rooftop | OPEN POST ( !!! )

[ His first thought is: Jemma would be thrilled. And his second is: Agent Peggy Carter's going to shoot me. Once, he had a dream about Peggy Carter. Well, a nightmare. You listen to enough of her speeches for the required SHIELD History module, and her voice would get stuck in your head, too. He doesn't remember how it happened, but he's pretty sure it involved flunking out. Maybe he forgot his pen for the test, and she was the invigilator? Or was the test itself in another language?

It was terrible.

And now she's going to shoot him, fresh out of the past yet sharp as ever. ]

Agent Carter. [ breathed more than said because, wow, that sure is a thing. Fitz raises his hands slowly in the universal gesture of surrender and doesn't turn around, gaze skipping over his tablet and ICER to assess the nearby containers. Gotta be something useful — or loud, at least, to bring Enoch back from the other side of the cavernous room. ] We are boxed in, technically. The both of us. In the basement of a SHIELD safehouse, and my colleagues won't take too kindly to you shooting the current Head of Technology while trespassing.

[ He drops the head of science and blah blah blah intentionally. He's a nerd! The gadget-guy! Definitely not the guy you need to shoot! ]

Any idea how you ended up on our property, Agent Carter?

[ He has to say her name again to remind himself that, oh god, this is happening. ]

[ SHIELD again, as if that should mean something significant to her. She knows the US government was in the process of dismantling wartime organisations they deemed obsolete, she knows it would only be a matter of time until they restructured the intelligence community with something new in its place. Is SHIELD one of them?

That's musing for a later time. She wets her lips, thinking quickly — a scientist, she has a scientist at gunpoint. Someone like Samberley but with more composure. No, she mentally corrects, eyeing how steady his hands are as they raise into the air. A scientist with field experience or training, at the very least. Not one to be underestimated. She knows that as someone who often is. ]

You're the genius, you tell me.

[ It's a quip she'd ordinarily save for Howard Stark, but she's at a loss for any real answers. For a safehouse, she doesn't feel very safe. But far be it from her to let on that she's a little out of her depth. ]

After you turn around — slowly.

Edited 2018-09-10 13:56 (UTC)

[ I am a genius, you know he might've said to anyone else, but he has enough sense to keep quiet, thinking. He could lunge, dislodge the recently opened container of mysterious objects to his left and make a mad dash. He's faster, since the framework, with sharper reflexes. He doesn't know if this is the real deal, after all. Could be another shapeshifter.

He swallows audibly. ]

Alright.

[ And turns around, as instructed, hands still raised. At the sight of her up close, his brows lift. Definitely has the look of vintage Carter, like she walked right out of a photograph in the SSR museum exhibit. ]

Are you familiar with...unusual artifacts? [ then, quickly. ] Objects with strange, seemingly unexplainable or impossibly advanced properties?

Edited 2018-09-10 14:08 (UTC)

[ Of course I am, she thinks but doesn't say. What the SSR does, what it specialises in, isn't public knowledge. Making their acquaintance has been on a need-to-know basis since they were established during the war. Still, she quirks a brow, then nods once. ]

More than most people, [ she demurs. ] Enough to know this isn't just a safehouse.

[ One corner of her red lips quirks in a smile that neither reaches her eyes or lingers longer than a second. If it was a safehouse, these crates would be filled with supplies, rations. Instead, SHIELD seems to have acquired quite a few things that belong to the SSR. Dangerous things. Things meant to be locked up with the likes of Arnim Zola, Johann Fenhoff, and Werner Reinhardt. Was this something done under Vernon's brief stint in command? Was Thompson up to something else, despite his coming around and that's why he was shot?

Curiouser and curiouser, as they say. ]

Given what's around us.

[ In his pale blue button-up and dark blazer, he doesn't look entirely out of time. Not a dapper man of her era, though. His neutral expression softens at the edges. She understands, and that's a damn good start. See, while he passed his test on the SSR, ultimately, he only recalls some of what she encountered. Coulson and Simmons would know more, and they probably have the memorabilia to prove it, too. ]

Given what's around us. [ He nods, then. A tacit acknowledgment that this is more than a safehouse and, yes, it's filled with dangerous items. His right hand twitches, as if he'd like to move it, to gesture at her and explain. ] One such object has been known to pull people in at one point — one location, that is — and pop them out at another location entirely.

[ A beat. He holds her gaze, steady. ]

I think that's what happened to you.

[ He thinks, not knows, because the sound of the Monolith slopping after a phase change has haunted him since he went after Jemma the first time. Hearing it again now could be just another symptom of his newfound instability. ]

[ Of course her kneejerk reaction is to scoff, but she tamps down on the urge easily. Years of working with the SSR and Howard Stark — not to mention her most recent summer in Los Angeles — have made her open to believing the seemingly impossible. She saw a rift split the very fabric of reality in the middle of a studio lot. Surely the idea of an object transporting her from Point A to Point B isn't so unusual.

(Sometimes she wonders if she sounds more mad for accepting these things so matter-of-factly.) ]

You think I —

[ She breaks off, frowning. She did feel like she was being pulled, earlier. Enveloped and spat back out, to be precise. Peggy finally lowers her weapon: he isn't armed, and this requires civility on both their parts. There's a brief pause, during which she doesn't look away from him, but her focus does shift inward for a beat. Then she wets her lips and recollects herself; it's subtle, her back remains ramrod straight. Calmly, now, Carter. ]

All right. All right, [ she repeats, more firmly. ] So it's safe to assume I'm not in Kansas anymore. Or, rather, New York. Yes?

Edited 2018-09-10 14:52 (UTC)

[ After a moment, he drops his hands. His relief shows in the slight relaxation of his shoulders, no longer tensed in preparation for gunfire. Carter's with him so far, which is better than most people would give him now. ]

Yes, well, we're under New York. [ He tips his head this way and that, fussing over the details. ] Beneath Lake Ontario, to be specific. [ Details are good, right? Reassuring. Except his features scrunch shortly after, a tell of the news to come. ] In 2018.

[ Just dropping that bomb now because the whole SSR evolves into SHIELD conversation requires groundwork, and he's still ascertaining whether she's the genuine article. ]

[ It's not the information that she's now upstate rather than in Queens that brings everything screeching to a halt — it's what follows. If she wasn't already lowering her firearm in a show of (extremely tenuous) trust, a line like that would have done the trick as well. Because surely this Mr Fitz is joking.

Yes, she's — laughing. It's not funny, not even remotely, and the sound is more a puff of air than anything else; but Peggy does take a step back as if some part of her does believe, a little, and is struck by the gravity of it. The rest of her hasn't caught up yet. ]

Twenty-eighteen, [ she echoes, looking at him with some measure of incredulity. ] What, seventy years into the future? You're mad. You expect me to believe —

[ And then her gaze flickers, she takes in what he's wearing. She did earlier, a cursory glance, slightly out of place but not drastic enough for her to pinpoint why; but with the context, it's obvious. The trousers, the shoes, the tailoring on the jacket — entirely wrong. She doesn't raise her gun again but her expression falters, then hardens, her voice cools. ]

Time travel? That's your answer? Please, you'll have to do better than that.

[ Okay, you know what, he deserved that. Even as someone deeply interested in theoretical physics, time and dimensional travel had been quite a Thing to come to terms with, so for someone decidedly out-of-time, it must be absurd. If only Coulson and Fury were here to give him pointers on how to handle this conversation.

Fitz gestures between them quickly, and the sharp set of his features says, yes, that's exactly what he expects her to believe. ]

Why would I say something that mad if it weren't true? [ A little huffy, because he can't help himself. ] Here, just, don't bloody shoot me for taking out my ID card.

[ He lifts one hand up again, still surrendering, and brings the other to his blazer pocket, slipping out a square card clipped to a black lanyard (patterned with constellations — a gift from Jemma) and offering it to Peggy. If she accepts, she'll see the standard ID for new SHIELD, emblazoned with a vaguely familiar logo in the corner and plastered transparent across his biographical details. The card is bordered orange to signify his clearance level.

S.H.I.E.L.D.
FITZ, LEOPOLD "LEO"
HEAD OF TECHNOLOGY
DOB: 08/19/1987
SEX: M, EYES: BL, HAIR: BRN, HEIGHT: 5'8"
ISSUE DATE 2018FEB05 / EXP. DATE 2023FEB05 ]

[ She narrows her eyes but otherwise doesn't move, only reaching out to take the ID he hands her. It's unlike any other form of identification she's seen before — of course, the QR code won't be put into use for another few decades after her time. She scans the information quickly, lingering the longest on the years and the logo, which she commits to memory. It does look vaguely familiar but that tells her nothing so she says nothing.

She is who she is and this man, this Leopold Fitz, seems to at least believe he's telling the truth — there's that much conviction in his bearing (because of course she's looking for any sign of a lie). But the only explanation on the table is too fantastic to accept, not without more evidence. It could still be a trick, although the why behind that is unfathomable.

Peggy presses her lips together and hands it back and reaches for her own, but not before holstering her weapon in the waistband of her trousers. Her ID is more plain but if Fitz has ever gone to the International Spy Museum in DC, he'd recognise it as identical to the one on display in the wing dedicated to the SSR. It could also be a very good copy, but apart from her memories, it's all she can offer in exchange. ]

Edited 2018-09-11 12:04 (UTC)

[ He takes it, recognising it as authentic — or at least appearing that way, offering a slight nod of acknowledgment before he lifts it up, peering at it through the fluorescent lights overhead. The SSR IDs look like trading cards, even up close, and Fitz thinks he's seen a few in Coulson's collection. His eyes widen a fraction, catching up as his hunches solidify into the time travel hypothesis. Imagine that. He shook the, ah... former present-day Peggy Carter's hand at an event once. Some anniversary thing. He was still in the Academy then, young and spotty and shy as anything.

Now, he's meeting her again, in the flesh and in the now: Her first exposure to SHIELD, and it's his sloppy stand-off followed by a tetchy introduction. God, he's going to get an earful from the team.

Suddenly, Enoch's voice echoes from around another storage unit. "Mr Fitz, are you quite alright?" Oh, bollocks, he ought to deactivate the quarantine, with everyone upstairs waiting on high alert, and Jemma, oh, Jemma will be itching to get down here. ]

No thanks to you! [ comes his reply, instinctively sarky, as he hands back the ID. His mouth quirks at the corners. Enoch's footsteps fade as he methodically covers his side of the area, up and down the rows of units. ] My colleague — who's likely not alone in wondering what's going on.

[ waving a hand, as if to say, anyway. ]

So if it's alright with you, Agent Carter, I'm going to pick up my tablet [ he points at the black screen before bending to do just that, still intent on not experiencing her famed sharpshooting first-hand. ] deactivate the quarantine procedure — [ tapping away. only, ah, wait. ] — actually, you didn't notice any other passengers, did you? [ without waiting for her answer. ] We ought to sweep the basement first. [ oh, they're a "we" now, are they. ] Wouldn't want anything loose upstairs again.

[ potential threats trump further niceties and explanations, in his shifting list of priorities. ]

[ Another voice breaks the silence and her head snaps in the direction it comes from — she's not jumpy enough to reach for her sidearm again, but she is still understandably wary of this entire situation, the man in front of her, and now the one unseen and elsewhere. Peggy doesn't like being in control and she certainly doesn't like being a few steps behind. What spy does? The advantage always lies in seeing the blind corner rather than being backed into one. And God, has she been dropped into one hell of a corner.

She's been in worse, she reminds herself. The war, a brush with the Gestapo, Whitney Frost.

She nods once at Fitz's request, less authoritative and more, Well, if you must. (She doesn't know a tablet even is. But unusual technology isn't a rare occurrence for her, so she isn't as fazed by that.) She wants to know more — needs to know more. She shores up walls around the nerves and uncertainty, mentally squares her shoulders. So — time travel. Potential time travel. All right. On to the next step.

If this SHIELD is to be trusted, they're her way home. Or she has to get out of this basement and find another on her own. Either way, she'll play along for now. ]

No, I imagine we wouldn't. [ It's lightly said, after an exhale. ] Run into that sort of thing often, do you? Uninvited guests cavorting through your safehouse?

[ She doesn't shrug, her brows don't raise, but both are painfully evident in her voice as she adds under her breath: ]

Doesn't seem very safe to me.

[ Well, she's game, if nothing else, and dry as any Brit. It makes the corners of his mouth quirk, though he keeps his focus on the tablet, firing off an update: TEMPORALLY DISPLACED VISITOR. NON-THREATENING. SWEEPING FOR OTHER ANOMALIES. WILL UPDATE SHORTLY. ]

Better they arrive here than out there. [ said with a nonchalant air, as he retrieves his ICER pistol with his free hand. ] Seeing as we're equipped for it. [ and he's off, peering around the corner just in case someone else approached during their chat. No signs of other life, however. Fitz pauses, then, glancing back over his shoulder at Peggy. ]

[ casually — ] I should mention that the SSR was absorbed by SHIELD. It's our research subdivision now.

[ He hopes that the more uncanny and precise details he offers, the more likely she is to believe them. ]

[ She eyes his pistol warily, unable to identify the make and model of it. Truth be told, it reminds her of the weapons they confiscated from HYDRA during the war, although she won't say it. But it seems Agent Fitz has already put his attentions elsewhere and there's nothing in his bearing that suggests he's going to try and get the drop on her.

And then he says what he says and he gets the drop on her anyway.

Her composure slip and her jaw drops; the first thing that springs to mind is in Jack Thompson's voice, loud and clear: bullshit. Another organisation bulldozed their way through and took over, despite eliminating the threat Vernon Masters posed to the SSR? ]

Who authorised that? When?

Edited 2018-09-15 13:18 (UTC)

[ You did, he thinks, but he imagines that will go down about as well as "Deke's your grandson" — which is to say, badly, it will go badly.

Time travel's a real shitstirrer, huh. He has the decency to look abashed. God, he should have waited for Coulson and Jemma to say that. They would have packaged it into something more digestible, perhaps even appealing. ]

The senior management, at the time, the 1950s, I think — but everyone was on board, if I recall correctly. It wasn't a — a takeover or anything. [ restructuring, rebranding, smartening up with changing times. ] My wife would know better than me. She's the, ah, history buff.

[ aaand he regrets saying that as soon as it's out because it implies she's, well, history. ]

[ History buff. She repeats it faintly, on a rush of air, reading the implication of his words. Only it isn't an implication, is it? It's fact. Who she is, who she works for, is a thing of the past. The SSR as she knows it was rendered obsolete in just a few short years after her present and she wonders who helmed that decision and why. She knows what Truman is up to, she knows they're heading into a different kind of war, she knows it must have been out of necessity and survival.

But it's a hell of a thing, isn't it, knowing what lies ahead and feeling like it's already set in motion and you can't stop it. (It's already happened. But you saw it coming, didn't you? Masters saw it, Jack saw it. A storm's coming, Agent Carter.) ]

I see. [ What else can she say? Peggy watches him quietly for a moment then offers, ] Before I woke up here, I was in the middle of an investigation in 1947. A warehouse we — I — suspected of belonging to an organisation called the Council of Nine. [ If this is truly history and if the SSR is now part of this SHIELD, then the records should exist. ] Are you familiar?

[ He holsters his weapon again, seeing as there's too much to tackle with Agent Carter alone. The Council of Nine rings an alarm, yes. He's not as well-versed in the facts as Jemma, but the infamy of the Council makes it memorable.

For a moment, Fitz regards Peggy neutrally, more pensive than anything else. ]

Allegedly assassinated McKinley, ties to the Wall Street Crash of 1929, last head was — [ snapping his fingers. he recalls the name scrawled on the back of a blue flashcard. Blue helps your memory, Fitz, Jemma had told him, when they'd made the set for class. ] — Frost. Whitney Frost.

[ Rattled off like trivia, which it sort of is, isn't it? It puts any doubts that Carter is anyone but herself out of his mind, and places her sudden appearance in context. He and Jemma have been working on a timeline for the monolith's whereabouts. This information slots neatly into a fearsome gap. ]

[ Well, that confirms this isn't a dream. (More like a bloody nightmare, all told.) Information about the Council was limited to a very small selection of loyal agents and the finer details of the case were restricted to her, Daniel, and Jack. The case was closed on Whitney Frost and the entire Council just a few short weeks ago and wasn't made public in any way. But with this place being seventy years into the future, she supposes certain classified files were relinquished to the long march of history.

She must have been, too. Her and everyone she knows and works with. Footnotes in books, nameless soldiers in a secret war no one was meant to know about. Not like Steve Rogers — but this was never meant to be his life. God, she thinks, trying to not let it overwhelm her. Is she even still alive? Howard, Mr Jarvis, the Commandos? ]

I have, [ she begins softly, ] a dozen questions. All of which I suppose you can answer and none of which you will. So what's your plan, Agent Fitz? Keep me locked up down here like another one of your artifacts?

Edited 2018-09-15 14:15 (UTC)

[ I'm losing her to the madness of the situation or the evasiveness of his answers, the history all around them and flowing through this basement. He steps forward, like he might reach out to her, but he quickly thinks better of it, folding his hand into a fist instead. ]

No, no, god no. You are a — a respected agent. [ which is as close as he'll get to saying "extremely famous and important." ] I am doing my job, [ by ensuring nothing nefarious followed Peggy here to their safehouse. ] and then — there will be tea, there will be gin, there will be answers.

[ His voice is firm. ]

I promise you, Agent Carter.

[ Right. Right. His job, and she's standing here on the bleeding edge of wallowing or something like it which is positively unacceptable. She's better than this, made of sterner stuff, and she is not about to let herself go to veritable pieces in front of a complete and total stranger who holds all the cards at this moment in time. Maybe that's why she feels so at sea — Peggy Carter doesn't do well with being two steps behind, with having control wrested from her, and from being blind to all possible outcomes (however much her colleagues may think she charges headlong into things with a half-cocked plan).

So she exhales and squares her shoulders and puts a bit of steel back into her voice and posture. ]

Very well, then, as you were. [ A respected agent, he says, with such surety — as if he knows her. She'll parse through that one later. There's a pause and then she volunteers, a little more lightly, ] Although I should point out I'm much more partial to whisky, if you have it.

[ Relief loosens is features. He hasn't cocked it up beyond repair (though he's certain Jemma will have some constructive criticism after she's ascertained that he himself is unharmed), hasn't been shot by the one (but not only) Peggy Carter, and hopefully hasn't let a hellbeast wander the basement unsupervised. Not bad for a Tuesday night, eh.

He wheezes, not quite a laugh but, y'know, nearly that. ]

I'll pick a twenty-five-year-old out of my collection just for you.

[ They've reached a compromise, her sensibility and patience bridging the gap to his earnest unhelpfulness. From there, it's a simple matter of retrieving his ICER and inspecting the basement. It's large, but a rendezvous with Enoch assures him that a great deal of ground has already been covered. Nothing missing, no alarms triggered, not a soul lingering in the room — Fitz relaxes considerably once he reverse the quarantine and leans back against the cool metal of the lift. Earth is secure for now. (And for his part, Enoch seems mildly delighted to meet Peggy Carter. Figures.)

On the way up, Peggy will notice that the floors are numbered backwards, with the basement being LEVEL 8 while their destination is upstairs on LEVEL 3. Fitz doesn't bother forewarning of her presence, instead announcing it in person, like some sort of deeply uncertain herald. ]

[ What follows is a surreal whirlwind more dizzying than her first twenty minutes since being thrown into this time. Fitz introduces her to the cadre of waiting agents once the doors open; or, rather, he attempts to introduce her and she attempts to introduce herself and they are both interrupted by a pair who seem far more delighted to make her acquaintance than her welcoming party was. She's whisked away after that, flanked by a young Englishwoman (Agent Fitz's wife, she surmises) and an older American man, and is given a brief and frenetic summary of... everything.

Well — not everything. That's impossible. And no one is truly certain of how this happened beyond some artifact they call the Monolith and she is reassured, more than once, that "we will figure this out." Most remarkable is that she is told of her place in all this. All this meaning SHIELD, the intelligence community, women in the 20th Century and well into the 21st. The people in this building are members of an organisation she built and fight for ideals she believed in — still believes in.

This all happens while she's subjected to a myriad of tests she's told are routine. The woman (Jemma) is practically vibrating at her side but her hands are remarkably steady as she draws her blood, does a full panel work up to ensure she is 1) who she says she is and 2) came through her unconventional journey healthy and in one piece. It's only as she's being led to her quarters by Agent Coulson that she learns of Steve Rogers' fate — but is told he's currently in the wind and on the run since the business with the Accords. No one has seen him. But he's out there.

God, does she need that drink.

It's been hours since she's gotten here. The digital clock on her nightstand reads a little past midnight but she's too tightly wound to settle into bed. They're underground so there's no looking out the window, taking a walk to get some fresh air. She's important, she's told. There could be a target on her back. (No one has told her she is already dead.) She can't go outside for her own safety, at least for now.

God, does she need that drink. Peggy sinks onto the edge of her cot and drops her forehead to her folded hands, eyes closed. There's nothing more to be done tonight. Everyone is as thrown as she is, as in the dark as she is. (No, not as much as she is. There is still so much she doesn't know.) She breathes out, trying not to let herself be too overwhelmed by an extraordinary situation; trying not to cry now that she knows Steve is alive and out there, unaware that she is, too.

And then someone knocks and she groans into her hands before standing, answering as she walks towards the door. ]

Look, I'm tired, so if you're here for another bloody test, you can turn around and — [ She cuts herself off as she opens the door and finds Fitz and that promised bottle of blessed whisky on the other side of it. ] — oh.

[ Fitz hasn't been stationary since leaving Peggy's side. Jemma's too fixated on Agent Carter to fuss, which leaves him a little miffed, but it's fine, he's fine, he gets it. And Mack claps him on the shoulder, starry-eyed yet sharp, grip too tight. "Leave a note next time, Turbo." They were worried, of course they were — it's only that the circumstances have knocked them off-kilter.

He drafts a coded letter and posts it to Ballbuster Houligan, serving the dual purpose of clearing his head with a walk and hopefully catching Hunter's attention. He and Bobbi's network of contacts is another hope for getting a message to Cap, although Fitz is certain Coulson has reached out to Fury and Hill, too. 'Course they don't tend to answer their phones. Unreliable as anything, for former leaders of the intelligence community. And while May has Romanoff's old number, it's long since defunct. Bloody Avengers had to go and become war criminals at the most inconvenient hour.

If nothing else, Fitz is grateful that he doesn't have to do any more heavy-lifting. Perhaps that's selfish, but he'd rather not cobble together an infodump, with his head the way it is (the way it might always be). Hours later, Jemma finds him in their room, linking their hands with an Oh, Fitz that makes him huff a laugh. Yeah, he missed the mark a smidge with Agent Carter, didn't he? Hardly matters now, of course, with everyone fluttering around her, drawn to her for who she is and was and will be.

He raises two tumblers in one hand and the whisky in the other. Twenty-five-year-old, as promised, and unopened, with Dalwhinnie 1987 across the label. At her words, his brows arch. ]

If you're still up for a nightcap. [ One corner of his mouth hooks into a smile, a little amused and apologetic. Then, quickly. ] I understand if you aren't. My wife — [ Who she met! Right! ] — Jemma, after she went through the Monolith, she didn't want to do much.

[ His tone lifts, almost wry. ]

Don't know if she mentioned that in between autographs.

[ To find the time to say that Mr and Mrs Simmons-Fitz understand what it's like to wake up somewhere alien to yourself. Alone. ]

Edited 2018-09-15 16:27 (UTC)

Don't you start, [ she says with equal parts exasperation and wryness. There's a beat as she considers the drink on offer then sighs gently, opening her door a little wider to let him in. ] You're lucky I like the look of that bottle.

[ Who, on God's green Earth, would ever think a spy would become famous? Rather defeats the purpose of being a spy, doesn't it? But from what she understands, they became something more than an intelligence organisation; diplomacy and politics were woven into the mix because of course they were, there's no escaping them once the government has a seat at the table (but Howard holds the pursestrings). It's a lot to take in and she does not want to dwell on or dissect any more of it tonight.

A nightcap sounds like just the thing.

Peggy sits back down on the edge of her mattress and gestures for Fitz to help himself to the desk right alongside it. Given how they met in the basement, she has the reassuring suspicion that he won't pepper her with more questions or look at her with — well, as though she's anything greater or more significant than who she is. It's flattering, of course it is, but it also reminds her of how people looked at Steve during the war. No; it's how they looked at Captain America — they never saw Steve. She wonders if anyone down here even sees Peggy Carter.

She was never homesick during the war or after it, but she thinks she will be, here. ]

Your wife is lovely. [ Her lips quirk, the vibrant red of them faded with the lateness and length of the day. ] If a little — enthusiastic. Although as I understand it, everyone in this bunker has had a similar experience with the Monolith, so it seems I'm in good company.

[ With a wee nod, he settles into the desk chair, sorting two fingers for each of them and passing a drink to Peggy. Seeing as she suggested whisky, he doesn't doubt that she wants it straight. The compliment and light tease at Jemma wins a full smile, too. Can't help but be pleased 'cause she's certainly lovely and far too keen, especially when it comes to all things SHIELD.

He'll revisit the autograph bit (if only because he sort of wants to snag one for Jemma's birthday) before they send Carter back in time. Otherwise, the subject of her fame isn't of particular interest. She's impressive, undeniably so, but he's never been the awestruck type. ]

The best, as time travellers go.

[ It sounds very H.G. Wells that way, doesn't it? More like a grand romp than an extended nightmare. Fitz takes a sip, savouring the taste. ]

Wow. [ It's the good stuff, and Hunter will be insufferable when he learns it was opened without him, so he really ought to enjoy it. ] You might owe me for this one, Agent Carter.

[ The drink, that is. He's only taking the mick. ]

OPEN POST ( !!! )

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)