A/N: First of all, I have once again fallen behind on review responses, for which I sincerely apologize. Hopefully I'll be able to tackle those today.

Second, this is dedicated to my lovely Lexi, who requested this particular trope approximately one million years (and three million fandoms) ago. Hopefully an AOS offering will suffice.

Third, title comes from "Wreck of the Day" by Anna Nalick.

Fourth, note the tags: serious angst ahead.

Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you choose to review!

After, Jemma does not return to work.

Director Fury personally allows her bereavement leave. Or orders it, rather—she can tell by his tone that he's expecting an argument. He doesn't get one; Jemma knows that leaving is for the best. She's having trouble focusing, at the moment, and in the lab, she'd only be a danger to herself and others.

These days, she can barely remember to eat (and, when she does, usually doesn't bother). Running experiments involving dangerous chemicals and unknown alien substances can only end in disaster.

More importantly, she doesn't want to. She doesn't want to do anything but sleep. There's a horrible, hollow grief eating away at her, and the only time it leaves her be is when she's sleeping. The truth follows her wherever she goes, like a permanent cloud of despair hanging above her head, and there's nowhere to hide but in slumber.

It creeps into her dreams, too, of course, but not always. In sleep, there's at least a chance of forgetting, at least for a little while. Her waking hours offer no such hope.

Her placid agreement seems to disturb the Director; as he shows her out of his office, he kindly offers leave for Fitz, as well.

She declines. Fitz has been lovely and patient—coaxing her into eating, holding her through her tears, and he never once let go of her hand at the funeral—and she can't bear it any longer. He wants to comfort her, but comfort is impossible.

She also declines the offer of Barton and/or Romanoff. Their presence would simply be too painful.

In the lift, on her way back to the ground floor, she rests her forehead against the cool glass as she stares out over the Potomac. There are clouds gathering on the horizon, and the other two agents in the lift are discussing the possibility of snow.

Jemma breathes.

It's the fourth of November. One week ago, her husband was killed in the line of duty. Today, she has been told that she is not to return to work for at least two months.

At least. She can stay away even longer, if she likes.

She wonders if she'll return at all.

x

She doesn't take the transport which is waiting to return her to the Hub. Suddenly, she can't stand the thought of it—of returning to their (her) quarters and continuing to live the way she has for the past seven days, forced to bear the condolences and grief of others—forced to remain somewhat presentable, so as not to suffocate under the weight of their concern.

She wants nothing more than to be alone. (This is a lie. There is something she wants much, much more than to be alone, and that is to not be alone. But it's an impossibility, and so she cannot allow herself to wish for it.)

So, instead of taking the transport to the Hub, she takes a taxi to the airport. She has her passport on her, of course, as she always does when not in England—because she likes to have the option open, the ability to return to the country of her birth whenever the mood strikes—and while a last-minute ticket to Paris isn't cheap, it's not enough to give her pause.

She has plenty of money, now. SHIELD offers excellent death benefits for its specialists.

She spends the entire eight hour flight staring out the window. Sleep beckons, but she resists it. There's a voice in her head that advises against it, warning her of vulnerability and strangers and the inherent risk of traveling alone, and she can't bring herself to disobey.

x

She doesn't linger long at Charles de Gaulle. She has no baggage to claim and no family to meet; as soon as the passengers are cleared to leave the plane, she does so. She heads directly outside to the waiting taxis, hires the first one she sees, and, less than an hour later, is dropped off at the front door of the apartment building she flew so far to reach.

The doorman hurries to open the door for her. It's been nearly two years since the last time she was here, but he recognizes her and greets her with a cheerful smile.

"Welcome back, Madame Durand," he says.

"Thank you, Mathis," she replies automatically. She surprises herself by remembering his name; her head is pounding from the crying jag she had on the flight, and she's very close to simply falling asleep right here on the doorstep.

"Shall we expect Monsieur Durand to follow soon?" he asks.

"No," she says, as she walks past him into the building. "Not this time."

None of her grief makes it into her voice. She resists the urge to correct herself, to tell Mathis that, in fact, Monsieur Durand—and the realization that she can't remember the first name associated with this particular false identity makes her oddly dizzy—will never be following. He's dead and buried on the other side of the ocean, laid to rest under a headstone bearing his real name.

He's nothing but a memory and a star on a wall, now. He's left her alone.

She doesn't say it, though. She simply continues across the lobby and into the lift. They own—she owns—the penthouse, so it's a long way up. She spends it digging through her handbag for the key to the front door, which is secreted away in a hidden compartment—along with several others.

Cautious to the point of paranoid. It didn't save his life.

After entering the penthouse, she locks the door behind her, drops the key and her handbag onto the hall table, and then heads for the bedroom. The penthouse is clean and not at all stuffy, despite the years it's been since last they stayed here. The maid service will have aired it out on a regular basis.

She reminds herself to call and cancel it. She doesn't want any visitors—not even ones who provide useful service.

In the bedroom, she kicks her shoes off, strips out of her clothes, and climbs into bed. She curls under the covers on the side which was always his and closes her eyes. She prays for peaceful sleep.

She does not receive it.

x

She drifts through her days. Fitz texts her frequently with questions about her well-being and gentle reminders that he's only a call away, should she need him. She replies to very few of them, but they instill an odd guilt in her; on her second day in Paris, she orders groceries in, and whenever she receives a text from Fitz, she tries to eat at least a little.

Mostly, she fails. But she's trying.

With no one to answer to and no one to check on her in person, she spends most of her time sleeping. Occasionally she's haunted by horrible nightmares—dreams in which he dies right in front of her, over and over again, always in such terrible, violent ways. Other times she has better dreams, dreams of holidays and their honeymoon and thousands of small, peaceful moments. Those are always lovely, right up until the moment she wakes and reaches for him—the moment she remembers that she has nothing but memories, now.

She cries frequently.

There are times she can't sleep, when she wanders through the apartment, reorganizing the bookshelves and moving the furniture and cleaning everything, just for something to do. Other times she retreats to the balcony and spends hours staring out at the city, remembering better days.

She thinks of him often. She can't stop herself. It's like picking at a wound, keeping it fresh—never letting it even begin to scab. The gaping hole in her chest, the empty space where her heart should be, is ever painful, and she prods at it constantly.

It hurts. Terribly.

She can't decide which form of grief is worse: the awful, hollow despair or the horrible, screaming pain. She swings wildly between them, first one then the other, with no discernable pattern. She never knows, when she wakes, which sort of suffering she'll be experiencing that day.

It's easier to sleep.

x

Three weeks after her arrival in Paris, a storm wakes her in the middle of the afternoon. She's grateful for it; the dream she was having was very unpleasant, and the return to reality—where he's dead but at least not in pain—is a relief.

The memory of her nightmare drives her into the shower, because she imagines she can still feel his blood coating her skin. She spends a long time under the spray, first scrubbing away blood that isn't even there and then simply enjoying the warmth of the water. It's the only way she can feel warm anymore. Cold grief has sunk into her very bones, and no amount of blankets or jumpers can chase it away.

Eventually, though, the water runs cold, and she shuts it off and gets out. She doesn't bother to dry her hair—she never does, these days—simply runs a brush through it and calls it done.

In the bedroom, she pulls on one of his t-shirts over her own loose pajama bottoms. None of the clothes here smell like him—nothing does, not when it's been two years since his last visit—but they're comforting nonetheless, and so she wears them often.

She picks up her mobile to check the time and discovers a text from Fitz, received nearly five hours ago. He's seeking her opinion on a prototype weapon he's building, and she deletes the text without responding. She can't think of science now, or of weapons. It hurts too much.

The text reminds her of the need to eat. She's not at all hungry, but she promised herself to try, so she sighs and starts for the kitchen. Two steps into the living room, however, she stops in her tracks.

"Jemma," he says, and stands from the couch.

She stares at him for a long moment. The grief has finally overwhelmed her, she realizes with an odd sense of detachment. She's hallucinating. He's been dead for more than a month, yet she would swear that he's standing right in front of her—looking bruised and battered but still gorgeous and tall and gloriously alive.

She knows it's not real. That doesn't make seeing him hurt any less.

She takes a deep breath and continues into the kitchen, pointedly ignoring him. It's tempting to speak to him, to enjoy the hallucination while it lasts, to hear his voice this one last time—but she knows that doing so would only make it that much more painful when the hallucination ends and he disappears. It's better to just pretend he's not there.

Apparently her hallucination has other plans. He follows her into the kitchen and stands in the doorway as she puts the kettle on. She's found that drinking ginger tea with her meals makes them easier to stomach, and she'll certainly need the assistance this time.

"Jemma," he says again.

"You're not real," she informs him (or, rather, the kettle—she can't bear to look at him).

"Yes, I am," he disagrees. She can hear pain in his voice, and quashes the urge to apologize. "I'm right here."

"You're a hallucination," she says, determinedly keeping her back to him. "Grief has finally driven me mad."

"Jemma—"

"You're not real," she repeats. Tears are burning in the back of her throat, and her voice shakes. "Go away."

"I am real," he says. "I'm not dead." Gentle hands grasp her arms and turn her to face him, and she lets out a little sob. "Jemma. Look at me."

"You're dead," she insists, although she's shaken by how solid he feels—how real the hands on her arm seem. "We buried you. I saw you."

One of his hands leaves her arm in favor of tipping her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. There's a painful-looking cut through his left eyebrow and a nasty bruise blooming on his jaw. Looking at him—into familiar, gorgeous eyes darkened by guilt and sorrow—tears the wound in her chest open a little further.

"You buried an empty coffin," he says. His other hand slides down her other arm to circle her wrist, and he lifts her hand and presses it against his chest—against the strong, steady beat of a heart that isn't really there. "It was fake, Jemma. The op I was on—the only way to complete my mission was to fake my death."

She closes her eyes against the earnest, regretful look on his face, and her tears well over.

"You're dead," she repeats. She flexes her hand against his chest. It feels real, but she knows it's not. He's not. She's just hallucinating.

"I'm not," he says. "I'm not, I promise. I'm sorry." He lets go of her chin and brushes her tears away. "I'm so sorry, Jemma. It wasn't supposed to take this long. It was only supposed to be a few days."

She chokes on a sob and pulls herself out of his grasp, stumbling back against the counter.

"Stop it!" she orders. "You're not real."

"I am," he insists. "Jemma, look at me."

"No," she says, and knocks his arm away when he reaches for her. "No! You are not here."

"Yes, I am," he says. "Jemma, I'm right here."

"No, you're not," she says, and her voice breaks. She's crying in earnest now. "You're dead. I buried you."

It's all she can say—all she can think. He's dead, and she buried him, and she has to live the rest of her life alone. It's the worst kind of torture, seeing him here, because the hallucination can't last forever and once he's gone, he's gone forever.

"I'm sorry," he says. He sounds on the edge of tears himself. "I'm sorry, it wasn't supposed to be this long. There wasn't supposed to be a funeral. You weren't supposed to be alo—"

"Shut up!" she interrupts. "Shut up, shut up, you're not here, you're not real, I buried you—"

Her voice is rising as she creeps towards hysteria, but she's shocked into silence for a moment when he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around her.

He feels real. He feels solid and warm and with her ear pressed to his chest she can hear his heartbeat. He feels real—but he can't be.

"Let go of me," she orders.

He doesn't, and she shoves at his chest, trying to get away from him.

"Let go!" she repeats, struggling. "You're not—you're not—"

"I'm real, Jemma," he says firmly. He doesn't budge an inch under her assault, and his grip on her never falters. "I'm here. I'm alive."

"You can't be," she sobs. "You can't—"

"I am," he says. "I didn't die, Jemma. I'm right here."

She continues to struggle against him, but his arms are like iron and she can't move him. He feels so real—how can a hallucination hold her like this?

"I'm not a hallucination," he says. "Jemma, I'm not dead. I'm right here."

Part of her is starting to believe him, and it hurts, because hope is even worse than despair. She's finding it hard to breathe around the hole in her chest, and she fights harder to get away.

"You're not real," she says, over and over. "You're not real."

"Why not?" he asks, and his sharp tone shocks her back into silence. He softens it as he continues, "Is it really that hard to believe that SHIELD would lie to you? Why can't you accept that I faked my death?"

The fight drains out of her, and she sags against his chest, listening to the heartbeat—slightly elevated, now—that can't possibly be real.

"Because you wouldn't do that to me," she says, around the painful lump in her throat. "You wouldn't leave me unless you had to."

He exhales sharply, like he's been struck, and the arms around her tighten briefly, then disappear. Before she can decide whether or not to move away, he grips her gently by the waist and lifts her off her feet. He sets her on the counter, putting them at eye level, and she stares.

Hallucinations can't do that. Maybe her own mind could hold her in place, trap her in arms that aren't really there, but—lift her off her feet? The counters in this kitchen are high; she can't climb onto them without the aid of a chair (as she discovered during her first cleaning fit).

"I'm sorry," he says, and takes her hand to press it against his heart once more. "But I did, Jemma. I'm really here. I'm alive. I promise."

She stares at her hand on his chest—pale skin against dark fabric—and flexes her fingers. It feels real: the steady beat, the soft cotton, the warm grip on her wrist. She shifts her gaze to meet his eyes, and they look real, too: full of guilt and pain and so much grief.

"You're really here?" she asks, a little hoarsely. Her tears have slowed, but not stopped, and her head is beginning to ache from all of the crying. "You're not dead?"

"I'm not dead," he says softly. He steps closer, right up against the counter, and her knees brush against his sides. That feels real, too. He wipes her tears away gently, and so does that. "I promise."

He cups her face in his hands, and she wraps her hands around his wrists—feels the steady thrum of his pulse, the warmth of his skin. The hope within her is growing stronger, and she doesn't know what to do.

"I'm sorry," he says, for perhaps the hundredth time. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Then he leans forward and kisses her, and it feels so real. His lips are gentle against hers, soft and dry and so different from the playfully forceful way he kissed her goodbye—to keep you warm while I'm gone, he said, and didn't that fail utterly.

She's the one who deepens the kiss, but he goes along with it willingly, sliding his hands into her hair as she lets go of his wrists to run her hands up under his shirt. She traces muscle by memory and touch, and every solid inch of him feels so real beneath her fingers.

Her lungs are burning for air by the time they break apart, and he rests his forehead against hers. His breathing sounds so loud—so real.

"Do you believe me?" he asks.

He's solid beneath her fingers. He can lift her off of her feet and hold her in his arms and kiss her breathless. He's warm and persistent and wears guilt like a coat, just like the real him.

Most importantly, she's tired of fighting. If this is a hallucination—a very, very vivid and prolonged hallucination—it will hurt when he disappears. But she's been hurting for more than a month, now. She's been drifting through her life, drowning in despair, since the moment she got the news.

If he disappears, he disappears, and she'll go on hurting. In the meantime, isn't it better to just enjoy it? To take whatever time she can get?

"I don't know," she says. His hands are resting on her thighs, and she laces her fingers with his. "But I'm willing to try."

"I can work with that," he says, and leans back to meet her eyes. "I love you. And I am so sorry."

"I love you, too," she says. She can't acknowledge the apology. Not yet. "I missed you."

Nearly imperceptibly, he flinches. "I know. I missed you, too."

"Grant," she says. His name feels strange on her tongue. It's the first time she's spoken it since he died. "There are things—there are words, and-and emotions, and you left me alone, but…"

"But?" he asks, quietly, when she trails off.

"Can we pretend there aren't?" she asks. "Can we just—for a moment, can we just pretend that everything's settled? That I believe you're real and all is forgiven?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, of course. Whatever you want."

"Thank you," she says.

She tugs her hands out of his and wraps her arms around him. After a moment, his arms circle her waist, and she presses her face against his shoulder. She breathes him in—earth and soap and gunpowder—and lets the scent of him, the feel of him, envelop her.

For the first time in thirty-two days, she feels really, truly warm. And for a little while—just a little while—she allows herself to believe that she's not alone.

A/N: Two things: before anyone asks, this is kind of a choose-your-own-ending fic. If you want him to be real, he's real. If you would prefer that Jemma is having some kind of mental break? Also a valid choice. It's entirely up to you!

And the other thing, which is completely irrelevant but still very important to me that you know: Jemma forgot to turn the kettle on. It's not like the world's slowest-boiling kettle or anything. Just a complete lack of heat.