Fitz had always loved machines- him becoming an engineer wasn't an accident. He could spent hours staring at blueprints, drawing, scribbling notes and making adjustments. He could keep working for days, twisting wires and pieces of metal, connecting them all into one beautiful piece of work. Sometimes he would get so lost in designing, that she had to remind him about food and sleep. He would muss his curls then, eyes out of focus, giving her a little absent-minded nod while mumbling "just a few more seconds".

Once he had told her, that the constant sound of a working engine always made him calm.

Fitz and machines used to be a natural combination.

Now he was surrounded by them, almost crushed. He was lying in a hospital bed, with his face so pale and body buried under quilt and wires. He looked so small in that room full of monitors and devices breathing for him, feeding him and watching over his heartbeat and brain activity. In the middle of all this equipment was his pale face covered by oxygen mask, lost in that cold, frigid place. He looked so tiny and fragile. He was almost unnoticeable, drowning in metal and plastic of machines supporting his life.

That wasn't natural at all.

The sound is regular, she told herself. The beeping of the monitors was steady, reassuring her that he was still breathing, his heart still beating. That he was still alive, still there. The sound was calming her only a little, stabbing her heart at the same time, a constant reminder that he shouldn't need this, they shouldn't have to check it constantly, because he should be walking, eyes open and smile on his face, talking about physics and mechanics and monkeys. Not lying there, in a coma for two days already.

She wondered if he was hearing the beeping. If it was calming him like it used to.