A/N: I absolutely should be working on Retrograde and Potential Limitations, but that final scene just begs for some kind of continuation before next week, so here we are. This story won't be too terribly long (maybe 4 or 5 chapters and about 8,000 words overall). I have a probably farfetched idea for how FitzSimmons might be reunited. I hope you enjoy it.


Chapter 1: Breaking Point


The figure stalks her ceaselessly, its sole purpose to end her existence. Sometimes it appears almost spectral; other times it is clearly as solid as the rock that surrounds her. She's never remained near enough to it to gain more than a vague understanding of its basic corporal outline, and she hopes to keep it that way even as her muscles grow weary and her breath settles into the panicked, wheezing gasps that have become her new normal. Her clothes are ragged and stained, her face, bloodied and pinched with exhaustion, and her hope, waning by the second. She's learned to survive on little food or water and even less sleep. She's become a master of concealment, but she is certain that she will not be able to maintain this constant flight response for much longer, and it is clear to her that whatever meager fight she might have in her will not be enough to survive a confrontation with her unknown pursuer.

Even undercover at Hydra, she never experienced this level of constant terror and dread. Even facing the near certainty of Fitz's demise as she furiously treaded water and prayed for a miracle, she never felt this defeated or vulnerable. She has spent the last several months of her existence fleeing across the desolate wasteland of this far flung celestial body, desperate to avoid detection and capture. She has experienced far too many close calls, but, though her body presses her to give into her now apparently inevitable death in this forgotten corner of the universe, her mind is still firmly convinced of her eventual rescue if she can just survive long enough. Though this is beyond what either of them ever studied alone or in tandem, she is sure he will be able to tease out the riddle and put together the pieces of this convoluted puzzle. She cannot afford to lose hope in that belief because it has been her only comfort over the lonely months.

Hearing the faint but steady crunch of an approaching figure's feet on the rocky terrain, she continues her haphazard flight from certain death should she stay. Her lungs and legs burn from the effort, but she does not stop until she can safely hide behind the cover of one of the rock formations dotting the landscape. A sharp sting on her forehead prompts her to touch the skin just above her eyebrow. Sighting fresh blood on her grimy fingertips, she frantically digs into the soil like a dog to reach the moist ground buried inches below the surface. Smearing the gritty mud on her face, she huffs out a breath as the terror and isolation threaten to overwhelm her.

At least with the wound covered, she will make it that much more difficult for the figure to find her amidst the peaked ground. She learned early in her days on this planet that blood attracted the figure's attention more quickly than noise or any other sign of her presence. She's been careful to keep her myriad injuries tended as best she can given her utter lack of resources. Running across rutted terrain in shoes and clothing in no way up to the task has caused her more injuries than she would care to count, though she's certainly lighter on her feet than she ever has been. She hardly ever falls now, though she does tend to cut corners too close, resulting in scrapes and bruises that never seem to heal or fade.

At the sound of the ceaseless treading growing louder, she realizes that her brief respite must come to an end. Sucking in one last breath, she returns to her weary feet and resumes scuttling over the jagged ground and darting to and fro between the stubby peaks that have become her only source of true refuge. She has to scramble back to her feet after her right calf seizes into a debilitating cramp, and she worries that she may not have enough in her after all as the ache settles deep in her muscle.


While she struggles for survival, he spends nearly ever-waking moment wracking his mind for ideas and pursuing even the most tangential and ludicrous leads. The others may have given up on her, but he never will. Whatever inhibitions he might have had before, whatever sense of right and wrong, he has willingly thrown them aside in the interest of saving her. No price is too high, no demand too repulsive. Love, after all, has being making people ignore their better judgment for millennia. Who is he to break that pattern?

When his tireless search ends in heartbreak, he thinks he will never be able to cope with the reality of her loss. At first, he is mute as he staggers from the pain of the gaping hole Coulson's words tear in his soul. Even as the apparently useless scroll flutters to the floor, all he can see is the character for death, almost as if it has been seared permanently onto his retinas. As the weight of his devastating grief threatens to break him, he finds one last reserve by drawing on the vast torrents of rage rushing through his mind. Heedless of the consequences, he stalks through the base, snatching a rifle from the weapon stores with only one goal in mind.

His determined pace doesn't slow until he finally stands in front of the door concealing the object that has made the last few months a living hell for him. Stomping in the door and blasting the container with two shots does nothing to lessen his fury. In what world, under the purview of what greater beings, was it just for her life to have been snatched so abruptly away? For the two of them to be torn apart in this manner? For their story, which had once been so vibrant and joyful, to end like this, in heartbreak and devastation?

Tossing the rifle carelessly aside, he does what he has wanted to do for months, and most especially since finally having to face her end. He pulls open the last barrier and dares the monolith to shift—all but begs it to take him too—because he has never wanted to live in a world where she doesn't, and the reality of such a world is too much for him to bear.

He eventually screams himself hoarse and falls to the ground in agony, though he never stops ineffectually beating the stone with his hands even long after his voice finally fails. They find his lanky form curled up against the monolith hours later, salty lines trailing down his cheeks and rust-colored blood covering his abused knuckles and palms. When he opens his eyes as Mack carries his limp form back to his room, they all realize that their greatest fear has come to pass. In losing her, they've also lost him. He looks but he does not see. He breathes, but lives only in the most basic sense of the word. The light has gone from his form, and none of them think it will ever shine with any sense of brilliancy even if he can regain it.


A/N: I'll post the second (and maybe the third) chapter tomorrow. Thanks for reading!