Author's Note: Well, I have officially started uploading again! Once again, for formality's sake, I am going to blaze through the introductory information. This is day seven of my Fitzsimmons Six-Word Story Countdown until the premier of season two of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. ABC and Marvel own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., along with the wonderful characters and the lovely plot, and any mistakes in this are my own due to the fact that I currently do not have a Beta.
This particular one-shot takes place after The Beginning of the End (1x22) and contains some spoilers for season two.
You don't need water to drown.
I am suffocating, the breath solidifying in in lungs every time I try to inhale. My searing lungs are constantly alerting my mind that something is wrong,but my brain can't seem to fix it despite the consistent signals that there is no oxygen intake. Black ebbs into my vision, reaching into my sight and darkening the world before me. However, the pain is nothing compared to the scene before me.
Leo is motionless upon the hospital bed, set at an angle that would be comfortable if he was asleep but still appropriate if he was to wake up, and his limbs are deliberately arranged so he looks comfortable and in a natural position. His eyelids are closed over his eyes, a blue that is more familiar to me than the sky, and he looks peaceful despite his distant condition. The expression, or lack thereof, seems almost blissful. He is free from the stresses currently imposed upon me - the betrayal of Ward, the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., and the loss of my best friend - and though I should be somewhat glad he does not have to cope with any of that, some selfish portion of me yearns for him to awake so we can depend upon each other like we always do.
I tentatively take his hand in mine, my fingers curling around his stiffened ones, and can't help but notice how odd it is to have silence between us. We are always talking when we are together, fumbling words colliding into one another as we overlap and complete one another's thoughts. In a way, we never could be quiet when we were together; there was always too much to say, and even in atmospheres that were absent of sound, we continued to communicate in concealed whispers, words that were just hardly spoken. The silence forces me to confront the things I wish I could say, the conversations I long to have, and the memories that act as a temporary solution to the aching loss in my chest.
It does not become easier to breathe as I adjust to the situation and the sight of my best friend in a coma, and I continually struggle for enough oxygen to remain conscious. Though he is the one who nearly drowned, I am the one desperately gasping for air.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!
