@fitzsimmonsftw

Fitzsimmons: hostages from hell

Friend, I have been laughing about this prompt for weeks – I hope you hadn’t given up on me because I’m only just getting to it now, but I hope this drabble does it justice! This could be a whole freaking hilarious fic on its own but here’s what I’ve got for now.

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They’re so used to being kidnapped by now that when their cab is hijacked while they’re on vacation, Jemma just rolls her eyes and mutters through the sack over her head, “Oh, for goodness sake.”

The news that they’re being held as leverage against Coulson still comes as a bit of a relief, really, because it significantly lowers the levels of pain and intimidation they’re likely to endure while they wait for rescue or an exchange. On the scale of hostage situations, this one – tied up next to each other on a bed in a motel room – is actually quite cushy.

So, knowing what they know and jaded as they are about the whole thing, Fitz and Jemma decide to have a bit of fun.

It starts out simply enough. When the guards bring food, Jemma belches loudly in their faces and Fitz shoots out a spurt of water like a fountain, grinning at the drenched guards as water dribbles down his chin. Fairly soon the guards draw straws on who has to feed the prisoners. Fitzsimmons can’t high-five, tied as they are, but they sort of self-congratulatorily bump elbows.

They don’t even need to discuss it – the annoying things just sort of develop.

“Hey, Simmons, look at this–”

Fitz rotates his wrist, head cocked expectantly, and the whole room hears bones crack. The guards by the door exchange a glance.

“Ever since I broke my arm in the pod, I’ve been able to do that whenever I want.”

“And how long can that go on, Fitz?”

“Hours.”

They look at the guards and smirk.

They recite the entirety of The Big Lebowski from memory. (Jemma insists on voicing The Dude.)

Fitz whistles the Doctor Who theme music.

They sing – and harmonize on – “This Is the Song That Never Ends”, turning it into a round, developing new melodies, and adding their own lyrics. Every time they pause for breath the guards visibly relax, but then one or the other will start it up again.

They sing for nearly three hours.

Jemma demonstrates frog sounds for Fitz.

“–And this one’s a bull frog–”

“You sound like you’re dying,” he chuckles.

“Well, the lady frogs would definitely disagree with you on that one. This is a beeping froglet–”

“Like this?” Fitz tries to replicate the sound she’s just made.

“That’s quite good, Fitz! Just a bit higher-pitched – there you go–”

“It’s like the class-clown phase we never got to have,” Fitz mutters to Jemma when the guards threaten to duct-tape their mouths unless they shut up.

“Speaking of clowns, do you know what you’re supposed to do if you’re attacked by a mob of clowns, Fitz?” Jemma says loudly.

“What’s that, Jemma?” Fitz echoes, playing along.

“Go for the juggler!”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” someone shouts.