This story comes from an idea I've been toying with for months, but with a twist on my original thoughts. I like to think these two pieces are bittersweet, as life always is, but I'll leave that to you to decide. This is canon up to the end of season three, minus the six months later piece.

"Daddy?"

Fitz looked up from his tablet, eyes taking in the small figure before him. Her toys were spread about on the carpet, the remnants of an epic Jedi battle. It made the corner of his mouth tick up.

"Yes, Spark?" He returned, watching the girl's nose scrunch at the nickname.

It was brief, only a second, before her face twisted into something . . . grimmer. His brow furrowed, watching what he knew was a thought process developing behind her eyes. Finally, she managed to string together her thoughts.

"Why don't I look like you?"

Fitz's breath caught in his throat. He coughed in an attempt to cover it, but he knew Mae had caught it anyway. She shot him a look that struck him painfully of her mother.

Before he had a chance to fully recover from what Jemma called his reboot phase, Mae plowed on.

"Mrs. Mahar was teaching us what genes are today," she said softly, her cheeks flushing. "She said that we look like our parents because of our genes. We're supposed to get half and half." Her brow furrowed deeper as she adjusted Ashoka's lightsaber in her lap. "But . . . I don't look like you or Mum,"

"Wh-" Fitz tried to start, but was cut off by the sudden tightness in this throat. "Why would you say that?"

"You have blue eyes and Mum has light brown. I have dark brown," she started, fingers still fidgeting. "You have light hair and Mum has light hair. Mine is dark. And my skin is dark. You're pasty,"

Fitz could feel a burn starting at the back of his eyes, but he blinked it away. God, she sounds like her mother.

"You're right, Maesie." He sighed softly. The little girl looked up then, eyes dark as the day he'd first laid eyes on her. "Come 'ere,"

Mae dropped her action figure, standing to move towards Fitz's lap. Gently, he gathered her into his arms the same way he had since she was a baby, running a hand over her deep waves. She relaxed into his embrace, her eyes like the night as she looked up at him expectantly.

"I'm-" Fitz tried to start again before stopping. He cleared his throat. "I'm going to tell you a story, okay baby girl?"

Mae nodded against his chest, eyes still bright and expectant.

"Have you ever heard of SHIELD?"

When they're twenty nine, they're tired of wasting time.

Jemma says it herself, lying in bed. Her skin is bare and pressed against his, the heat shared beginning to cool in their bunk.

Fitz casts her a breathless smile, pressing a kiss to her lips. "So am I," he whispers, breath shared in the small gap between them. "But there's not much we can do about that, not yet,"

Jemma presses up to kiss him again. "But . . . But what if there was? What if we just . . ." She breathes out a wistful sigh. "What if we just ran away? The two of us, settled down, started a family . . ."

His heart leapt even as he stroked a stray strand of hair out of her face, studying her whiskey eyes. A fluttering started in his chest, something so erratic he wondered if Jemma could feel it thumping beneath his bare skin. "You-You'd want that? With me?"

She lets out a breathless little laugh. "Yes, of course. A homey little place in the hills, little curly haired children running about, trying to build anything they can think of,"

An impossible smile splits his face, and he brushes a finger along her cheek. "I can't imagine anything more perfect,"

"Neither can I," she breathes, kissing the thumb that strays across her lip. She shifts slightly, hooking a leg over his waist.

He rubs a hand down her side. "This might be crazy, we don't have a place or home . . ."

". . . But why not get started now?" She offers, smirking coyly. "After all, I am quite the expert on biology," she leans down to kiss him slowly, running the tip of her tongue along his lip. He moans, opening his mouth to allow her entrance. They enter a slow dance of sorts, their lips pushing and pulling against each other. She pulls back slowly, her hand seeking his as she rolls atop him. ". . . and conception could, possibly, take years,"

"I suppose," he bites out between kisses, voice breathy, "you could say we're not wasting any more time,"

She chuckles, but that soon descends into something much more pleasing to Fitz's ears.

They don't exactly start trying. But on the other hand, they don't try to stop it from happening either.

There's a false alarm around five months later, when Fitz returns from a day at the lab to find Jemma perched on the toilet, sullenly holding a negative test.

Her eyes are glassy when she looks up at him, but she tries to manage a brief smile. "I . . . I was late," she managed to get out, before promptly bursting into tears.

Fitz doesn't waste a second in grasping her gently and pulling her to his chest. The test drops from between her fingers, clattering against the linoleum, as her fingers instead curl in his shirt.

"Shh, it's okay, Jemma," he runs a hand down her shoulder blade, kissing her a handful of times in her light waves. "It's just a false alarm,"

She sniffs, not quite crying, but still having tears sliding down her cheeks nonetheless. "I just . . . I thought that maybe, finally -"

Jemma can't bring herself to finish her sentence, instead burrowing her nose into his warm, relaxing scent. He smells of cologne and solder from the lab, mixed with a comforting musk that can only be named Fitz.

"I want a baby so bad it hurts, Fitz," she whispers, and he swears if it were possible his heart would break. "I know it's not the time or place, but if anything could be a reason to leave . . . this would be it. This would be our sign,"

He presses his eyes closed tightly, chest hurting. "I know, Jems. I know,"

They turn in their resignation exactly a week later.

Coulson doesn't seem surprised, and May even less so. Mack is the most surprised, if anyone. And even he greets the news with a nod and a somewhat knowing smile.

Jemma's heart aches as she packs her bags. She wants there to be boxes, somehow. Crates of cardboard, somehow to signify all the things that they'll be taking with them after nearly four years of this life. But sadly, memories only carry weight on the backs of their victims, and they are no exception.

She takes one last glance around their bunk, at the queen size bed, the tan stone walls. It wasn't much, but it was theirs. If anything, that counted for something.

It had to, didn't it?

He spends most of the drive to the airport thinking about Skye. It's Daisy now, he supposes. The reminder brings a twinge to his chest.

Yet as they walk, hand in hand into the terminal, a magazine reminds him that the girl doesn't have two names, but three.

And yet the world will only ever know her by one.

QUAKE STRIKES AGAIN, BRIDGE DEMOLISHED

Fitz's heart lurches, and he has to look away. They've come far from the three kids who stumbled onto a airplane, but this isn't what he'd envisioned.

Jemma catches him, squeezing his hand with that bittersweet smile she's perfected since the pod, and together they step into security.

She'll be okay. She'll be saved. But not by them.

Perthshire is expensive. But years of risking their lives and selling inventions has covered it, and as a result they settle into a quaint four bedroom cottage.

Jemma races him to the door from their rental car, and though she wins, he catches her at the threshold and sweeps her up to carry her over it.

Then they're kissing, and the door is closing, and clothes are being shed because they have a brand new house to christen.

Their bags don't make it past the foyer for the next day or so.

On the evening of day two, Jemma is tired of sleeping on the floor. She heads to town and returns with an air mattress and Chinese take out.

Fitz lights up when he sees her offerings. "Oh, thank god," he moans, grabbing the orange chicken.

Jemma raises an eyebrow at him, using her chopsticks to maneuver a dumpling into her mouth. "Are you saying you don't like my cooking?"

Fitz nearly chokes, but manages to swallow without too much trouble. "No, no. Never. You're excellent at barbecue,"

"Just not indoors?"

He cringes, tilting his head a bit to the side. "Yeah,"

She throws a rangoon at his head in response.

By the next morning, they still don't have a bed, but Jemma has picked up three separate cooking books and every utensil Fitz can imagine and then some.

Exactly one year later, their little cottage is truly a home.

Fitz wakes up every morning to a mouth of hair, but in a good way. He'll take a hairy mouth over an empty bed any day.

Jemma has dramatically improved her cooking skills. But regardless of the numerous classes she takes and the countless items she's perfected, none of them quite compare to their old tradition of pancakes.

Life is easy. While they have more than enough funds saved from Fitz's numerous inventions and the handful of articles Jemma's written to get them well into their aging years, they decide to take part time jobs at the tiny university in town.

It's easy work, but Jemma never fails to see the softness in Fitz's eyes as he helps kids with every little bit of the science class he teaches. It's happiness, far more than they ever could have mustered with SHIELD.

But there's a gap, and they both know it.

There is one empty bedroom sitting down the hall, collecting dust. It has a view of the tiny pond down the slope of the hill in the yard, with a tree just outside the window that would be perfect for a tire swing.

Another three months pass, and Jemma resignedly marks the tiny red dots in the corner of the calendar squares that show she's begun another cycle. It's something of a punch every time she awakens to it, a reminder that the thing she's wanted for awhile now is still beyond her reach.

So finally, after a long conversation, she decides to make the call to a clinic.

A week later, they're sitting in a office. The nurse opposite them is radiating a grimness the moment she enters, and Jemma doesn't need the confirmation to know what she's going to say.

She wants to scream.

It's not fair. But then, life never has been.

A life at SHIELD had taken its toll. There was too much extensive damage to her body, helped along by years of stress and months of malnutrition. Should she ever be able to conceive, it was unlikely the fetus would make it to the first trimester.

She doesn't have time for tears. Fitz makes love to her that night, perhaps more gentle than usual, but she can tell he's trying to cover his hurt. After all, it's not everyday your dream is broken in half along with a piece of your heart.

The days go by, the pain gets a little bit easier to manage.

Fitz throws himself back into his work, starting a second class for younger children who are interested in building. The day he comes home with five crates of Legos is one of the happiest she's seen him, and despite their inability to have their own children, she knows that this will remedy the pain somewhat.

It's around four weeks later when their lives shift.

Jemma is making tea in the kitchen, Fitz having decided to sleep in after working into the early hours of the morning on a project. She's just stirring a dab of honey into her mug when there's a pounding at the door.

Her brow furrows. They aren't expecting anyone, and visitors are near none around their somewhat secluded cottage. It's not as if she feels threatened. SHIELD is done for, their ties cut. It's been over a year.

She pads softly to the door, tea momentarily forgotten. There's no one at the door, but there's an oddly rounded shadow obscuring the glass near the doormat. Jemma frowns.

"Fitz?" She calls, curiosity turning into a somewhat mild sense of unease.

Ducking back to the bureau they keep in the foyer, she slips an ICER into her belt.

Taking a deep breath as she hears Fitz begin to roll out of bed, she cautiously opens the door.

Her breath catches in her throat, and she swears in that moment her heart skips a couple beats.

There's a pair of big, brown eyes staring up at her from a swaddle of blankets. A tiny fist clutches at the coverings.

"Oh my god," she breathes, when she can finally drag air back into her lungs.

She doesn't know quite how long she stays there, staring down at the tiny human like this is some bad rom com, but the next thing she knows, Fitz is wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.

"Good morning, love," he murmurs into her ear, pressing a slow, warm kiss to her neck as he nuzzles it gently. "Wha-"

Whatever he's about to say, it leaves him instead in a rush as he lays eyes on the baby carrier. He freezes, hands stilling at her stomach.

It breaks her trance, and slowly she extricates herself from Fitz's arms to kneel. The baby gurgles at this, eyes lighting up at the new face. Jemma pulls in a shaky breath.

"Hello there, little one,"

Fitz doesn't need to read the letter to know who the babe's mother is. Daisy drips from every ounce of her, from the soft yet dark eyes, to the cheeky grin the baby feels the need to flash at their every movement.

Nevertheless, as Jemma gently lifts the baby from her carrier, Fitz pulls the note from the pin it's been attached with. He takes one last glance at Jemma, who is holding the babe with far too much joy and happiness. It makes his throat tighten. And then, he begins to read.

Dear Fitz and Jemma,

I'm sorry. I know that's not enough, and it likely won't ever be for what I've done this past year or two, and not for what I'm about to say.

I don't think I should need to announce it, as you've found this letter, but this is Mae, my daughter. I haven't picked anything else out for a middle name, so I'll leave that to you. It wasn't as if it was important at the time anyway.

I think you already know what I'm asking of you. I feel beyond terrible doing this, but I don't see any other way. The last thing I can do for her is this: a home with people who will love her as unconditionally as they love each other.

I'm not coming back. I found the headquarters, and this will end whatever the hell it is I've been doing. The only downside is, I'm also sure it's going to end my life. There's no guarantee I'm making it out alive.

Please, just tell her I'm sorry and I love her. I never meant to be a piece of shit like, well, you know. Raise her like you're going to raise your own little geniuses, even if she's not going to be as rocket-scientist as your own kids.

Her father isn't going to be named. I think it's easier this way, because we're both going on this mission together. I think . . . one day, you'll figure it out. But for now, he loves her, possibly more than either of us can express.

I've arranged for monthly transfers to your bank accounts. It will be enough to get her through college, which she will, with hope she won't take after her parents. Her birth certificate is in the mailbox, because I'm scared it will be lost somehow. Apparently superheroes aren't too cool to use mailboxes after all.

She was born on March 19th of this year at three in the morning, because she's obviously bent on keeping me up all night. We think she weighed around seven pounds, but it's unclear because it's hard to weigh a baby using a bathroom scale. We know she was 23 inches, though, so there's that. Apparently her daddy isn't a complete fail of a midwife.

She loves purple. She's always grabbing for it. I don't know if that's relative information or not, but it's what I found out about her. She hates bows. She will only be quiet in the car with music. Stefani, of all things, too. I know I'm feeding her real food too early, but she loves bananas. I just wanted to feed her once, because now I know I won't get the chance. Her feet are like her favorite object ever.

I can't think of anything else to write except I'm sorry and I love both of you. You were my family, okay? That's not going to change until I can't breathe anymore. I want you to be happy and make babies and put a ring on it, Fitz, because I've apparently missed my chance at your wedding and if that's not wasting time, then I don't know what is. But please, above all, be happy, for me. You deserve it, truly, and I'm sorry if this kid is going to be a burden on that. But as I'm sure you can imagine, I couldn't put her in the system. So this is it, with you, as you live out the happiest days of your life.

With love and regrets,

Daisy Johnson

The letter is rough and choppy, but nonetheless Fitz can't help wiping away a tear. It was clear it was written quickly, and somehow that makes it worse. Whatever lead Daisy found, she had rushed to it quickly.

He turns his gaze instead to Jemma, who is rocking the baby - Mae - in her arms. The tiny thing stares up at her, Jemma with such a soft look of fondness it makes his heart ache that they'll never have a child of their own.

No.

The thought comes sudden, fierce. This baby is theirs now, and he'll be damned if he lets his best friend down. For now, she isn't his niece. She's his daughter, and he and Jemma are going to figure it out.

Fitz clears this throat, gently setting the note on the table. Jemma looks up at him, and he can see it in her eyes that she knows.

"She's . . . She's not coming back, is she?" she asks softly, and Fitz can only manage a nod for fear his throat might close completely.

Jemma's eyes scrunch shut, and Fitz can feel his heart aching. Wordlessly, she moves toward him, and he accepts little Mae as carefully as he can. She's wrapped in the blanket that had covered her carrier, which is a pale blue with tiny daisies printed all over it. He wants to smile, but the humor is lost on him.

Jemma finishes reading quickly, and when she dares to finally look up at him, her eyes are coated in a sheen of tears. Her lips press into a thin line, then a jagged one, and he can see the tears begin to leak out the corner of her eyes.

Fitz trades Mae to his left arm as best he can, using his free one to wrap around Jemma. She leans her head into his shoulder, her tears silent.

He holds her as best he can until Mae starts to fuss, and that seems to break Jemma out of her reverie. She wipes at her tears briefly with a knuckle before smiling down at Mae, gently taking her from Fitz's arms.

"We're gonna take good care of you, baby," she murmurs softly, brushing a finger over the wispy strands of near black hairs on her head. "Just like your mama took care of us,"

I'm not sure when the next piece will be up, but it should be soon. Let me know what you think, if you are so inclined. This is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

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