Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., nor any Radiohead song.

"Breathe, keep breathing

Don't lose your nerve

Breathe, keep breathing

I can't do this alone"

— Exit Music (For A Film), Radiohead

1.

The first time it happens, she's taken by surprise.

She's lost in thought, her mind brimming with ideas about how to improve Fitz's latest blueprints, when she hears a loud thump coming from his dorm. She stops dead in her tracks—what the hell? She left him for merely ten minutes to drop her bag in her room.

It's the second crash that prompts her to open his door without knocking. At first, her brain has some trouble deciphering what's going on—Fitz's arms flailing madly and hurling things to the floor, the room a complete mess—but then she sees it.

His phone. Or rather what's left of it, pieces scattered close to the wall against which it must have been thrown. She remembers how much Fitz loved the device—"state-o'-th'-ar', really"—and she understands something is very, very wrong.

His back turned to her, Fitz is not yet aware of her presence and keeps violently throwing stuff across his dorm, and she'd be lying if she said she's not frightened by the sheer intensity of his rage. As one of his early projects lands on the ground, Simmons knows she has a choice: she can either beat a hasty retreat and forget all about this, or actually do something.

She's not quite sure she's wanted here. After all, she's known the boy for only five months, and even though they turned out to be great working partners, he's always very secretive about his private life, most of the time keeping his mouth shut while she does all the talking.

The decision is easy.

"Fitz," she whispers after having closed the door carefully. Despite her use of his surname, there's a certain intimacy in the way she strings the four letters together, and the bubble surrounding them seems to thicken with it.

Fitz doesn't even flinch, yet when he turns around, his distorted face displays a lot—pain, confusion, hopelessness, anger. He opens his mouth, the words coming out as a raw whisper.

"Mum jus' calle'. He's dea'." He swallows. Hard. "He's gone, Simmons. Th' bastar's gone."

She does the math quickly. Fitz is not a people person, and she's fairly sure his closest circle consists of herself, his mother and his dad, with whom she had managed to gather he has—had—the weirdest relationship.

She's not certain in which way he's upset, but she doesn't ask. Still in a frenzy, he's about to destroy their latest prototype when she surges forward and grips his shoulders, urging him to calm down, it's gonna be okay Fitz, I'm here.

Her touch is tentative as it's the first time she crosses that physical barrier between them, but at least it prevents him from smashing anything else. She can feel him trembling under her hands, his whole body shaken by spasms coming in ripples. His chest is heaving as he tries to regain control of his breath.

Eyebrows scrunched together, Fitz is about to say something when their gazes lock with an intensity that almost makes Simmons recoil—but she doesn't. Instead, she refuses to break the contact, her hazel eyes fixed on his dazzling azure ones, her expression unadorned yet caring.

Suddenly, she sees something shift in his expression. It's a fleeting thing, no more than the duration of a heartbeat, and then it's gone—but she's positive it was there. So when Fitz's body abruptly slumps forward in defeat and it's all she can do to slow down his fall, she's vividly aware that he chose not to pretend in front of her.

She thinks it's one of the bravest things she's ever witnessed.

They sink together to the floor, his weight too much to bear for her slender frame. Yet, her grip on him is nothing but adamant, both physically and emotionally. It takes Fitz no more than a few seconds to lie down and curl up into a fetal position, his head resting in her lap and facing outward while Simmons props up her back against the foot of the bed.

She instantly has one arm wrapped securely around his waist, but she pauses for a moment as her free hand hovers uncertainly above his head. She's never even considered touching him in any way before, and now she wonders how many boundaries she can cross in one evening.

However, when a heart-wrenching sob escapes his lips all of a sudden, she's incredibly annoyed with herself for being so silly, because the boy in her lap obviously needs someone right now and it's the only certitude that should really matter at the moment.

A second later her hand finds its way into his hair, her fingers tunneling through his unruly curls, lightly massaging his scalp and drawing soothing patterns, over and over and over again. When she feels his body relax just the slightest bit under her touch, she silently vows to herself to never let go.

There's not a sound in the room other than the occasional "Shhh" and "I've got you" from Simmons as she keeps caressing his locks, and after a while Fitz eventually cries himself to sleep, one arm awkwardly curled around her thigh.

Being a woman of her word, she stays awake and holds him the entire night.

2.

The second time, she's expecting it.

It's been two days since all hell broke loose at the Hub, with Garrett revealing himself as the Clairvoyant, a potentially lethal life-scale hide-and-seek game, and freaking HYDRA taking over S.H.I.E.L.D. It had been hard enough to be separated from Fitz during the whole ordeal, but it hurts ten times more to know he's hiding something from her.

She'd understood right away something was wrong, from the moment she'd launched herself into his arms; the vigor of his hug couldn't quite conceal the stiffness of his limbs. She'd said nothing though, trusting him to fill her in as soon as they returned to the safety of the Bus.

But now it's been two days.

Two days, and it's so obvious something's gnawing at him that she feels like screaming. Well, to be fair, it's probably only obvious to her. The changes in Fitz's behavior are so minor she's not surprised no one else has noticed—but they are like flashing lights to her. An extra second for him to finish her sentences. An easy joke he doesn't think to make. A haunted expression on his face when he thinks no one's looking.

So when May asks her if he's getting better, she's frustrated because she doesn't know, and she never thought it could be possible when involving Fitz. It only takes her a moment more to register that May is wondering if Fitz's fine, which means she's aware something's off in the first place. And although the older Agent might be perceptive, Simmons doubts she can read Fitz that well.

There's only one explanation: something bad occurred at the Hub when they were apart, something so awful he won't even tell her. But why? Out of fear, or spite? Out of shame?

Only Fitz can solve that question, although May is able to answer another. So Simmons asks, and May inquires if she's sure, if she doesn't want to learn it from Fitz. Tell me, she replies, because she's a doctor, a scientist specialized in biochemistry, and she needs the symptoms in order to find the cure.

When May explains everything—how they were cornered, how she somehow didn't see the guy aiming at her, how he was compelled to act—, all Simmons can hear is the word "shot" playing in repeat in her mind, over and over again, like a horrifying mantra. She's not scared by what he did, though.

She's afraid for him.

Underneath thick layers of sarcasm and cynicism and impertinence, she knows Fitz is actually compassionate and caring. He has the utmost respect for human life, and yet he robbed someone of his. No wonder he's being distant—he had just broken the one unspoken rule he'd imposed on himself out of righteousness.

Simmons does her best to stifle the pang of pain tugging at her heart at the thought that he didn't tell her; whatever he may think, stubborn as he may be, Fitz needs the reassurance of their bond, the warmth of their friendship, the shelter of their love. And she is determined to give him just that.

She doesn't bother to knock on his door before entering his bunk. Sure enough, he's sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched and head down. An aura of desperation mixed with anguish has latched itself on Fitz's very stance, something she has never seen before. When he raises his eyes towards her, the wind is knocked right out of Simmons.

Tears are streaming down his face, leaving visible tracks on his smooth cheeks. However, these are not hot tears of rage and frustration; these are cold beads of sorrow, the silent litany of a shattered soul slowly drowning in remorse.

There's no fight left in him, and it's breaking her heart.

Ironically enough, she would have preferred the angry Fitz from the night of his dad's death—that one, she knows how to handle. But the distressed, hopeless version? She has no idea how to deal with it. That's a first, and it's terrifying.

So she lets her instincts kick in, joining him on the bed and putting her hands on his shoulders. He tries to shy away from her, angling his body the opposite way, but she just won't let him shut her out again. Instead, she moves until she's sitting behind him, a leg stretched out on either side of his frame, her front pressing hard against his back. Her arms sneak around his abdomen, folding over his stomach in what she hopes is a comforting embrace, while her cheek goes to rest between his shoulder blades.

Simmons' nostrils are filled with the distinctive scent of Fitz, an intoxicating combination of leather, autumn rains and sweat, although there's no way she can focus on it while he begins to hiccup in her arms.

"I've kille' him," he murmurs almost inaudibly, head bowed. "I have kille' a man, Jemma," he goes on with a strangled voice. "I fire' th' gun—three times!"

I know, she replies, I know.

Fitz's breath catches in his chest, making Simmons realize he's about to hyperventilate. Trying to divert his attention, she lets go of him to lie down on the mattress, gently dragging him with her. Once settled on her back, she slides one arm around his shoulders while the other pulls at his waist, tucking him more fully against her side. His face is buried in the hollow of her throat, head resting just above her chest where he can hear her heartbeat. One of his hands grips a handful of her shirt at her midriff, clutching it like a lifeline.

Her tone soothing, she tells him that he did what he had to, that he saved May's life, that they're at war and it means kill or be killed. An echo of the past, she tells him, you're the hero. When he confesses he's afraid of becoming the villain, she counters that he made the only choice left to a brave man—he acted out of love.

Fitz's breathing evens out gradually under Simmons' gentle touch, her hand making random patterns up and down from his neck to his lower back, the pads of her fingers effortlessly following the outline of his spine before expanding their journey across his skin in an effort to map out the flesh and muscles there. Once or perhaps twice, she can't help but drop a light kiss to his hairline, her lips lingering against his skin for a second too long.

He seems as fragile and small as a child in her arms; she feverishly loathes, abhors, despises what the world has done to the kindest soul to ever walk this earth.

"Pleas' dinna hate me," he whispers after a while, and suddenly she understands why he wasn't willing to tell her.

It was not for lack of trust; it was not intended to hurt her. It was not even shame. On the very contrary, her partner, best friend, alter ego was merely trying to protect her from disappointment and confusion and repugnance—to protect her from himself.

A sad smile creeps up on her face; Leopold Fitz, engineer extraordinaire and Academy darling, is as usual putting her needs ahead of his.

Once again, she recognizes the act of bravery—the act of love.

Silly Fitz, she thinks. I could never hate you.

She's not sure whether she's spoken the words aloud or not, but then Fitz is thanking her repeatedly, his short breaths caressing the column of her throat.

She holds him tighter.

3.

The third time it happens, she's the trigger.

Or rather the bearer of bad news. She's examining Agent Koenig's lifeless body, Fitz's endless stream of comments ringing in her ears in the same fashion as the buzzing of an annoying mosquito. She tries very hard not to snap at him when demanding that he let her work, failing miserably but still not allowing it to distract her.

She's in scientist mode—calm, collected, composed. As a result, it doesn't take here more than a mere fifteen seconds to come to the only possible conclusion. She knows she's right, beyond any doubt; however, that does not make it easier to tell. She can't bring herself to look Fitz in the eyes, not wanting to see the ache she's unmistakably about to put in them.

Just as she starts listing all the evidences in technical terms in a pathetic attempt to delay the blow, she realizes it's not right. She doesn't even care about the others' potential reaction; the only one she has in mind is Fitz, and Fitz doesn't deserve being patronized. She owes him nothing less than the truth, as ugly and blatant as it may be, because lying is the one thing they have never tolerated in their relationship.

So she takes a deep breath, trying to picture her feelings being gathered up in an indestructible iron box, and finally sets the words free.

"Ward did this."

An immediate clatter follows her statement—Fitz is blindly throwing various objects across the room, apparently set on destroying anything within his reach. The others are paralyzed in stupor, but of course she moves, instantly running towards him and taking hold of his shoulders, his name on her lips.

He tries to shove her off at first, violently banging at the wall with his calloused palms, his face the image of anger mixed with pain. However, she does not relinquish her hold—she'd be damned before she ever does. As he is finally leaning forward on his outstretched arms, fists clenched on the cold workbench and breathing hard, she rests one hand on the small of his back, trying to anchor him to her, while the other tentatively pats his right shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.

Despite all her efforts, she can't prevent her heart from shattering at the literal manifestation of the pain he's experiencing. An unwelcome, single tear rolls off her cheek, and she quickly wipes it away.

So much for an indestructible iron box.

She doesn't expect the rest of the team to understand what's going on in his head at the moment, but she does. In spite of his social awkwardness, Fitz actually places a high value on friendship and loyalty. The true reason why she's scared out of her mind when he goes on a mission is not that she doubts his field abilities, but that she is certain he would give up his life to save a teammate's—in a heartbeat.

Consequently, the boy would regard it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his friends. Sometimes, she finds herself in awe of his willingness to believe in his comrades with untempered faith and blind trust. She often contemplates that she doesn't have the amount of courage it requires.

Not for the first time, she wonders if he knows how brave he is. Probably not.

Then Coulson is standing right in front of Fitz, slightly bent to catch his attention, asking him to help find Skye. Yes, she thinks as the older man speaks, thank you, thank you for offering him something to focus on. She reckons Fitz isn't lured by the antics, but at least he accepts the distraction.

Doing as he is told, he mournfully exits the room, Simmons closely following suit. It's just the two of them now, but she restrains herself from hugging him, as she would do it mostly for her sake rather than his. He did accept her touch earlier, but he still hasn't acknowledged her presence or said a word to her yet.

It's okay, though. She knows he's not mad at her in the slightest; he just needs time to cool off and come to terms with what the man he thought of as a surrogate brother did. Nonetheless, what he also needs is having her in his close vicinity, within arms' reach, so he can see for a fact that he is not alone, that he has someone, that she cares.

She does not leave him for the rest of the day.

Eventually, when their ragtag team is catching its breath in a secluded hotel, enjoying what might just be the last peaceful night before a seemingly unavoidable descent into hell, she's sitting at the pool right beside her longtime partner. And when, at long last, he opens his mouth, what he says and what she hears are two very different things.

"Tell me tha' ye're no' HYDRA." Promise me you'll never betray me.

"I know tha' i's ridiculous, bu' I jus' need t' hear ye say i'." You'll be beside me the whole damn time, yeah?

"Because if ye ever di', I don' know wha' I woul' do." I love you too much to let you go.

She doesn't even consider taking offence in his uncertainties; she understands what he's really asking. There's not a lot of things left she's sure about, but there is one she can never question: the authenticity of their bond.

So, just before reassuringly putting her hand on his knee, she makes him the only promise she can truly keep.

"You'll never have to find out."

Several hours later, after all the others have gone to bed and they're sitting alone by the pool, Fitz softly presses a kiss into her hair before helping her to her feet, and Simmons feels a comforting warmth spreads through her entire body.

4.

The fourth time, she manages to prevent it.

It's been roughly two months since Director—well, former Director—Fury pulled them out of the bloody ocean. Two months since Fitz offered her a chance to live by sacrificing himself and that, being English, she'd obstinately refused to leave him behind. Two months since he told her.

Yeah, an' ye're more than tha', Jemma.

The words are still echoing in her head several times a day, but she refuses to acknowledge them at the moment. Instead, she's savoring the fact that they're alive, both of them; for the time being, she's dedicated to helping her partner in his recovery.

Perhaps when he's better, she'll allow herself to actually think about where she stands in their relationship and how she'd like things to evolve. But right now, concepts of romance and dating and lovers are nothing but silly to her. In her mind, there's no higher stage than what they already have—a single soul dwelling in two bodies. They're each other's person; the affection and care and passion between them run as deep as it gets.

It had taken Fitz almost five weeks—thirty-three agonizing days—to wake up from a coma. In the early course of his unconsciousness, his dedicated team of five supposedly extra-qualified doctors hadn't been able to determine if he'd survive at all. When he actually outlived the critical phase, they had thrown at her words devoid of meaning—possible amnesia, permanent brain damage, motor paralysis.

At some point, the medical team had also tried to stop her from remaining at his side, but they'd backed off rather promptly when she'd threatened to have their food contaminated with a nasty, highly contagious and very adaptive two-words-and-nine-syllables-long bacteria.

For thirty-three days and thirty-two nights, Simmons hadn't left Fitz's bedside, her hand alternatively clutching his, brushing back his soft curls or stroking the rough scruff on his jaw. Eventually, when he finally woke, her bright eyes were the first thing he saw (and her lips on his forehead the first thing he felt).

Three and a half weeks later, Fitz's health status is better than anyone would have dared presume, although it does not surprise Simmons all that much. The boy's a bloody Scot, for Christ's sake—stubbornness and pride run in his blood. His arm, now almost fully mended, rests most of the time in a sling to relieve any unwanted pressure, while his motor skills only suffer from a bit of desynchronization; all in all, nothing that six months of physical therapy can't fix.

Simmons is aware he got the best deal he could hope for; however, she also knows that it's not nearly enough for him. Leopold Fitz, underestimated genius and actual rocket scientist who likes to do things with his bare hands, betrayed by his own body; she has no doubt the mere thought is killing him.

So she monitors him—discreetly, as he hates being babied—ready to step in the moment he crumbles.

Sure enough, he doesn't disappoint.

The night has already fallen for several hours when Simmons notices that Fitz hasn't come back from the lab facility left at their disposal. That's where they spend the majority of their time at the Playground, at least when Fitz isn't enduring one of his motor rehabilitation sessions. It almost feels like good old times—almost.

Because of course, it's anything but like good old times.

Thankfully, Fitz has lost none of his mental faculties, so they can still brainstorm ideas and talk science. The downside is that he's forbidden from actually building devices , as he is not to strain his muscles farther than what is absolutely necessary. She has caught him looking longingly at the tools on his assigned workbench more than once, fingers impatiently drumming against his thighs.

That night, when she enters the lab as silently as she can so he doesn't notice her, Simmons' heart plummets inside her chest. He's doing exactly what he shouldn't, which is precisely what she expected from him: tinkering. The gadget itself is nothing fancy, with no obvious purpose, but she guesses he just needed to prove something to himself.

For a while, she finds herself unable to move as she's enthralled by the familiar dance of his hands, deft and clever. But then it happens—his grip on the screwdriver slips, splitting apart some of the newly assembled pieces that tumble on the worktable with a sickening metallic sound. A loud Scottish obscenity escapes his lips, one that would have make her scrunch her nose in any other circumstances.

The silence that follows is deafening, and she's rooted on the spot as she witnesses him fail at what's supposed to be his forte for the first time since they met. For a second, she imagines herself in his shoes, unable to do what she's best at; the concept in itself makes her head spin.

Simmons forces herself to gulp down the remnant of the guilt she's been experiencing since their infamous incident for taking the oxygen, for not having regained the surface faster, for not having fought him harder when there was only one breath left, but two of them. She's more than aware that everything is her fault, and her fault alone. It's a wonder the boy doesn't nurse the slightest seed of hate for her, even though she's the reason he's incapable of building the stupidest device in the world.

But Fitz is no quitter.

The one thing he doesn't lack is courage, and so he perseveres.

Shoulders squared, he picks up the screwdriver and the structure of the device in order to erect the various pieces together once again. It only takes a few minutes for both of them to recognize it's no use, though; his hands are badly shaking under the effort, and his not-so-slowly-rising temper doesn't help. When she hears his sharp intake of breath after his third unsuccessful attempt to align the screwdriver to the corresponding thread, Simmons knows the dam is near broken.

She cannot allow him to fall apart. Not again, not now.

The only thing she wants is to restore his faith in himself, to balance his uncertainties and frustrations with her infinite optimism like she did countless times. She needs him to remember that it will get better, because they will do what they always do; they're gonna fix this, together. Her gut—her heart—tells her that it is exactly what he must see right now, and so she moves.

Giving him a chance to compose himself, Simmons closes the door behind her a bit louder than necessary before actually entering the lab. From the corner of her eye, she sees him freeze, although he makes no movement to hide what he's doing. In fact, he makes no movement at all.

She approaches his side with as much normalcy as she can muster, because the last thing Fitz needs is to be treated like a wounded animal. He remains sat still on the edge of his stool like a statue, head down and jaw set, waiting for her. The boy's purposefully refusing to meet her gaze, but it doesn't matter for what she has in mind.

She stops right beside him and gently lays a hand on his left wrist, pulling the slightest bit. His eyebrows scrunch together in puzzlement, but she makes her intention clear when she tugs again.

Please. Let me show you.

He doesn't resist, letting her raise his arm up just enough for her to slide under it before lowering it back down. With that single motion, she's wedged between his legs, her back pressed against his warm chest while his arms are bracketing her form on both sides. Even though there's just enough space for her slim frame to fit between his body and the workbench, it doesn't feel oppressive at all.

It feels right.

She places her hands on top of his, her arms lightly resting on his own as she senses him softly shift behind her, tilting his head over her right shoulder in order to see what she's doing.

First, however, the only thing she does is talk—about anything she can think of, as long as it is insignificant and trivial and definitely not serious. She's usually terrible at small talk, but everything comes to her pretty easily. Keeping her tone soft and low as if they are trading secrets, she carries on and on and on: what she's planning on cooking for the entire week; her awful school trip in ninth-grade; her parents' preposterous obsession with starting golf at the age of sixty; the England national team's chance of winning the upcoming Football World Cup.

At some point, without interrupting her diatribe, Simmons delicately puts Fitz's fingers into motion on the device by moving her own. It takes him several seconds to comply, but soon enough he begins following her rhythm and eventually applying his own, shifting their balance like they often do. Suddenly they're working in harmony on the gadget, four hands spurred by one purpose. When his grip falters or his movements are shaky, she tightens her hold and steadies him. That's all she allows herself to do, though.

He's leading; she's supporting.

They operate that way for what feels like hours before the metallic pieces are finally shaped into a coherent and solid aggregate. As she'd guessed, the device is pretty useless, but it is complete. They set it safely on the worktable, studying it for a while in complete silence as Simmons catches her breath, her throat raw from all the talking.

She's not yet willing to disentangle her body from his so she doesn't, letting herself bask in the familiar warmth emanating from Fitz, his musky scent surrounding her. As she slightly pushes back against his torso in an attempt to get closer, his arms slowly leave from under hers and come to encircle her waist, holding her against him with a gentle steadiness that constricts her chest somewhat.

As his thumbs start gently stroking the outline of her ribs over the fabric of her shirt, his lips brush the exposed skin at the junction of her neck and shoulder, remaining there for several seconds before he replaces them with his scruffy chin. She understands what the unusual gesture is meant to say.

Thank you.

A small smile crossing her features, she places her left hand on one of his wrists, her other arm awkwardly reaching behind her so she can lightly stroke the curls at the nape of Fitz's neck. She leans her head sideways until her temple comes to rest against the side of his forehead, his hot breath teasing her collar.

You're welcome.

She doesn't even try to guess how long they stay like that in the lab, hugging each other with their heads connected, not moving an inch. After a while, her legs are numb and her back is stiff, but what they have in that moment is worth so much more than any physical pain that she couldn't care less.

At that precise instant, they're relishing in a rare oasis of serenity and quietness. Come what may, as they're standing together and in each other's embrace, Simmons is reminded of the only universal truth in her entire universe: they are FitzSimmons, a stand-alone unit, an entity in itself. They are one.

Right now, they are one in everlasting peace.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. FitzSimmons has officially ruined my entire life, so feel free to message me if you want to talk about these two. You can also find me on Tumblr (leo-fitz-is-a-gryffindor).

This story is dedicated to my incredible friend Faith (Meadowlark27), who agreed to beta this piece. Make sure to check her Everlark stories, they're the best.