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The team observes the prisoner (“Prisoner seems a little Men in Black , AC.”) through the hidden camera in the interrogation room. He had appeared in the lab in a rather underwhelming display. One moment Ward had been inspecting the Night-Night gun, now sans-"dummy rounds” (though same ridiculous name) and the next, a rugged stranger stood in the middle of the room. Ward had knocked him on the back of the head with the empty weapon before realising that FitzSimmons had frozen in more than fear. Perhaps ‘stranger’ wasn’t the right word.
It isn’t Fitz — can’t be. Fitz stands next to Ward, gathered with the rest of their team in the command centre, fiddling with his tie in blatant distress. Sure, the DNA they had tested is a direct match, they both wear the same face and, by the way Simmons had said the intruder’s gaze had caught on her, they harbour the same flame. But those aren’t Fitz’s eyes. Fitz is all bumbling genius and stumbled gestures, with a smile as bright as his mind. This…imposter looks tired. More than that, he looks a strange mix of determination and defeat. He holds a strength to him that is a jarring comparison to the Fitz they all know. Their Fitz is a puppy fresh from the window, desperate to explore and understand but still scared to stray too far from home. But this man is a stray, worn down from too many hardships over too little time.
Simmons is distracting Fitz, debating the possibility of shapeshifting, cloning, time travel, and the like. The latter of which quickly devolves into a heated discussion on the intricacies of time that Ward couldn’t keep up with if he tried. May regards the screens, awaiting orders. She stands in her place at Coulson’s side – loyalty unshakable. Ward can’t help but note Skye’s attempt to mirror her posture beside him, her stance is weakened by her inexperience and the megawatt grin she adorns as her eyes jump between Fitz and his twisted lookalike.
On the screen, ‘Fitz’ mutters to himself. The words themselves are lost somewhere between his lips and the camera hidden in the glorified cell, but his distress is palpable. Since waking, his muscles have stiffened and his eyes have yet to settle, flickering across his surroundings. A strong contrast to the stillness of his figure, sat on the edge of the metal cot.
Coulson cuts through FitzSimmons’ endless theorising. “What do we know for certain?”
Simmons answers while Fitz, now distractionless, draws in on himself. “Nothing. We know when and where he appeared and who he,” she glances at the screen, “appears to be. But how he came here? How he looks like this? And why? I can’t be certain.”
Coulson turns to Fitz. “It’s—the” Fitz falters, “his DNA, it didn’t, it told us nothing. Nothing but, well…” He doesn’t need to finish.
“So we ask him.” Skye’s chipper voice is more out of place than usual. Ward forces a sigh to better pretend he doesn’t have to fight a smile.
May hums a slight approval. “It can’t hurt to see what he has to say.”
“And it’s not like we can know any less than we already do,” Skye adds.
“Okay. Ward goes in,” Coulson nods to him as he says this. Ward knows he’s seen his purposeful softening towards the Bus’ younger inhabitants – this ‘team thing’ is paying off. “May, watch from here, monitor his behaviour. FitzSimmons, put those brains to use in the lab. Skye, I need you to reach out to any contacts you have, Rising Tide or whoever else, see if anything like… this has ever happened before.”
They acknowledge their tasks with varying degrees of enthusiasm, filtering out to get to work.
The prisoner’s gaze freezes with his frame, locking onto Ward as he enters the room. Ward catches a stuttered “I’m not, I’m not weak” as the stream of Scottish mumblings die in the back of his throat. The heavy door seals itself as Ward approaches the nearest chair; the hexagonal walls pushing the darkness inwards.
Ward allows the silence to tighten, letting the imposter drown in it. He’ll admit it’s disconcerting seeing someone so familiar yet being unable to predict their actions. Ward has considered the potential of time travel, compared to everything else they’ve dealt with it doesn’t seem as far fetched as it used to, and, truthfully, it borders on reasonable compared to the other possibilities. Considering the discrepancies between the man in front of him and the boy Ward knows – the age, the behaviour – along with the recognition in his gaze, it’s not unreasonable to assume this is an older, more traumatised Leopold Fitz. The question is, if he is from the future, from their future, how much does he know about Ward? Does he still view him as an ally or does he know better? As careful as Ward’ll need to be, what with May studying their every interaction, it’s preferable for him to be in the room, giving more control of what might be said. He’ll start simple, factual.
“My name’s Ward.” The intruder’s jaw grinds. Ward notes the negative response, pocketing the information for use. He’ll back off for now. “You…boarded a S.H.I.E.L.D. aircraft without permission.” He allows a touch of humour to grace his voice. “Considering the circumstances, it’s not entirely clear how intentional this action was.”
The man’s hands are fisted in what Ward can now see is in an attempt to prevent their shaking.
“You have a name?” Ward probes. Better to let him answer himself. If this is a shapeshifter situation, it’s best to limit the information given. (It’s still more than a little odd that that that needs to be taken into consideration.)
His question snaps the man out of whatever thoughts were warring in his mind. He chews his lips, cracking each knuckle individually as he finds an answer.
“Fitz.” His voice is a strangled perversion of the one Ward knows.
“Fitz,” Ward mimics, partially mocking, pretending not to be alarmed by the, albeit expected, response. “Afraid that name’s taken, got anything else we can call you?”
Fitz’s lips twitch in the echo of a sneer.
“I know you saw him,” The diversion catches Fitz off guard, if the slight straightening to his already rigid posture is anything to go by. “Before you passed out,” Ward clarifies, devoiding any part he played in subduing the other man.
Fitz’s gaze rakes over Ward’s face, the purposefully neutral expression and the threat leaking into his smile, until his attention shifts to the camera most wouldn’t know was there. He rubs his lips together and permits a slight, reluctant nod.
“So you understand why we can’t call you that, then?”
Another nod, a little less forced.
Ward swallows his bubbling frustration. “What about a first name we can—”
“No,” Fitz interrupts. His hand creeps up to his hair, beginning to change the part but he yanks his arm towards his chest. “No.”
“Intruder it is,” Ward goads, pretending not to catalogue the ever growing list of worrying behaviour. “Or perhaps you’d prefer ‘prisoner’?”
The threat is clear: no cooperation, no release. Fitz looks surprisingly amused, sighing like Ward is the one being troublesome.
“Marauder,” Fitz permits.
“That your name?”
“It’s really more of a title, and not really mine . But it’s shorter than the ‘the big bad brain of S.H.I.E.L.D.’”
Interesting. If Fitz is admitting his affiliation with S.H.I.E.L.D., perhaps he’s accepting some form of collaboration. At the very least, it supports the ‘time travel’ theory. Maybe Ward should try a friendlier approach, play up the familiarity to lower Fitz’s guard. He smiles in the brotherly way he know his Fitz has always responded to. The kind of smile he never used growing up. He softens his voice in mimic admission.
“I see it. If you’re confident in anything it’s your skill. You and I are the same in that—”
What Ward wasn’t expecting was for Fitz to give a full body flinch, eyes darting to the empty space beside Ward. Fitz shakes his head repeatedly, almost like he’s trying to physically shake his thoughts off him.
“Fit—” Ward begins, cautiously.
The man in question jumps up, stumbling into the corner of the room, breathing heavily.
“That’s not true,” Fitz whispers. “It had—it had to be done. We needed her powers. Couldn’t know. We couldn’t know .”
Ward isn’t sure what’s more worrying, Fitz’s sudden behaviour or the words themselves.
“I don’t deserve her forgiveness,” Fitz's voice is smaller than Ward has ever heard, from either version of him. “I know, Jemma, I know. But it would've been. It would’ve been. Just because I didn’t do it doesn’t mean it wasn’t me.”
Jemma. This isn’t good. Ward has lost control of the conversation and, what’s more, there may be other doppelgängers of their team. They should have searched him for comms while unconscious.
Fitz sucks in a series of decreasingly ragged breaths. He turns to Ward, remembering his presence. For the first time since his arrival, Fitz looks truly scared. Ward had foolishly hoped to never see his teammate’s fear directed at him. He nods towards the empty chair, giving the man an olive branch, of sorts. Fitz acquiesces, though he’s fighting himself every step of the way.
“I suppose you have questions,” Fitz breeches tentatively, right hand rubbing soothing circles into his left shoulder.
“A few,” Ward waits until Fitz nods his head to continue, giving the impression that Ward is subverting control of the information given. “Are you who I think you to be?”
“That depends entirely on how smart you are. Who do you think me to be?”
“A friend.”
Fitz huffs a genuine laugh, albeit small. “That so? Well, you got a funny way of showing it.”
Fitz is unresponsive to any of Ward’s angles. Time to re-simplify. Focus on information over connection.
“How did you arrive on our plane?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I doubt it.”
Another half-laugh. Though this time, Fitz appears annoyed by it. “I didn’t choose to come here. Trust me, this is the last place I’d want to be.”
There, an opening. “Where do you want to be?”
“Home,” Fitz’s shoulders slumps in on themselves and he runs his hands down his face. “I just want to go home.”
“And where is home to you?” Ward pushes, they’ve been talking for too long with too little progress.
“Oh, you’re smarter than that, Ward. Ask what we both know you really want to ask.”
Ward takes a breath, preparing himself for whatever answer he receives. “ When is home?”
The lines on Fitz’s face grow tired, ageing him further. “2017.”
Well, shit.
With the rate Hydra has been advancing recently, it’s clear they don’t plan to stay in the shadows of S.H.I.E.L.D. for much longer. Ward can’t imagine a future where his cover is still intact five years from now. But assuming as such would only risk the truth being overheard by those not yet aware.
“How do we get you home?”
Fitz raises his eyebrow, clearly expecting more of a reaction.
“If you are who you say you are then you of all people should know the kinds of things we’ve faced. Just another day at the Strategic Homeland Intervention—”
“Yeah, it’s an awful acronym,” Fitz interrupts, smiling to himself.
Ward raises an eyebrow in turn.
Fitz sighs. “I can get myself home.”
“How?”
“Because I have to.”
“Coulson taught you well.”
Something not dissimilar to grief darkens Fitz’s features for a moment before he buries it. Interesting.
“Coulson’s not who I need.”
“Who would that be?”
“A friend,” Fitz says, mimicking Ward.
“Helpful.”
“I’m not even sure he legally exists. I doubt D-Skye could find him…not that he knows me, yet.”
Ward prides himself on his ability to keep his emotions clear from his face, no matter the situation. But he can’t pretend not to notice Fitz’s slip. Was he thinking of someone else? If so, was it because of Skye’s recent dedication to becoming a field agent? Or had Ward brought her to his side? He’d considered it, sure, but he wasn’t foolish enough to put his care for her above his debt to Garret. Garret comes first, always has. Without him, there was no Ward. Just a cold room at juvie and fears of a colder well.
“Dare you to say that to her,” Ward provocates.
“Trust me, I don’t need to see her bad side,” Fitz mutters to himself.
Ward can’t let himself speculate. He can’t imagine a world where Skye would choose his side, choose him . It would only hurt all the more if she didn’t.
“Skye has a bad side?” Ward says, testing how friendly Fitz will allow him to become. Not very, it seems.
“We all have bad sides, Ward. Some of us are just better at controlling them.”
If you had asked Ward any other day, he would have assumed Fitz’s ‘bad side’ was some frantic, Scottish yelling of being ‘the absolute worst’, but something about the haunted way this man holds himself has him reassessing. Which of them was Fitz referring to? What exactly had he seen Ward do? If he’d stood between him and Garrett, it couldn’t have been good.
“Not if you ask Coulson.” He can’t ask what had become of the man in the future but he needs to know if Coulson ever uncovers how he’d survived. Garrett doesn’t have much longer. “He believes everyone just needs the right influence at the right time.” The irony of that statement was not lost on him.
“That much we can agree on.” Fitz may have been looking at Ward, but it’s clear he was seeing someone else. The air crackles with an energy Ward doesn’t completely understand.
“How do you expect to find your “friend” if he doesn’t exist?” Ward refocuses.
“He’ll be around. There’s a solid chance he’s living in the same place as when I met him. If not…” Fitz sways his head back-and-forth in consideration. “I’m sure I could whip up something to find him. Or better yet, get him to find me. I’m sure he’s watching.” The casualness only increases the ominousness of the statement. Fitz chews on a lone hangnail, unperturbed.
“This friend have a name? Preferably, one we can actually use.”
Fitz debates with himself, clearly deciding if this information could be detrimental if given too early.
“I’m sure a name alone won’t be harmful,” Ward encourages. Considering they’ll need more than a name to send him home, it seems a needless hesitation.
“…Enoch.”
Ward nods, for once grateful for May’s supervision, knowing she’ll be undergoing a cursory search for anyone of that name. Or, perhaps, encouraging Skye to prove this Fitz wrong. Well whatever combination of stern silence and judgmental eyebrows passes as her form of “encouragement”.
“I understand your hesitation to divulge certain information, what with the possible effects on your future. Ones I’m sure ‘the big, bad brain of S.H.I.E.L.D.’ understands better than I,” Ward comforts in an effort to keep Fitz from divulging any information he likely knows about Ward.
As impassive as Fitz attempts to keep his face, the burgeoning stress lines their Fitz doesn’t yet have around his eyes crinkle in what could pass as amusement – amusement with an air of judgement Ward wishes he didn’t understand. He may be aware of Ward’s angle, but he’s relying on Fitz's desire to keep his own future intact. Surely, outing Ward’s true loyalties would have as big an impact on the both of them.
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think. I’m not the boy you knew.”
“Maybe not, but we still care about you, Fitz… Marauder .” He corrects, half-heartedly, to regain the semi-good graces he had begun to achieve.
Fitz sucks in a sharp breath, letting it out with a humourless chuckle. “That's not a weakness, is it?”
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. Ward needs damage control, stat. If not for his cover, for himself. He’s not used to feeling so on display for anyone but Garrett.
“Depends who you ask, I guess. Coulson wouldn’t think so,” Ward half-mimics their earlier banter in the hopes that the mention of his (presumably now dead) mentor will help dull Fitz’s anger. Fitz’s eyes flick back over Ward’s shoulder and back, his jaw twitching.
“And if I ask you?” Fitz barks rhetorically.
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” Ward counters.
Contained as Fitz is, his presence begins to crowd the room, looking more locked-up beast than captive. A sneer corrupts his once-blank face as any filter he previously held slips out of place.
“No, I know you, Ward.” Fitz’s voice turns steel. “I’ve commanded people like you, cut in to people like you. Trust me, I know how satisfying it is to make a strong man scream.” He tilts his head, condescension seeping into his posture. Something about his tone makes Ward’s teeth itch. “See you? You were nothing but a pawn. And sure, you tried to become more than that, tried to rebuild Hydra in your image. But really, all you ever were was a husk. You’re…pathetic. But me? I’m the real monster. You were never more than a limb,” Fitz's face cracks into an animalistic smile, “I was the head.”
Ice curls down Ward’s spine. He knows that smile, vividly. That’s the look of a killer, of a leader, of someone who demands loyalty. That’s Garret’s smile. A thought which leaves him reeling enough not to focus on why Hydra would need rebuilding, or why he would be the one to do so. Let alone, the fact that every word of malice Fitz spits at him is being overheard and, worse still, recorded by S.H.I.E.L.D.
Fitz continues, lost somewhere between his past and his words. “The only thing you were ever remotely good at was blindly following orders. All ‘yes, Sir’s’ and gunshots.” He chuckles to himself, a bitter, strangled sound. “You shot the dog, Ward. Even Ruby didn’t shoot the dog and she was more indoctrinated than you’ll ever be.”
That’s not possible. Even if Fitz knew the truth, he couldn’t know that. How did he know that?
“But the main difference between us? After you got out, you got back in. Over and over and over again in a sad little cycle of failure. ‘Cause you’re rotten to your core.” His stare turns murky, crowded with memories he can’t contain. “My past haunts me, it shadows every decision I make. Everything I do , I do to not become him .” Fitz takes a breath, blinking himself back to the present. “Maybe you weren’t good enough at being bad — never crossed your own lines, never became your own fear — maybe that’s the difference between us. But what do I know?” Fitz smile weakens into something an equal mix of pity and disgust. “Maybe I don’t know you as well as I think.”