Make him feel soft and fond, beneath everything else. There's a long moment where he says nothing, the process of picking apart where to start.
Long, short- it doesn't matter. It all ends the same]
okay. then stay right there, just for a few.
[You gotta stop making offers like this. Some day, Fitz will learn. He wasn't too far- so Dick just bridges the distance, climbs the necessary height a few buildings over, before making his way to his favourite window in New Amsterdam.
A few knocks, in a completely different pattern than before. It doesn't matter- it's not like Fitz wasn't expecting this]
[ Yeah, okay, he didn’t think this was gonna be another window chat, but he can’t complain. He would have said the same thing, if he knew from the outset. Long or short version, he’s here. ]
Now you’re just showing off. [ quipped as he eases the window open and steps aside, waiting for Dick to jump down before closing and locking up again. Today’s rushed, so he still wears his work clothes, a lightly dotted button-down rolled up to the elbows and smart trousers. Socks, not shoes, though ‘cause he’s not an animal. ]
Have you eaten yet? [ leaning back against his desk, which features several of their project prototypes in various states of completion. ] I was gonna order a takeaway.
[ a neutral opener, so he doesn’t have to lead this conversation. ]
[But there isn't any laughter in his voice, and he doesn't explain. Just the slightest quirk of his mouth that wavers- an in-joke for another time. Showing off- performing, it's something Dick does with nearly everything, no matter the subject matter or how genuinely he considers it.
Except now. Beyond the initially entry of sliding down off the window ledge, and moving aside so that Fitz can lock it up behind him, he's still. Staring off at a point just above the headboard, face turned away. He's- not used to this part, for all the various people who've tried to be this for him, over the years.
He's always done this part, mostly alone. Fray apart at the edges, and then a little bit more- and always managed to find some way to tie the ends back together, fingers raw. No matter how anyone's ever tried to help- they'd only ever managed to mildly delay the inevitable. It's what he expects Fitz to be able to do, because truthfully, he's been fraying apart for months, before he'd even gotten here- and Bruce's arrival has done nothing but drag it to the forefront. The last thing he can afford, at this moment, is to come apart.
But unlike most- Fitz doesn't push. Asks him about dinner, of all things. Like that's why Dick is here- to leech off a free meal, needle Fitz about his organizational system- bump shoulders and be on his way, before Fitz can start a work shift. He likes that about him- that everything seems to go with only Dick's comfort level in mind. There's a laugh- something a little ugly, not quite right- but the fondness that flickers across his expression before his hands run through his hair, is what's become standard.
Instead of answering, he's kicking off the lazy, untied sneakers he'd been wearing, and finally turning to face him, eyes and cheeks slightly reddened, but old- he'd already done all the crying he felt like he was going to do, hours before, and pads over gently. It's convenient, that Fitz has made himself a leaning figure against his desk, because all Dick does, is slot his foot neatly between Fitz', to be able to get close, and bridges the rest of the distance, until his nose is pressing hard into the groove of Fitz shoulder, and more of his weight is resting on him, than on the balls of his feet.]
[ Fitz often misses things, if he's lost in his head or laser-focused on a singular task, but he notices all the shifts that precede Dick edging into his space. The vacant stare, off-centre laugh, and reddened eyes. He waits, then, as he always does, for a cue. Fitz likes to react and reflect, as of late, meeting someone wherever they stand. It works, when he understands that someone (as he does Bobbi, Markus, Vanessa) and fails where people prove unreadable from his vantage point (like Daisy, Matches, Strange). He thinks he understands Dick Grayson, to an extent, identifying the expression as a promising one and watching him with mild interest, not too sharp.
But he doesn't really see where this is going (wonders if he left the window behind him undone or if there's something of use on the desk — ) until Dick's already got his nose in the light fabric of his shirt. Oh. Worry creases his brow (where Dick can't see it, fortunately).
It only takes seconds for him to react, lifting his arms to encircle Dick loosely, one hand raised to brush slow, reassuring circles against his back. He lets himself sink too, firmly perched on the desk and secure in their shared weight. This has always been easier for him: Physical comfort, in place of words. ]
[ after a long moment. ] Hey. [ his chin bumps Dick's head as he tries to shift, light and incidental. ]
[ softly. ] Don't suppose I can put a bandage on this one.
[With every reassuring circle being smoothed along his spine, the other arm settling into hold him there- the tension in his body starts to ease, inch by painful inch, sinking further into the spaces Fitz has allowed him into, arms finally coming up to hold him back. One arm wraps itself around Fitz, and the other digs it's fingers into the fabric of his shirt, just above his ribs, moves the way the rest of him does, to the rhythm of his breathing.
He doesn't, otherwise move. Doesn't turn his head to stare at a spot on the wall, doesn't turn so his nose isn't so uncomfortably being squashed against him. Just takes deep, uneven breaths and takes what little of Fitz' strength that he can, to try and bolster his own. Fitz nudges his head gently, whether by accident or design to stir some kind of response out of him, more of a sign of life than he's shown thus far, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't deign the greeting worth really responding to.
Not until he makes that soft joke, so painfully like him that he's gotten to know over the past month, that he has to laugh. Or, he would, if it could make it past the tightness in his throat and the fabric of Fitz' shirt, ends up more of a vibration of him moving with the motion than actual sound.
It does, however, prompt somewhat of an answer. As much as he doesn't want to say the words- make them more real, than seeing Bruce and being able to reach out and touch him without him disappearing had been- Fitz is trying, and so Dick should too. It is, after all, the reason that he came.
His head shakes minutely, and while his voice might be muffled, he isn't mumbling. Speaking at a level intended for Fitz to be able to hear]
I'm afraid not. [A beat] The person I mentioned- he's. Where I'm from, he's- dead. I knew- I knew he wasn't the same one. He's so much older, so much- but I could still read him. And he knew me. But-
[And then it cuts off, and nothing else is forth coming, despite how stilted and rushed his actual answer had been. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. At the end of the road- Bruce will still go back to where he came from, or Dick will, and Dick will have to lose him all over again. Grieve anew, when he's so barely gotten through the process the first time around. He feels scrapped open, and there's no fixing that.
Not even if Fitz could raise the dead. Past experience proves that's not going to give him back the father he lost, not really]
[ Not so long ago, Fitz told Peggy Carter not to concern herself with other universes and timelines. There's no present, no past — it's all there. Our perception is what's restricted. Time is fixed, and nothing you do will change it, much like death. Only it's easy for him to say ignore the rest, when he hasn't met the equivalent of anyone who matters to him. If Trip seemingly came back to life — or Mace or Agnes — bloody Radcliffe — even Ward — it'd be another story entirely. Even another Jemma would change things for him, though he believes she's still out there somewhere in his own timeline (has to, or he'd give up on the rest).
It's hard to say the other worlds are simple noise, in this case. Whoever this person is, they meant a great deal to Dick, that much is clear from how he emphasises the familiarity and differences in play (and they died before they reached the age of this other, a doubly cruel commentary on the divergences between worlds). His hold tightens.]
I'm with you, Dick. [ breathed more than said, the only thing he can think of, then. You don't have to say anymore. I'm with you, and I understand what you're getting at. Of all people, Fitz intimately knows the gap between what you mean and what you can convey. He lifts one hand, hesitant and hovering, before he settles it on the nape of Dick's neck, a tentative skim up to his hair. The move threatens to overwhelm him immediately, as he feels the waves of grief crest through the bond. He closes his eyes, then, willing himself to focus on something further away, a memory he's picked as a cornerstone for moments like this one. When facing the horrors of this world, he recalls standing beside Jemma (holding hands, watching the snow fall) and waiting for preordained losses to unfold.
Maybe some things are inevitable, she'd said. Not just the bad, but the good, too. His calm pushes back through the bond, undeniably weaker than what Dick feels, but a counter to it all the same, steady and balancing. ]
[ audible, but hushed. ] Take your time.
[ For once, Fitz decides he has time to spare, an uncharacteristic pause in his non-stop movements. ]
[I'm with you, Dick- it's breathed out against his hair, and his breath hitches immediately at the response. He'd thought- he'd thought he'd done all the crying he was going to do, but the words make the pressure that's built and held behind his eyes want to release.
It's such a simple thing. To convey that a person isn't alone, that even if one can't fully understand, because it's a situation they've yet to experience- they understand that it hurts, that it isn't easy. Understands it's hard to speak, and will wait things out. It's simple- but it's heartbreaking, in it's own way.
How often had he thought that Bruce would be there, until Dick was old and turning grey himself? How often, when he was younger, did he take near misses and roll them off his shoulder, thinking his team was truly infallible? Until they weren't. How much has he taken for granted the fact that Fitz is here- but he won't always be.
And that's supposed to be a good thing. Dick turns his head finally, to pillow his cheek in the groove of Fitz' shoulder, shudders, when Fitz settles a hand on the nap of his neck and skims it into his hair- soothing. It's minimal, what comes through- but that he's trying at all, that he wants to, in some way do this for Dick- it makes the tears spill over, makes him choke on his breath and the beginnings of a sob, though he's trying to hold them back]
You don't have to.
[Because he knows it hurts- that he's giving nothing back but a raw, open, bleeding wound. One without any signs of stopping, of healing. And the last thing he wants to do is hurt Fitz. Not now, not ever. Wants him to know that the hold, the soft strokes along his back- his presence, that was enough. But he won't pull away. If Fitz wants to help carry that- he thinks it'd hurt more to reject that kind of trust, that kind of care]
[ He can feel Dick give again, easing against him as the weight of the revelation settles over the both of them. Sadness doesn't do it justice, not here in the harrowing liminal space between time and space.
Not long ago, Fitz said that being with all of the displaced has touched his heart — even though he knows their togetherness is a fragile thing.
'Cause time is nothing.
Before awakening here, Fitz had been alone for so long, without any of the comforts he shares with Dick now. Physical touch, understanding. His embrace only firms as Dick implicitly suggest he won't pull away. You don't have to means I'll let you, which is rather brave, if you think about it. It takes strength to allow others to walk the path alongside you, knowing what they'll see along the way. And Fitz can already feel the foreign pain, seeping into his bones. ]
I know. [ that Dick wouldn't push this, that he'd never want to be a burden on others. He's a good man — and a better friend. ] S'okay. [ offered through the choked feeling in his throat, not his own until it is. ] Want to.
[ and that's it. He'll let his head tip, as aligned with Dick as he can be, so that he can share the ache. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Long, short- it doesn't matter. It all ends the same]
okay.
then stay right there, just for a few.
[You gotta stop making offers like this. Some day, Fitz will learn. He wasn't too far- so Dick just bridges the distance, climbs the necessary height a few buildings over, before making his way to his favourite window in New Amsterdam.
A few knocks, in a completely different pattern than before. It doesn't matter- it's not like Fitz wasn't expecting this]
no subject
[ Yeah, okay, he didn’t think this was gonna be another window chat, but he can’t complain. He would have said the same thing, if he knew from the outset. Long or short version, he’s here. ]
Now you’re just showing off. [ quipped as he eases the window open and steps aside, waiting for Dick to jump down before closing and locking up again. Today’s rushed, so he still wears his work clothes, a lightly dotted button-down rolled up to the elbows and smart trousers. Socks, not shoes, though ‘cause he’s not an animal. ]
Have you eaten yet? [ leaning back against his desk, which features several of their project prototypes in various states of completion. ] I was gonna order a takeaway.
[ a neutral opener, so he doesn’t have to lead this conversation. ]
no subject
[But there isn't any laughter in his voice, and he doesn't explain. Just the slightest quirk of his mouth that wavers- an in-joke for another time. Showing off- performing, it's something Dick does with nearly everything, no matter the subject matter or how genuinely he considers it.
Except now. Beyond the initially entry of sliding down off the window ledge, and moving aside so that Fitz can lock it up behind him, he's still. Staring off at a point just above the headboard, face turned away. He's- not used to this part, for all the various people who've tried to be this for him, over the years.
He's always done this part, mostly alone. Fray apart at the edges, and then a little bit more- and always managed to find some way to tie the ends back together, fingers raw. No matter how anyone's ever tried to help- they'd only ever managed to mildly delay the inevitable. It's what he expects Fitz to be able to do, because truthfully, he's been fraying apart for months, before he'd even gotten here- and Bruce's arrival has done nothing but drag it to the forefront. The last thing he can afford, at this moment, is to come apart.
But unlike most- Fitz doesn't push. Asks him about dinner, of all things. Like that's why Dick is here- to leech off a free meal, needle Fitz about his organizational system- bump shoulders and be on his way, before Fitz can start a work shift. He likes that about him- that everything seems to go with only Dick's comfort level in mind. There's a laugh- something a little ugly, not quite right- but the fondness that flickers across his expression before his hands run through his hair, is what's become standard.
Instead of answering, he's kicking off the lazy, untied sneakers he'd been wearing, and finally turning to face him, eyes and cheeks slightly reddened, but old- he'd already done all the crying he felt like he was going to do, hours before, and pads over gently. It's convenient, that Fitz has made himself a leaning figure against his desk, because all Dick does, is slot his foot neatly between Fitz', to be able to get close, and bridges the rest of the distance, until his nose is pressing hard into the groove of Fitz shoulder, and more of his weight is resting on him, than on the balls of his feet.]
no subject
But he doesn't really see where this is going (wonders if he left the window behind him undone or if there's something of use on the desk — ) until Dick's already got his nose in the light fabric of his shirt. Oh. Worry creases his brow (where Dick can't see it, fortunately).
It only takes seconds for him to react, lifting his arms to encircle Dick loosely, one hand raised to brush slow, reassuring circles against his back. He lets himself sink too, firmly perched on the desk and secure in their shared weight. This has always been easier for him: Physical comfort, in place of words. ]
[ after a long moment. ] Hey. [ his chin bumps Dick's head as he tries to shift, light and incidental. ]
[ softly. ] Don't suppose I can put a bandage on this one.
[ stupid jokes... ]
no subject
He doesn't, otherwise move. Doesn't turn his head to stare at a spot on the wall, doesn't turn so his nose isn't so uncomfortably being squashed against him. Just takes deep, uneven breaths and takes what little of Fitz' strength that he can, to try and bolster his own. Fitz nudges his head gently, whether by accident or design to stir some kind of response out of him, more of a sign of life than he's shown thus far, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't deign the greeting worth really responding to.
Not until he makes that soft joke, so painfully like him that he's gotten to know over the past month, that he has to laugh. Or, he would, if it could make it past the tightness in his throat and the fabric of Fitz' shirt, ends up more of a vibration of him moving with the motion than actual sound.
It does, however, prompt somewhat of an answer. As much as he doesn't want to say the words- make them more real, than seeing Bruce and being able to reach out and touch him without him disappearing had been- Fitz is trying, and so Dick should too. It is, after all, the reason that he came.
His head shakes minutely, and while his voice might be muffled, he isn't mumbling. Speaking at a level intended for Fitz to be able to hear]
I'm afraid not. [A beat] The person I mentioned- he's. Where I'm from, he's- dead. I knew- I knew he wasn't the same one. He's so much older, so much- but I could still read him. And he knew me. But-
[And then it cuts off, and nothing else is forth coming, despite how stilted and rushed his actual answer had been. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. At the end of the road- Bruce will still go back to where he came from, or Dick will, and Dick will have to lose him all over again. Grieve anew, when he's so barely gotten through the process the first time around. He feels scrapped open, and there's no fixing that.
Not even if Fitz could raise the dead. Past experience proves that's not going to give him back the father he lost, not really]
no subject
It's hard to say the other worlds are simple noise, in this case. Whoever this person is, they meant a great deal to Dick, that much is clear from how he emphasises the familiarity and differences in play (and they died before they reached the age of this other, a doubly cruel commentary on the divergences between worlds). His hold tightens.]
I'm with you, Dick. [ breathed more than said, the only thing he can think of, then. You don't have to say anymore. I'm with you, and I understand what you're getting at. Of all people, Fitz intimately knows the gap between what you mean and what you can convey. He lifts one hand, hesitant and hovering, before he settles it on the nape of Dick's neck, a tentative skim up to his hair. The move threatens to overwhelm him immediately, as he feels the waves of grief crest through the bond. He closes his eyes, then, willing himself to focus on something further away, a memory he's picked as a cornerstone for moments like this one. When facing the horrors of this world, he recalls standing beside Jemma (holding hands, watching the snow fall) and waiting for preordained losses to unfold.
Maybe some things are inevitable, she'd said. Not just the bad, but the good, too. His calm pushes back through the bond, undeniably weaker than what Dick feels, but a counter to it all the same, steady and balancing. ]
[ audible, but hushed. ] Take your time.
[ For once, Fitz decides he has time to spare, an uncharacteristic pause in his non-stop movements. ]
no subject
It's such a simple thing. To convey that a person isn't alone, that even if one can't fully understand, because it's a situation they've yet to experience- they understand that it hurts, that it isn't easy. Understands it's hard to speak, and will wait things out. It's simple- but it's heartbreaking, in it's own way.
How often had he thought that Bruce would be there, until Dick was old and turning grey himself? How often, when he was younger, did he take near misses and roll them off his shoulder, thinking his team was truly infallible? Until they weren't. How much has he taken for granted the fact that Fitz is here- but he won't always be.
And that's supposed to be a good thing. Dick turns his head finally, to pillow his cheek in the groove of Fitz' shoulder, shudders, when Fitz settles a hand on the nap of his neck and skims it into his hair- soothing. It's minimal, what comes through- but that he's trying at all, that he wants to, in some way do this for Dick- it makes the tears spill over, makes him choke on his breath and the beginnings of a sob, though he's trying to hold them back]
You don't have to.
[Because he knows it hurts- that he's giving nothing back but a raw, open, bleeding wound. One without any signs of stopping, of healing. And the last thing he wants to do is hurt Fitz. Not now, not ever. Wants him to know that the hold, the soft strokes along his back- his presence, that was enough. But he won't pull away. If Fitz wants to help carry that- he thinks it'd hurt more to reject that kind of trust, that kind of care]
no subject
Not long ago, Fitz said that being with all of the displaced has touched his heart — even though he knows their togetherness is a fragile thing.
'Cause time is nothing.
Before awakening here, Fitz had been alone for so long, without any of the comforts he shares with Dick now. Physical touch, understanding. His embrace only firms as Dick implicitly suggest he won't pull away. You don't have to means I'll let you, which is rather brave, if you think about it. It takes strength to allow others to walk the path alongside you, knowing what they'll see along the way. And Fitz can already feel the foreign pain, seeping into his bones. ]
I know. [ that Dick wouldn't push this, that he'd never want to be a burden on others. He's a good man — and a better friend. ] S'okay. [ offered through the choked feeling in his throat, not his own until it is. ] Want to.
[ and that's it. He'll let his head tip, as aligned with Dick as he can be, so that he can share the ache. ]