"You sure I can't take this apart, Simmons?" Fitz muttered as he watched the bag of popcorn slowly inflate inside the microwave. He tapped on the side. "I know it would-would heat up faster if I changed the, uh… the- what's the word?"

"Frequency?"

"Yes, that- if I raised just a bit, popping corn wouldn't take so long."

Simmons sighed. It wasn't one of frustration, but of a calm sort of happiness, and she smiled. Here was her Fitz. It had been nearly a year since the incident which had given Fitz his hypoxia, and he had improved far more than anyone had expected him to. He didn't stumble over his words quite as often, and if he concentrated, he could make his left hand do nearly anything it could do before. She was incredibly proud of his progress, and to celebrate, she was throwing him an impromptu Doctor Who marathon with snacks included, and he was allowed to comment as much as he wanted, even if it usually bugged her.

But all that mattered was that he was smiling again. If he could forget about the trauma they had endured for one moment and enjoy the bliss of sci-fi television while sitting at her side, it would always be enough.

"I'm sure you could set the waveguide to a much more efficient setting, but Coulson has specifically requested we not, quote, 'keep screwing with the appliances, please,' unquote, since the incident with the toaster."

The engineer rolled his eyes as the microwave beeped and he took out the now-fully-inflated bag and handed it to Simmons. She tore it open and dumped it into a large bowl.

"Well, then," she chirped. "I'd say we're all ready for a night of fun. I've got this, but the tea should be done steeping, if you'll grab that." He grinned and went to grab the two mugs of tea, so she turned and began heading toward the TV room.

Suddenly, there was a crash behind her and a short cry of surprise. She whipped around to find Fitz standing there in the kitchen, a look of shock on his face, tightly gripping a mug in his right hand while his left was empty and shaking slightly. A blue, polka-dotted mug lay in pieces on the floor. Orangey-brown tea was everywhere.

"Oh, Fitz," she cried, rushing back and throwing the bowl to the counter. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," he stammered, snapped out of his stare with the mug pieces. "I'm- your mug- I'm so sorry, I- I- I didn't mean it." He snatched the paper towels from the counter and began ripping off pieces, still stuttering. "I'm sorry, Simmons, I'm so sorry, I- I didn't think- I wasn't thinking-" He hastily began wiping the wet floor furiously.

"It's alright, Fitz, it was just a mug," Simmons said as she knelt down and began helping him with the towels. "Let's just get this all cleaned up, then we'll be ready to go again. I wasn't particularly thirsty anyways." This wasn't good. Fitz's hypoxia tended to act up more when he was stressed, and he was stumbling over his tongue constantly now and his hands were shaking intensely.

"No, Simmons, it's not alright," he stammered. "I for-forgot, and I- I mean, I- didn't mean to-" He was interrupted by Simmons laying her hands over his.

"Calm down. Breathe. Nobody's hurt and it was just a mug. What do you mean, you forgot?" she asked curiously, concern on her face.

Fitz took a couple of deep breaths and started again. Simmons noticed tears in his eyes and it was barely detectable that his voice was shaky. "I forgot… about it. That I'm… not right-" he took a hand from Simmons' and waved generally toward his head- "that I can't- with my hand…" Then Simmons understood.

"You forgot about the shaking, so you accidentally dropped the mug when you tried to pick it up."

He nodded. "Yeah. I didn't- I wasn't concentrating, so it fell and then there was- was tea everywhere, and your favorite mug, Simmons-"

Indeed, it was one of her favorites. Years and years ago, back at the Academy, they had each gotten the other a mug filled with treats for Christmas, completely independent of the other. She remembered the look on his face when they had simultaneously opened nearly-identical presents. She still wasn't completely convinced he hadn't found out ahead of time what she had bought for him and reciprocated. In any case, she'd kept it with her all this time: at school, on the BUS, and now at the Playground. It had always held her warm drinks in the darkest and coldest of times. The moment had come, though, for its demise, and its broken shards lay sadly between them.

She kept smiling, putting away her sadness at its 'passing,' because she would not let Fitz see her frown at him. Not anymore. "Yes, but it's still just a mug, and I can easily get a new one."

"But it was your favorite." He stared into her eyes, almost pleading for her to understand. "You kept it with you all the time, and it was- was special to you." She began to pick up on what he meant. "You cared about it, and now it's broken, and it can't be fixed, no matter how much glue you use, or tape, or bloody therapy-"

Simmons cut him off by sweeping him into a sudden, tight embrace. She held him as tightly as she possibly could, as if she could squeeze all the fears and doubts in him away.

"I am so proud of you, Leopold Fitz," she whispered. "You are the bravest, kindest, smartest, most absolutely wonderful person I have ever had the gift of meeting. You have done so much for me out of the goodness of your heart, so don't you ever think that that there is anything wrong with you. Yes, your brain has changed, but you are still everything you were before, and more." She pulled back enough to rest her forehead on his. "You are a human being, not an old mug. So don't you ever call yourself broken again, alright?"

Fitz pulled in a shaky breath and nodded slightly. He wrapped his arms around her as they went back to hugging the air out of each other and being content to simply share the same spot on the planet with each other, even if it was on the kitchen floor in an undisclosed location with a bit of unwiped tea soaking into the knees of their pants.

After a moment or two, Simmons whispered, "Do you still want to go on with the marathon?"

She received a quiet, "Yeah. I'd like that."

They rose to their feet, gave each other one last squeeze, then took a quick break to change into clean bottoms. Simmons poured another mug of tea while Fitz popped in the DVD (with his right hand, he made sure). They settled in together on the couch as the TV screen zoomed in on the Earth to a small part of England, a calm before the hijinks could ensue. Simmons squeezed Fitz's hand, and to her pleasure, he squeezed back.

But to her dismay, during the course of the marathon, he never smiled. Not once.