[ 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}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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? ]