Work Text:
Fitz begins to journal after Jemma is lost to the Monolith.
He's not entirely sure what he's trying to accomplish. He's never been good at organizing his thoughts.
At first, he starts his journal by writing letters to Jemma, where ever she might be -she's alive she's alive she's alive….-. Eventually he starts to put more into the journal.
A good inventor always had a journal with them at all times.
Fitz has had many pilled up on his desk through out the years. Ones filled to the brim with equations and blueprints. Ones half empty that laid neglected under his bed. Ones that are a blank state. He's never had one to express his personal thoughts though. He never considered starting one, even during the stress of the academy and the period when Fitz first became aware he was in love with his best friend.
Fitz now scribbles anything he feels, anything he thinks, anything he can breathe in his journal.
Fitz almost growls in frustration when ink poured out of his pen and all over his page. He tried to mop it up with his hands and ended up getting it all over his face.
The reason why he never finished those half full journals of his was because his pen would break. Usually at a time of stress, when he would be applying too much pressure on it and…he's never even once tough of going through those journals. He moved them from his dorm at the academy to the Bus to his current bunker at the Playground…but he hasn't looked to see if there was anything savable.
Fitz kept looking at the box full of journals under his bed as he washed his hands. Jemma would have encouraged him to go through them, she would've even sat with him brainstorming ideas on how to make his younger self's projects more durable and possible.
Fitz took a spare towel from his bathroom and began to genitally soak up the ink spilled all over his pages.
He didn't want this one to be put with them. He didn't even want to stop writing in it.
He glazed down at his journal pages, everything that he had written down erased and stained with blue ink. He can't even remember what he had written down that mattered so much to him. Maybe it was Jemma related, Fitz couldn't even recall.
Fitz sat back down, elbow on the table and slightly colored blue hand on slightly colored blue face.
He may never see Jemma again.
Fitz received countless comments on his optimism, though Fitz knows that they are being realists around everyone else.
He tries to think of something else - anything else as he stares into his mess of bright blue ink.
Heh. His blue mess.
He grabs a black inked pen and begins to cover the blue ink with anxious scribbles. He's not sure why he's doing this…or how it's coming to him. He knows it's nothing more then a mere rough draft, that even if he rescues Jemma he will never show her what he's writing on these pages.
The sounds of the scratching pen came to a halt, and Fitz relaxed his hands as the pen was placed next to his journal.
It wasn't pretty. Fitz could hardly call it poetry. But as Fitz picked up the pen again, this time to add little doodles on the sides, he felt emotionally better about…everything.
Fitz hummed as he sketched ink-stained stars and oceans across the pages. Because he prayed with all his might that where ever she is, she is safe and full of wonder.
The realist in him tells him otherwise.