I have a tendency to write angsty fics when I'm having a bad day, so this happened. Title from the Emily Dickinson poem "If I Should Die."
There are enough veins and arteries in Jemma Simmons' body to wrap around the Earth more than two times, and none of them are pumping blood anymore.
And there are so many cells in Jemma's body that Skye can't fathom the number, but she can fathom the reality that those cells are dying just like Jemma had died and there wasn't anything she could do to stop it.
There's nothing beautiful about death, but Jemma is still beautiful even through it and past it, and Skye cannot help but think she'll be beautiful forever because Jemma's eyes may be glazed but the shockingly deep color is still there and that's enough to remind her of the wonder that is — was — Jemma Simmons.
And it's all too sudden.
The mission was simple, beyond simple. But they always said that.
There wasn't supposed to be anyone in the building, but supposing something didn't make it true and supposing couldn't bring her back. The man had burst from a doorway and Skye had barely enough time to think that this sounded all too action movie-esque before she saw the body.
In movies they saved lives. And Jemma did, Skye thinks, save a life.
But it sure doesn't feel like that when Ward and May return not with a person but an object. They call her parents first, deliver the news and swallow down their own tears so they can listen to those of her family. And Skye should take part. It's her job. But Jemma was dead, motionless, and maybe it would make it easier if she stayed motionless, thoughtless, too.
Skye isn't a scientist. The smear of blood nauseates her and the rapidly cooling warmth of Jemma's hands scares her and there's no reason for her to be here if Jemma Simmons isn't. Jemma would've known what to do. She would've acted and responded and thought, whereas Skye is caught between unbearable pain and indecision.
It's supposed to her on that table with the bullet hole through her brain but it's Jemma instead, and Skye doesn't know what to do.
She should be dead and gone and she's not, because Jemma took the bullet.
Skye grips Jemma's hand tightly as if the pain would bring her back, as if she would wake and complain about the strength of Skye's hold. As if Skye were her tether to Earth and letting go would mean losing Jemma.
It kind of would, in Skye's mind.
Jemma hadn't even been meant to go on the mission. It was Skye's mission. And therefore, her bullet.
But she had woken that morning with a headache that had ruined everything, and the scientist — the scientist without any field training — had volunteered to take Skye's place without a second thought.
Skye had smiled, at least. She had smiled gratefully and headed back to bed without saying goodbye.
She whispers it over and over, "Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye," like saying it any louder would make it true. She notices, finally, that Jemma's hands have lost their warmth altogether.
She thinks that maybe she understands why Jemma was so entranced by biology, because Jemma had to have been more than cells. Skye has never been good at science, but now she wants to understand, wants to know what made Jemma into Jemma and where that substantiality has gone.
So she can't let go. Not now, not ever.
But she finally lets herself set her head down on Jemma's still chest, and she lets herself cry.