Author's Note: Hello! I've finally decided to write something Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D-y, and this verse, the Silentverse, has been bouncing around in my head for a while. If this is any good, more is to come! Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Agents of SHIELD. Borrowing the Wheadons' toys for a bit :)

OoOoOoOoO

Jemma Simmons wasn't particularly religious; she was scientific. (Her mind was open, should something change her mind, however.) In her book, her naturally brilliant, academy-honed, field-trained mind, the two - religion and science - just didn't quite add up. But of course, she knew about religions. (She'd taken a religious inclusion course in college. Fitz had been there. Fitz had always been there.) In their semester on the Christian religion, they'd had to memorize a prayer. It was easy, of course. She had it memorized before she left the room. Even though she never used it - she didn't pray - she remembered. That wasn't exactly quite true. She used it sometimes. When she used it, it was important. When she used it, it was important. But she had that prayer tucked away for the important times, and even today, she could tell you every word. At the bottom of the ocean, water bubbling up around her and her best friend in the whole world, she could not think of any better time to pray.

Saint Michael, the archangel, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Defend us in battle.

It was beginning to scramble to the forefront of her mind when she reached for the curly haired boy. When she saw him, he looked almost exactly like he when they first met. His mop of curls was infinitely messy, just like it had been. He was pale, and he looked scared. Even now, he reminded her so strongly of that young boy she'd met at the ripe age of 13, she had to take a mental step back and remind herself that he was grown, now. He was a man, but still, he was too young. Too young to die. Too young to give up his life for her, for anyone, to give his life at all. ("I couldn't find the courage to tell you. So, please. Let me show you." Why did he have to say that why did he have to be doing this for her she didn't deserve it did she deserve it?) She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, shaking with tears streaming down her cheeks. She could see that he was trying hard, he was trying so hard not to cry. He was biting the skin underneath his bottom lip inside his mouth, she knew. It was a habit of his. His eyes were shining with unshed tears, his lips quirked upward just so slightly in a sad-looking smile.

Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

("Take it, take it," he said, or maybe he thought it. she wasn't sure. She wasn't focusing. She couldn't. She might die. He might die.)

She reached for that canister, too. Even though it was already in her hand, it felt practically miles away. Fitz' gift of air. Of a breath that he would never take. The gift of his life was clutched in Jemma's hand. His last gift. She crossed that particular word out of her mind almost as soon as she thought it. No, no, it couldn't. It couldn't be his last gift. She wouldn't accept that. She just wouldn't. That was why she hadn't kissed him on the lips. She didn't want their first kiss, their first real kiss, to be in a life-or-death moment. She wanted it to be real. She wanted both of them to be fully aware, minds not spiraling out of control. She wanted it to be on her terms.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.

Her mind spun, her body cooperating without even a moments notice, one hand shooting to her mouth, the other towards Fitz. The last thing he'd done before the water rushed in was hit that button. That stupid button that was supposed to be their savior, not Fitz' condemner. Her answer to that statement was a scream, pure and simple. She tried to force all of her fractals of emotions into that one scream, which might have been a word, it might have been no, or it could have just been a sound. As soon as the water, 3% salt, rushed in, she almost lost sight of him, panicking. She punched the button, the breath rushing into her lungs. With a vice-like grip, she grabbed his collar. She pulled him up, fighting her way out of the capsule and into the big, wide ocean. As soon as she was free of the metal encampment, she pulled him up farther, her arm around his chest. She barely chanced a glance down at him, salt stinging her eyes. His eyes, those baby blue orbs, were closed. His limp form was barely moving, not even weakly kicking. His head lolled on his shoulders. He hadn't been conscious since he'd hit that stupid button, she reasoned. That meant the last thing he was was her.

And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into Hell...

Her hands - her hand - grabbed at the water above her, clawing and pushing it away and pulling herself upwards. The body - Fitz, she corrected herself again. He wasn't a body, he wasn't dead, he was Fitz, alive and well and fine and her Fitz - at her side, held so tight she might have once been afraid she'd hurt him, was strangely warm when he touched her side, strangely warm against her chest, clutched there like a lifeline as she paddled upward. (Too fast, too fast, not fast enough, not fast enough) He was too warm, and too wet, and too far under, with not near enough breath in his lungs. She gripped him so tight to her that if she'd been thinking about it, she'd realize that she was loosing feeling in her fingers of that hand. But she wouldn't have cared if she'd realized it, if it meant Fitz was still in her arms. Which was why she did the next thing. When her head broke the surface, her lungs gulped in the fresh air, sucking it in like a beggar who hadn't seen clean water in weeks. Her own relief at having swam those meters, those terrible, terrible meters, was instantly shattered when she didn't feel Fitz' rib cage expand at the sudden burst of air against her arm. The whirring of helicopter blades - helicopter blades! A helicopter! A rescue! Help! - pulled her back up from her heart-wrenching worry and, kicking her feet to keep herself and Fitz' head above water, she shouted. "Help! Help!" She reached, her arm stretched above her head, for the hand of a dead man, what might be another one clutched against her heart.

Satan and all other evil spirits, who prowl about the world for the ruin of souls.

He grabbed her hand, the dead man, Director Nick Fury. He pulled her up towards the helicopter, his hand warm and dry in her's. He couldn't lift her all the way, he couldn't lift her and Fitz both, and she wouldn't let go. So close to safety, they might yet die. "Help!" Her lungs were still tight and her words were strangled, but she called out to him as he gripped her hand tight, not willing to let go. Still tucked against her chest, Fitz had no clue of their rescue. "You've gotta help me, Jemma," Fury said, his voice low, encouraging. "Hold him. If you let him go now, he'll sink." Jemma nodded, her face sticky with salt water and tears. "Just a little longer. Hold on to him. Hold on tight." The world above Jemma Simmons swirled into colours, and only Nick Fury was able to be kept into direct focus. There were people behind him, she dimly noted. They were clad in white coats. Medics, maybe? Doctors? To help Fitz? Her mind was spinning and her thoughts were swirling and she simply didn't know. She was in the air and even though Fitz was clutched tight in her arm, she was tired, so tired, and he was slipping, slipping... She desperately grabbed for him, pulling him tight towards her as the helicopter came as close to the water as it could. She barely had to stretch, the blades chopping and cutting off her ragged breathing. Fury put his other hand on Simmons, pulling her up. She dropped on the bottom of the helicopter like a stone. Like a piece of metal. Like the box that was supposed to save them.

As soon as she was dry, she was safe, she was alive, they tried to take Fitz from her. They grabbed him and pulled off the buttons of his soaking t-shirt, all but tearing the sling off of his broken arm. He wasn't moving, he wasn't moving. It hadn't worked. She hadn't been able to get him up to the surface in time. His gift, that breath he would never take, had saved her, yes, but it hadn't saved him. Almost hysterical, bordering on it, she clutched at his arm. "No!" she screamed, her ragged voice crackling. "No! No!" She tightened her hold on his arm, as the rest of him had slipped from her grip. A handful of light purple bruises were forming on Fitz' arm from her desperate handhold. "I can't!" she sobbed. If she let go... If she let go...

Fury touched her arm. "Jemma," he said softly. "Simmons, you have to let go. You have to let him go. Let the boy go. He needs medical attention. I know I'm contradicting myself, but you have to let go. He'll die." Reluctantly, her chewed fingernails barely scraped Fitz' arm as he fell away from her. If she let go, she might never get him back. "I can't!" she sobbed again. "I can't! He'll be alone! He'll be scared! I promised him I'd never leave him alone! He'll be scared! No!" She spoke through her sobs, tears streaking down her cheeks, bending over towards him and stretching out as he was pulled away from her. "Leo," she whispered. Black spots were gathering in her vision. The exertion and nitrogen - or lack thereof - in her blood was starting to get to her. Adrenaline was melting from her veins. "Leo," she whispered again, swaying on her knees before sinking the rest of the way to the ground, like Fitz would have sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

"He'll... He'll be... He'll be afraid..." she stammered with her last conscious breath.

Fitz wouldn't be the only one.

Amen.