A/N: Small character piece set some time after F.Z.Z.T. I know I'm way late to the party, but this wouldn't leave my brain, and I wanted to explore the way someone like Simmons, who tends to be overly rational, would deal with almost dying. Anyway, feedback is lovely, and I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Agents of SHIELD or Simmons, which is probably for the best.
Her hand moves nimbly across the page, penning notes, diagrams, ideas. She doesn't stop until she has to, until she hits a snag that would require Fitz' expertise on physics or a few hours in the lab testing out her theories. It's too late for either. The dim lights surrounding her are testament to this. Best case scenario, Fitz would never forgive her if she woke him in the middle of the night for this. Worst case scenario, he might be worried.
Some might call this obsession, her frenzied sessions in the middle of the night, pouring over the specifics of the Chitauri virus, hashing out ideas, trying to figure out what kind of structure would allow for such an amazing method of infection. But it's just a natural extension of her scientific mind. It's a fascinating problem, and she doesn't get near enough time to work on it during the day, not with how hectic their days have been lately. Besides, it's not like she'd be using this time for anything else. She can't sleep anyway.
It doesn't take a particularly deep knowledge of human anatomy or physics to know the effects of a long fall on the human body. She knew them before she chose to jump, so she doesn't understand why her brain insists on bombarding her with images of twisted limbs and broken spines. Night after night, she wakes up to the feeling of skin crashing against concrete (water, she reminds herself, though at terminal velocity there isn't much difference between the two), of bones breaking and her brain turning to mush.
She knows, logically, that everybody dies, and that death is never pretty. She knows that, given the choice, she'd do it again because the life of one person is never worth the life of six. She knows that her job is risky and though everything turned out fine this time, it might not be fine the next time. And it's okay, because she's going to die. She's accepted this, come to terms.
She should be past this.
So why are the dreams still there? Why are her hands shaking as she sketches out a methylated base, smudging out the carbon? Why is her throat refusing to swallow and her eyes refusing to blink as she stares at a fixed point on the page?
She lets her pen fall on her notebook and clenches her fists. She bites her lip in an effort to make herself focus on her neat script, reading her last sentence over and over again. If she starts crying now, she knows she won't stop. And if she can't stop she might wake her teammates and then she'd have to tell them the truth. That she isn't dealing, that she isn't strong; that no matter how hard she tries, that despite knowing why this shouldn't bother her, it still does. She'd have to tell them, because she's never been good at lying.
She's gotten some of her composure back when she hears the familiar steps. Leaning her head over the page, she peers through a curtain of hair (a curtain of hair she hopes will hide her red-rimmed eyes). Ward is standing a few steps away from her, hair ruffled and eyes squinting against what little light there is. Probably on the way to get some water or a midnight snack. Jemma takes a deep breath, ready to utter an excuse about exciting work and Fitz' snoring, but when the question inevitably comes, asking if everything's alright, she can't stifle the sob that comes out instead.
No, she's never been good at lying.