He looks so… small.
That's it. That's the first and only description that occurs to her as she slips quietly through the door. His curly hair is plastered to his forehead, and his hands lie straight by his side and it's so unnatural because as long as she's known him those hands have created and gestured but have never once rested.
Except, now, they're quiet and unmoving and it seems wrong.
The machine that breathes for him looms nearby, omitting the only sound that somehow thunders and roars in her ears and May just can't tear her eyes from the bed, watching his chest rise and fall with the beep of the machine.
He's so still, so silent. So small.
He's just a kid, but he's another kid she failed to save.
A kid caught in a fight caught in the crosshairs of battle and it really is only the innocents who suffer in war.
May wishes she could've protected him,
She wishes she did more than crush Ward's larynx.
She's pulled out of her thoughts when there's a soft rustle, a whimper which makes the noise of the machine seem like nothing at all.
Somehow, besides this boy who looks so small, is a girl who looks even smaller.
Simmons' sleeping in the chair besides his bed, slouched over in her seat with an open book draped across her legs and this is when May's years of training kicks in.
She estimates by the state of her rumpled clothes that Simmons has been in that chair for 30 minutes by now.
(How long she was there, reading to him and sitting by his side May isn't sure of)
She knows that at one point, Simmons's intelligent, melodic voice as she read aloud began to quiver, needing to pause and gulp for air in an attempt to calm herself down. And then there's the tissues that lay in heaps on the floor, screaming at May, telling her that those eager eyes tinted with burden and fear grew wet, and soon tears poured and poured out until she was empty.
May doesn't know how this small, empty, broken scientist still hasn't stop trying to pull the pieces back together.
Closing the door shut behind her, May picks her way over to Simmons and crouches down, making sure her voice is soft as she speaks.
"Simmons, come on."
It's not a question because it's not up for negotiation. There are dark bags underneath her eyes and although it's only been about a week since she was at the bottom of the ocean Jemma Simmons looks like she's aged years.
Only the innocents suffer in war.
Simmons' eyes don't even open as she responds.
"No."
May tries again.
"Simmons—"
"No!"
She bolts upright and the book falls to the floor with a thud, eyes ablaze with a fire set deep within.
"I have to be here. I have to—what if he wakes up, and there's no one? And he's all alone? No. I have to stay."
Simmons settles back down into the chair, gripping the ends of the chair with her hands as if May is going to try to tear her away and she has to hold on for dear life.
May doesn't move, but she doesn't hesitate either.
"Let me."
Simmons takes a deep, shuddering breath, and she's trembling all over and May places her hand gently on her shoulder.
"Go to bed, and let me stay here and wait until you come back. If he wakes up, I'll come get you."
Simmons' doesn't answer, turning her gaze towards Fitz and her brows furrow as if she's trying to communicate with him still in that strange psychically linked way that only Fitzsimmons can speak and she's trying to tell him to wake up wake up now.
May looks on with her, looking at the small boy in the bed then back at the small girl in the chair. "I promise."
She means it.
Of course she does.
Simmons must sense it too, because she finally relents, nodding and letting May help her up. The chair creaks as Simmons stands up, and May moves with her out the door and down the hall but somehow the beeping of the machine still rings in May's ears.
Simmons goes to bed, and May takes her place. She looks at the textbook that lies abandoned on the floor and looks at the door and then finally looks at Fitz.
May leans in, and she whispers.
"I'm sorry. I should've seen Ward, I should've known—" May pauses, trying to piece together the thoughts that race through her mind. "—I should've been there, for both of you."
She hesitantly reaches out and takes his hand in hers. "Wake up, Fitz," she commands, "you have to wake up."
May pulls back, settles into the chair, and then she waits.
She promised that she'll wait and although she still doesn't know how this girl is trying to pull the pieces back together, May's damn sure that she's not going to be the reason the pieces crumble altogether.
(She doesn't think about the pieces she's trying to pull back together either)
So she waits and she waits, and she waits even when Simmons comes back and the minutes and the hours and the days go by May waits for Fitz to wake up.
On the ninth day, he does.