Disclaimer: I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., nor any places, things, characters, or ideas therein. They belong to Marvel, Disney, the writers, etc., not to me. I am writing this fic for entertainment purposes only, not monetary gain.

Summary: Spoilers for 03.02, "Purpose in the Machine." A peek into Jemma's mind after the chaos. :FitzSimmons:

Rating: K+

Warnings: Vague hints of PTSD, and mention of a weapon

Pairing(s): FitzSimmons

Spoilers: The end of 02.22, 03.01, & 03.02

Author's Note: Many thanks to my dear beta, Mama Jo, for looking this over and polishing it up for me. You are a diamond in the rough, my dear. As far as the fic itself, I had so many FitzSimmons feels after the end of Purpose in the Machine, it blasted me out of my lazy lurking in the AoS fandom, where I've done nothing but voraciously read. I had to write something, and here it is. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for reading!

*~Don't Let Go~*

.:fyd818:.

Sleeping.

It had been so, so long since she'd gotten good sleep. A stolen moment here and there, yes, but always shallow and never restful. A good night's sleep was as foreign now as home, family, companionship, safety. But it felt so wonderful...

Wake!

Jemma jolted upright, her hand clutching the little - so laughably little and ineffective, but it helped give her the confidence she so sorely needed - weapon she'd fashioned for herself. Her senses reeled, eyes searching her surroundings for threats (there were always threats, even if she didn't always see them), ears ringing in the silence, mouth dry with fear.

Stupid!

Something had woken her. Why did I sleep so long? She didn't know what, and she didn't know why. But she had fallen asleep, and it felt so good. And then she'd been dreaming, about Fitz and how he'd come for her. It had been so real she could have sworn she felt his hand in hers.

Dream?

It wasn't the first dream of him she'd had, but it was certainly the most painful. They'd left things in a terrible mess before she got sucked in and wound up here...

Here?

The adrenaline racing through her veins had faded enough for Jemma to start noticing her surroundings. It didn't look like her living nightmare - no sand, no alien sky. More things began to occur to her, like the sheets smoothly tucked around her, the softness of clean, undamaged clothing against her skin, and the way her hair felt untangled and was pulled back off her face.

Safe?

She realized she was shaking, her fingers locked so tightly around her weapon they actually hurt. Jemma uneasily scanned her surroundings again, searching, making absolutely, undoubtedly sure this was home. Not another dream. Not a hallucination brought on by wanting something so badly. But actually, really, truly, home.

Home...

Then Jemma's eyes fell on the form leaning back against the wall next to her bed. Fitz's head rested against the wall, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with the slow, even breaths of deep, comforting, restful sleep.

Fitz.

The word was like a balm, soaking through her panic and easing its way into her terrified mind, her exhausted muscles, her pounding heart.

Fitz.

Without even realizing it, her fingers released her weapon. Jemma let out a shaky breath, the realization that Fitz's hand around hers hadn't been a dream. It had been real. Somehow, someway, he had found her, saved her, brought her home.

Fitz.

Home.

Safe.

Those three words became synonymous in her mind. Jemma eased back the sheets, the mantra sweeping through her thoughts again as she focused on Fitz. On his relaxed form, on the steady rise and fall of his chest, on his hands resting on his lap.

Fitz. Home. Safe.

Jemma lifted her eyes to his face, drinking in his familiar features, allowing them to soothe her parched memory. His features looked almost boyish in their relaxation, with the lines of thought and worry between his brows smoothed. His lips were almost smiling, even though they were open slightly as puffs of his breath eased out.

Safe.

Jemma crept over, feeling the last bit of her panic wisp away into nothingness as she settled in next to him. Very carefully, so she wouldn't wake him (she wasn't ready to face him, to talk to him, though she very desperately wanted to thank him), she leaned her head over and rested it on his leg.

Home.

He was warm and solid beneath her head, his presence a talisman against the dreams and panic. They were not gone for good, Jemma knew. They would return. It would be a very long time until she was free from that, and from the scars - mental and physical - her experience left on her.

Fitz.

But he was here. He had come for her, he had grasped her hand and he hadn't let go. And, for now, that made things all right. She could face everything else later, in the light of day with Fitz solidly at her side. For now...

Sleep.

Deep, restful sleep, with no dreams but the knowledge that Fitz was there, protecting her from the nightmares and never giving up on her.

Home.

At long last, she could, because she was...

Safe.

*~The End~*

Author's Ending Notes: I've been lurking about the A.o.S. fandom since the beginning of the show, voraciously reading FitzSimmons fanfiction. But I've never actually written anything for them, until now. All the feels I had at the end of Purpose in the Machine knocked me out of my laziness, and prompted me to write this little piece. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!