i'm still a fucking mess from that finale so this literally took me three months to finish...jUST IN TIME FOR THE PREMIERE. IM AWESOME.
disclaimed
...
She clings to him by fingertips, water dragging him down, pulling him away from her, and her lungs are screaming only half as loud as her heart is. Do not let him go. It is a mantra, pounding in her head, the only thing that is keeping her going up, up, up.
She was always a strong swimmer, but she struggles under his deadweight—no, not dead. Not yet. And the light is right there; she can practically feel the sun on her skin, and her lungs are singing for air, for the team, for Fitz. She wants him to be swimming with her, breaking the surface with her. What was that he'd said? You've been beside me the whole damn time. And she wants him beside her now.
When she breaks the surface, the sun is blinding, and Jemma wants to cry. Fitz floats easier now, and Jemma treads water with every last ounce of strength in her body. Every atom, every cell that knit together to create her are straining against the odds, pushing and overexerting themselves to keep Fitz and herself above water.
She does the math. He wasn't breathing for so long—no. She can't think like that. Math has no place in the middle of the ocean.
And then—suddenly there is a hand reaching for her, and she reaches out, but no, no—Fitz. Director Fury, very much alive, must hear her hoarse request—"No, you have to take him first, he—."
He's my best friend. He's my soulmate. He's dying—
Fitz is lifted up first, his head lolling sickeningly to the side, limp, and Jemma can't focus enough to watch after that. It takes all she is to keep her own head above water, all the strength she had found to support Fitz suddenly gone. A strong hand lifts her by the arm, and Jemma gives in.
...
She wakes in a hyperbaric chamber, blanket pulled over her shoulders. Director Fury peers at her from behind sunglasses, trademark eye patch gone. Jemma has only seen him in pictures, and he seems quite a bit nicer than those photos made him out to be. Less severe.
He tells her that Fitz is alive. He is alive. Jemma wants to find him, wants to be beside him—every fiber of her being is wanting for his presence. There is something intrinsically wrong with Fitz fighting for his life, and Jemma here, alone, lying down.
Practically relaxing.
Fury tells her to stay still, that she needs to heal—but sir, you don't understand. Jemma Simmons is the healer. The biochem prodigy that can tell you more about your body than you'd ever want to know. She can press her hands to bleeding wounds without flinching, can shout orders and save lives—she does not need to stay still. But sleep is a siren that she cannot resist any longer and it is all too easy to succumb.
...
Days blend together in the med pod. Jemma was quite sick of the white walls when it was Skye—seeing Fitz lying pale in the bed makes her want to vomit. For someone so buzzing with life, he looks too dead for anything to be okay.
The singular chair here is uncomfortable, but she refuses to leave it. The team tried to coax her out for food, promising that someone would stay in there with Fitz, but, at some point, they realized that it was a fruitless endeavor. There was one person that could drag her out, and he is not going anywhere.
So they rotate bringing her food, and finally Skye manages to usher her out of the room and into a shower. Standing outside the door, sentinel at her post, Skye promises that May is with Fitz, and yes, Simmons, this is necessary because you stink.
A holding pattern develops, and time marches on.
...
Jemma has a lot of nightmares—she wakes up shaking, screaming, thankful that everyone is in their bunks, unaware of her. She always feels Fitz slipping away from her, feels herself grasping, searching the water, lungs screaming for air.
When she wakes, there is a moment of relief. They are alive, Fitz and Simmons are not separated by the ocean, by something as silly as oxygen—the guilt comes after.
If she had swum faster, kicked harder, fought him—Skye finds her one night, sobbing in her chair. "I heard screaming," she says breathlessly, approaching her cautiously, like she is trying to tame a wild animal. "Jemma, are you okay?"
Jemma begins to laugh. She must have gone insane. Truly, honestly insane. Skye says nothing, but Jemma sees it in her eyes—Dr. Simmons has lost her mind, now everyone can lose theirs.
But honestly—what is there left for them? Ward is a traitor, Fury is gone, SHIELD is in ruins, and Fitz—. Sweet Fitz. Jemma doesn't realize when it happened, but her laughter has given way to sobs once more, and she lets Skye lead her to her pod and tuck her in.
Jemma Simmons is a genius—she is capable of creating technology some people can only dream of, but there is no technology, no cure for regret. Failure tastes bitter on her tongue, and Jemma dreams of drowning in his stead.
...
Six weeks, four days, seventeen hours.
Jemma's taken up knitting, albeit badly. Skye and Coulson dutifully wear every misshapen scarf, ever terrible pair of mittens—Fitz would too, she knows, though he would be laughing all the way. She sort of wants that from them.
Everyone is too careful with her, afraid that she'll break. And Jemma understands this, logically, yes—she's begun to do better, in their eyes, and no one wants to jeopardize that. But she needs people to not treat her like she's made of china.
It's late, tonight, and, eyes stinging with want for sleep, Jemma tries to focus on the blanket she's attempted to make. Her hands are shaking a little, more from exhaustion than fear. She figures Skye or Trip will be down to collect her for bed soon—they've taken to that, they have. Jemma sometimes feels a bit like a child, being led to bed by worried parents.
The light in the med pod is dim, and even if it wasn't, her eyes are unable to focus on much more than what is a foot or so away from her face. And she is so tired—so bone achingly tired, that she half believes that she's hallucinating when she hears movement next to her. And then—"Jemma?"
Knitting needles clatter on the floor when dropped, and Jemma is finding it hard to breathe.
Fitz's eyes are unfocused and confused, but the sight of him, moving his head to look for her, is so blissfully alive, Jemma dives forward. His skin is perfectly warm under her hands, and she can't help but kiss his face.
Parallels run deep, but this is not panicked hysteria—this is joy.
This is burning through her veins, lighting up her heart, filling her with this bubbling happiness, and he is pale and thin, chapped lips and tangled hair, but she has never seen him in more glorious a light.
...
(he doesn't know his own blueprints, his mother's name, or that they are out of the Academy. but he remembers how she takes her tea and he remembers the name of his old sock monkey. he is still Leopold Fitz, and the world remains on its axis)