A/N: THERE ARE SPOILERS FOR EPISODE ONE OF SEASON THREE, PERTAINING TO JEMMA SIMMONS.
Oh my god, what can I say about the premier. I just.. no words. Honestly speechless.
Anyway, thought I'd celebrate my birthday with this fic. Hopefully it's a little more cheerful? I mean, it's totally up to you.
While listening to this I listened to a cover of Sweater Weather by James Harris.
Any rate, I hope you enjoy!
it's too cold for you here
She's not sure whether this planet's done something to cause hallucinations, or whether she's just gone plain crazy. Either way she doesn't particularly care, because standing in front of her, clad in familiar plaids and cardigans and that ridiculous tie Skye had given him last Christmas, is none other than Leopold Fitz.
"Fitz?" she whispers, eyes wide and heart in her throat.
Because this can't be happening, oh no, it can't. It's just been her, only her, for a month on this planet. All alone. She's seen nothing but sky and desert and an odd eerie moon. She's heard nothing but her own pants, of something howling through the environment, of her own footfalls as she scrambles to get away from whatever is possibly chasing her.
This cannot be Leopold Fitz. And yet he is standing plain stark in front of her like she's just returned from a trip to the loo. He folds his arms and grins at her, so familiar and welcoming that she's lost for breath for a moment.
"Simmons."
She doesn't refrain from gaping openly at him. "Who - Who are you?"
He - it, she doesn't know anymore - snorts derisively. "Just said yourself, didn't you? Physically speaking, I'm Fitz. Although if you want to be all technical about it, I'm your subconscious."
"My.. what?" Jemma says slowly, struggling to come to terms with it all. Obviously she knows what a subconscious is in theory, but over the past few weeks she's come to be a bit cynical and confused.
"Honestly, Simmons," he sighs. "I'm disappointed in you. You're supposed to be clever. You were always going on about it in the Academy days, remember?"
She does, but she pushes it to the side as she approaches him cautiously, fingers outstretched gingerly. "You're a figment of my imagination," she realises with a sinking feeling in her gut. "I created you. A coping mechanism, do you think? Or is it perhaps a side effect of this place?"
Fitz shrugs. "Why should I know? I'm just your subconscious."
And for the first time in a month, she laughs. It's an odd noise in the echoing silence, but she suddenly feels a little less cold. Gently, she edges closer.
"Can I.. I mean.." She gestures to him uselessly.
Fitz raises an eyebrow. "Touch me? You can do whatever you want, as I've reminded you several times. Born from your memories, remember?" When she moves to grab his hand, however, he takes a step back. "Uh - I wouldn't advise it, though. I'm here, but I'm not actually here."
Jemma nods, mouth dry. "Right. Of course."
She's about to say more, but suddenly Fitz's head jerks up and he stares straight past her. "It's coming again," he hisses urgently.
Her fear resurfaces and she gathers herself together. "You - You'll come with me?" she asks, even though she feels silly talking to what is, essentially, herself.
"Not like I've got a choice," he grumbles, and suddenly her imagination has never been so endearing.
She gives him a smile and suddenly her energy is rejuvenated.
Together they run. And oh, how they run.
...
The creature is hot on her tail now. Jemma can't see it, or smell it, but she can sense it and she's almost certain that if it managed to get a hold on her, she'd feel it.
It's getting closer but she's getting increasingly more and more weary, so she ducks behind a large rock for shelter and pauses to catch her breath.
Out of nowhere, Fitz pops up, crouching beside her with a cheerful grin on his face, like they're doing something as trivial as hiding from Coulson after accidentally spilling coffee on Lola (long story).
"How are you doing?"
"Just great, thanks," she tells him with a grit of her teeth, chancing a glance around the rock.
"Well, I'm doing fine," he informs her lightly. "So you seem to be fairly sane. Other than, you know, the obvious elephant in the room. Or planet, objectively speaking."
"You are really not helping this situation."
Before she can object, he's pointing to the spot above her right eye. "You're bleeding."
She reaches up to inspect, and when her hands comes away with blood, her breath quickens and she spends the next panicked moments digging through the sand until she can cover the cut with dirt. Once she's done she slumps back in relief, feeling unexpected tears prickle at her eyes.
"See?" Fitz smiles winningly. "What would you do without me?"
"It'd be a lot quieter," she retorts, but Fitz isn't listening (again. it seems her imagination has conjured up a rather disobedient version of her best friend).
"It's getting closer. Better get moving."
She nods curtly, he disappears, and the cycle starts all over again.
…
In the spare moments she can snag to rest (mostly when the beast is sleeping, from what she can tell), Fitz appears at her side. He tells her amusing stories, nostalgic memories and more to keep her going.
"When you get back, you should get him a monkey," he informs her one day, night, whatever the time pattern here does.
She fights the urge to correct 'when' to 'if' and instead stares at him incredulously. "That is not my subconscious speaking."
"You're right," Fitz says very seriously, "it's your guilt."
If he were real, she's certain she would have murdered him by now.
…
"Remember when we made Sally Webber believe in paranormal activities?"
"You only remind me every three months, Fitz."
…
"Just think, you'll have all these samples to conserve when you get back home."
"That's hardly the top of my priorities - and also, I think my memory might be failing me because that is the most un-Fitz thing I've heard."
…
"Don't make me bring up the liver - "
"Oh, not the stupid cat again!"
…
Despite all this, her mood steadily declines with every passing moment. She's alone but she's not, Fitz is here but he's not, and it's tearing her apart, being forced to run away in fear for so long.
Because Jemma Simmons is so terribly, terribly afraid… until she's not.
"Why should I keep running, Fitz?" she asks him miserably, curled up under the shelter of another rock. "Why shouldn't I just give up?"
"Because you want to go home," offers Fitz like it's the simplest thing in the world.
"I don't know how to get home," she whispers.
"But you have to keep looking."
"I can't," she snaps, voice breaking. "I have been looking, I've - I've been here for so long now. I don't know what to do anymore, Fitz. I don't want to do anything. I just.. I'm very tired. So tired. Please just let me sleep."
"You can't," Fitz says firmly. "You have to get up and you have to keep going."
Jemma wipes at her eyes and then stares at her hands, at the grime and dust mix in with her salty tears. "There's no reason to."
"There's always a reason to," he announces determinedly, and when she glances up his eyes are blazing in a way that Jemma's never really seen before. "Did you forget about your family? They must be devastated. And the team, all those people you left behind. Me. Fitz. The real Fitz."
She ducks her head down. "I'm being selfish, aren't I? For just wanting to stop?"
Fitz snorts, but he's gentle when he speaks. "Don't be stupid. Sometimes selfishness is a good thing. Especially when you're stuck on God knows where."
Jemma can't help but smile then. She's not cheered up, she's not miraculously invigorated by her imagination's motivational speech. The tiredness running through her bones has certainly not gone away. But she does feel a little better, and a little braver, and a little less alone.
"What should I do?"
"I don't know anymore then you do," Fitz points out. "But I suggest you should do something."
"Do something," Jemma considers, testing the words in her mouth. They seem familiar and comforting, like late nights in the lab with Fitz, or lying in bed and listening to the rain hurl outside. "I think I can manage that."
So she hoists herself up to her feet and hugs her cardigan tighter around her. Just her and the sand and the beast tracking her, and suddenly she feels about five years old, this little girl and her imaginary friend leaving footprints behind as they walk.
"You know, for a subconcious you're awfully inspiring."
Fitz smiles broadly, and maybe she's finally going crazy because she swears her subconscious knows something she doesn't.
"You should write a book when you get back," he says conversationally. "Motivation and How To Find It."
"Yes, Fitz, I'm sure that would become an instant bestseller," she says with a laugh.
"It would," he says insistently. Then he trails off and she knows the creature is back before he even says anything.
"Are you ready?"
"Don't know," Jemma admits. "But I think I'm about to find out."