When A Plan Comes Together

Nicole Clevenger (October 2014)

Notes: In response to a recent review noting my predilection for writing hurt/comfort, I decided to go all in and join up with hc-bingo at LiveJournal. The prompt for this one was loss of identity, and it's set in a few of the blank spaces between the S1 finale and 2.03's "Making Friends and Influencing People." Spoilers possible up to that episode.

I make no money, because they don't belong to me.


The first time Coulson comes to Jemma's new apartment, he knocks on the door.

She hears it from the other room, where she's sitting on the floor with her back against the bed. She's been here for hours now, running her fingers through the thick, unfamiliar carpet at her sides. A motion distracting if not comforting, one that she only notices when she stops crying. She's been crying a lot, the last several days.

The noise registers only moments before the turning of the locks, the opening of the door. Jemma stumbles to her feet, going for the drawer that holds her H.Y.D.R.A. issued weapon. It doesn't occur to her that anyone breaking in probably has no reason to knock.

"Simmons?" Coulson's voice floats through the airy apartment. "Are you in here?"

Jemma replaces the gun, tries to breathe through the racing of her heart. She wipes the lingering wetness from her eyes, the delicate area underneath feeling raw and inflamed. "Yes, sir," she calls brightly, moving through the kitchen and toward the entryway to meet him. She wonders if he caught the cracks she can hear in those two simple words.

Coulson has a smile for her, one that quickly turns sheepish. "Sorry to barge in on you like that. Didn't want anyone to see me loitering in the hall."

"It's fine." This isn't her house anyway, isn't her life. She has no personal space anymore. Isn't really even a person. Just a construct of lies that she has to find a way to wear over her skin.

His face softens. "How're you holding up?"

A giddy laugh wants to bubble out over her lips; she presses them together into another forced smile. She's not holding up, she's falling. She's lost everything she'd come to know and love.

But Coulson chose her for this, and she's always aspired to be the agent he sees in her. And this won't be forever. Jemma squares her shoulders, takes a breath. "As well as can be expected, sir." It's almost convincing.

He looks like he's going to say something, changes his mind and nods. "Good."

It's only been four days, but she feels like she's been apart from them for a year. If she closes her eyes, she can conjure up the smells of her lab. The sound of Fitz's voice. He'd still been in his coma when she'd left them; it had been all she could do not cling to his bed and refuse to move from his side when Coulson had come to her with his plan. She'd resisted leaving him even long enough to go talk with the Director, prompting Coulson in the end to come to her. He'd spilled out the plot in whispers over Fitz's silent head, and she'd listened without taking her eyes off her friend's motionless face.

Eventually she'd agreed, been made to see the logic in beginning the subterfuge now. They needed to lay the foundations of their deception. There had to be a clear break with S.H.I.E.L.D., an obvious rift between that life and her new one, and the earlier this happened, the more convincing it would be when she turned up for her job. She hadn't wanted to leave Fitz without at least saying goodbye, dreaded this aspect as much as the dangerous lies. They'd been through so much together. Jemma can't bear the thought of him waking up to find her not there.

Is that why he's here? Has something happened to Fitz? She actually feels the blood draining from her face, an experience that a distant scientific part of her brain snags on as fascinating, even as the world starts to grey at its edges. The meals she's skipped conspire with her emotional exhaustion, threatening to knock her off her feet.

"Whoa…" Coulson grabs her arm, and the solidity of her universe grows outward from the pressure of his hand.

"Fitz?" It slips from her before she can fully focus on him. He's close, still holding on to her; she can smell his aftershave.

"He's fine," Coulson says. "He… woke up."

"What?" The crash of too many emotions at once challenges her stability again. She's choked by a tangle of questions that all want to escape, and what comes out is a squeaky, strangled noise.

"Is there somewhere… Can we sit down and talk?"

Jemma realizes they're still in the entryway, the narrow walls smelling faintly of fresh paint. She wonders vaguely if the person who'd chosen the color was the same person who'd selected the furniture. She hasn't asked him how he set all this up, but she knows it wasn't done through one of the team. He'd been adamant from the beginning that May was the only other agent in their group to be involved. No connections, fewer risks. They need the best odds they can manage.

Coulson's waiting for a word from her; she almost tells him to make himself at home. Someone should.

Instead she gathers herself, the rules of hospitality giving her a hold on which to grab. "Of course. The living room?" Jemma works to streamline her flood of questions into something more orderly as they move. "Would you like something?" she hears her voice ask, a reflex of politeness and propriety. "Tea? I may have seen some coffee…"

Coulson sits on the sofa. "Whatever you're having."

She goes into the kitchen, grateful for the time. Fitz is awake. A grin spreads wide over her face as she fills the tea pot with water. Fitz is awake.

But her joy is cut off like the turn of the tap, the questions rushing instantly back in. Is he okay? Does he know where she is? Could there possibly be some way for her to see him? Jemma's eyes sting as the tears rise again, frustrated with how easily they come to her these days. She's an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., a scientist. All this useless emotion is just getting in the way.

No - not S.H.I.E.L.D., she reminds herself. H.Y.D.R.A..

She hides in the kitchen – as well as one can hide in a space with such an open floor plan - until the tea is done, lost in a memory of her friend's pale sleeping face. When she carries the tray into the other room, Coulson looks up from one of the science journals she'd left stacked on the coffee table. From the speed at which he's flipping through it, she can tell he's not actually reading.

He tosses it down casually; Jemma resists an impulse to straighten up the pile. She sets the tray carefully beside it and joins him on the sofa. Coulson shifts to face her, selecting a cup and draping his arm loosely over the back of the cushions. The motion opens his suit coat, pulls the white of his shirt tight over his ribs. She thinks he's lost weight.

"He's fine," Coulson starts, reorienting her attention. But now he pauses. Seems to be searching for more to say. "Not one hundred percent, but fine. Still Fitz."

Something flickers in his eyes at this, and Jemma gets the definite impression that he's not telling her everything. It makes her teeth ache; she fights to unclench her jaw. She makes herself reach for the other cup and its saucer. Channels her focus into keeping her tone even and her hands from shaking as she brings it to her lips. "And what's the prognosis?"

"It's early yet. At this point we'll just have to see how it goes."

It feels like he's picking his words very carefully. This does nothing to halt the mental string of worst case scenarios playing out in her head.

"What about…" Her reluctance to ask trips the words on her tongue. She takes a sip of her tea, tries again. "Was there any brain damage?"

Coulson flinches. Jemma barely notices the burn of the liquid that sloshes out of her cup and over the side of her hand.

"He's… a little confused." As if to make up for this evasive hesitation, his next words climb over each other in their attempts at reassurance. "But we don't know that it'll be anything permanent. He only came out of the coma two days ago. He's barely awake right now for more than ten minutes at a time."

"Two days?" The anguish she's been holding back breaks the words into pieces. Her tea cup clatters in protest when she lets it go a half inch from the table. Jemma gets to her feet. "I have to be with him, maybe I can help. Sir –"

"Sit down." It's calm, a quiet order. Her body obeys, but she sits rigidly on the edge of the sofa. Her hands in her lap, fingers twisting around themselves. "I'm sorry," Coulson says. "But you know you can't."

She won't look at him. If they'd waited the week to put their plan into action, she would have been there when Fitz opened his eyes.

"Has he asked for me?" It's spoken softly, into her lap; she's afraid of the answer. Though she's not sure which answer scares her more.

"The first word out of his mouth," Coulson says with a smile.

"What… what did you tell him?"

The smile falters. He takes a drink to cover this. "Nothing yet. Like I said, he's not very lucid."

"What will you tell him?" What is it she wants him to say?

She looks up to find Coulson studying her face. He shrugs. "What we told the rest of the team. That you needed to take some time."

Time. As if she'd ever run away from the life she loves. She doesn't want to do this.

But they already are doing this. She'd agreed to wear this shell. "We've put word in the right ears that you're on the job market," Coulson says, pushing forward. "I'd expect H.Y.D.R.A. to reach out to you in the next week or so."

Jemma nods, as if this is a good thing. She knows it's supposed to be – she'll need an interview before she can get the job. She visualizes picking up her phone to answer that call, already filling in responses to imagined questions.

"We won't be able to meet like this very often," Coulson continues, pulling her back to the room, "but we'll arrange a series of dead drops to make sure you have everything you need. Here."

He pulls a thin, rolled sheet from his breast pocket, hands it to her. Jemma recognizes the film, a voice-activated screen that she and Fitz had been playing with last year. It'll be the safest way for her to send messages to them. She sets it on the coffee table beside the tea tray.

Her looming isolation blankets her shoulders again. She'd forgotten, for just a moment, having Coulson here.

She doesn't want to do this.

He glances at his watch. Places his cup and saucer on the table next to hers. "I have to go." It's apologetic. Her brain casts about frantically for some way to keep him here. "I don't know when we'll be in contact again. Is there anything you need right now? While I'm here?"

Coulson's on his feet; from her angle still on the sofa, he looks impossibly tall. Jemma starts to shake her head, reconsiders. "Actually, sir, yes." She stands as well – this is a professional request, not some kind of childish… safety blanket. "I'd like to see Fitz's medical records. His brain scans. Maybe there's some way I can help."

That's the second time she's said that, she realizes. She's not entirely certain what it is that she might be able to help with.

It takes a long moment, but he nods. "Okay. I'll see what I can do."

She follows him through the kitchen, back to the entryway. She wants to plead with him not to leave. Coulson stops before the front door and turns back to her. "I know this is hard."

She wonders if he really does. What that emotion is that she sees clouding his eyes.

"But you're the best agent for the job. I'm positive you can do this."

His hands are on her shoulders. Jemma forces a smile.

"Of course, sir. You can count on me."