A/N: First of all, I know I still owe a lot of review responses. I'm the worst, I'm so sorry. But we're wrapping up the semester (I have two exams and a final project left), so I'm kind of lacking in free time lately. And the free time I do have I've been, as you can see, using to write. I'll respond to your comments ASAP, I promise.

Second, there was some discussion of Grant and Jemma's wedding rings on my tumblr, which spawned a prompt from anonymous, who said: "I'd really love to see (from erase myself) Coulson taking Ward's ring away and/or giving it to Jemma." And thus, this fic is born.

Third, the title comes from "Fade Away" by Breaking Benjamin.

Fourth and finally, the lovely, talented sapphireglyphs made a gorgeous edit for erase myself, and you should absolutely go check it out (sapphireglyphs . tumblr dotcom/ post/104339096351/erase-myself-and-let-go-start-it-over-again) and leave her lots of praise, because it is spectacular.

Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

Once greetings and hugs and reassurances have been exchanged, Jemma excuses herself from the rest of the team to return to Fitz's side. She knows she'll have to give Coulson a report on everything that happened sooner or later (and she'll need to be briefed on their mission, as well), but she's simply not capable of it. Not yet.

Fitz is still in a coma, and it's driving her slowly mad. The scans that Director Fury's doctors ran on him showed damage to his temporal lobe, but until he wakes, there's no way to know how badly the damage will affect him. And there's no way to wake him, either. All there is to do is wait.

She spends the six hours immediately following the team's arrival the same way she's spent the day and a half preceding it: sitting next to Fitz's bed. Sometimes she speaks to him, chattering on about whatever comes to mind, doing her best to sound as cheerful (as normal) as possible. Most of the time, however, she simply sits there and holds his hand. Speaking is just too hard, right now.

The sole remaining doctor, an Agent Wilkins (who says she'll be leaving just as soon as Fitz is awake), tries more than once to shoo Jemma away—to get some sleep, or to eat something, at least—but she always refuses. She won't leave Fitz's side. Not when he's unconscious and vulnerable with no one but a strange doctor to watch over him.

Furthermore, she knows she won't be able to eat anything. Even the thought of food is enough to make her feel ill. And while she would unquestionably be able to fall asleep—as it happens, she's having severe difficulty keeping her eyes open—she rather doubts that she would stay that way. Nightmares are a certainty, and she can't bear to face them. Not yet. Not while Fitz is still in the balance.

On top of that, by leaving Fitz's room she would run the risk of encountering Agent Koenig, and that is something she can't let happen. She can't look at him without seeing his dead brother. Every time she lays eyes on him, she flashes back to finding Eric in that vent—to performing a post-mortem (as best she could, at least; she's really not that sort of doctor) and realizing the only possible answer to the question of who killed him.

Every time she sees Billy Koenig, she can't stop herself from imagining the death of his brother. She wasn't there, obviously, but you'd never know it, by the vivid pictures of the scene her mind paints (entirely against her will). It's just one more thing to mourn, one more pain piled on an already unbelievably high stack of them, and she can't face it. She just can't.

So she ignores Agent Wilkins' entreaties to leave the room, to sleep or eat or stretch her legs. She sits and holds Fitz's hand, sometimes speaks, and always does her very, very best not to think about everything that's happened—or what might happen next.

Six hours after the team's arrival, Coulson knocks lightly on the door. Jemma, startled out of her unblinking watch of the monitors surrounding Fitz, jumps to her feet.

"Sir," she says. "Is everything—?"

"Everything's fine, Jemma," he says gently. "But there's something we need to talk about."

"What sort of thing?" she asks warily. The fact that he's begun the conversation by addressing her by her first name is really not an encouraging sign.

Coulson glances at Fitz. "Can we talk in the hall for a minute?"

"We can talk here," she tells him. Despite her best efforts to sound cheerful, her voice wavers a little as she continues, "It won't disturb him."

"Yeah, but they say coma patients can hear what's going on around them, right?" Coulson asks, kindly ignoring her moment of weakness. "I think this is really something you should share with him in your own time."

Whether coma patients actually are aware of what's happening around them while they're unconscious is a matter of some debate, and she's about to tell Coulson so when she abruptly changes her mind. She glances back at the monitors surrounding Fitz. Nothing has changed in the last three minutes—just as nothing has changed in the last forty-some hours.

Maybe a moment away from this sight—from Fitz so still and so pale, surrounded by machines and monitors which are made all the more frightening for the fact that she knows exactly what they're for—would do her some good.

"Very well," she agrees reluctantly.

She walks around the end of the bed and, after a final glance at Fitz, follows Coulson out into the hallway. She leaves the door cracked open, just a touch, so she'll be able to hear any change in the steady beeping that marks his heartbeat.

"We're going to need to hold a full debrief later," Coulson says without preamble. "A lot happened—to all of us—while we were separated. But most of that can wait." He slips his hands into his pockets, looking uncomfortable. "There's just one thing that can't."

"And what's that?" she asks.

He hesitates, and something about the look on his face sends a chill up her spine. She crosses her arms over her chest and waits.

"There's no easy way to say this," he says. "But…we caught Ward."

Even though she was fairly certain that that was where this was going, the words still hit her hard. She digs her nails into her arms and can't stop herself from glancing back through the window, into Fitz's room.

He's fine. Nothing's changed.

She has to swallow twice before she can speak. "Oh?"

"May took him down," he continues, removing his hands from his pockets in favor of folding them in front of him. "And we brought him in."

Something about his phrasing causes the knot in her chest to tighten. He can't mean what she thinks he means. He simply can't.

She has to ask.

"When you say brought him in…?"

"He's here," Coulson confirms. His voice is soft and apologetic, and somehow that makes it even worse. "There's a cell in the basement—Vault D. We're going to be keeping him there."

She feels oddly cold, all of a sudden. She uncrosses and recrosses her arms, holding them a little more tightly against her chest, and tries to ignore Coulson's horribly sympathetic expression.

"You said May took him down," she says. She doesn't want to ask, but she can't not. Even now, even after everything, she can't—she can't not. "Does he need—?"

"He's been treated already," Coulson interrupts, kindly. He takes a step closer. "I want to assure you, Simmons. The cell he's in is completely secure. It's impenetrable."

"Is it?" she asks before she can stop herself.

"It is," he says. "The only way he's leaving that cell is in a body bag. I promise."

She presses her lips together and looks back through the window again. (Fitz is fine. Nothing's changed.) Despite everything, she can't bring herself to wish Grant—Ward—dead. Even looking at Fitz—even with her head still pounding—even with her breath still short in her chest, her mind telling her that she might run out of oxygen at any moment…She can't wish him dead.

There's been enough death already.

She opens her mouth to ask—something, anything. Whatever will get them off of this topic—but doesn't have the chance.

"Director Coulson!" one of the Playground agents (she hasn't learnt their names, as yet) calls from down the corridor.

"Yeah, be there in a sec," Coulson says, as Jemma blinks at him.

"Director?" she asks, stunned.

"Like I said." He smiles ruefully. "A lot happened." He takes a deep breath. "The rest of this can wait. I just wanted to tell you about Ward before you heard it from someone else. And…"

"And?" she prompts, after a few seconds.

"And I wanted to give you this," he finishes, somewhat apologetically. He slips one hand into his pocket, and when he draws it back out, he's holding a very familiar ring.

The sight of it knocks the breath right of her, and a small, distressed sound escapes her with it.

"We can't let him keep it," he says, holding it out. "Even a ring can be a weapon. But I thought what happens to it should be up to you."

She stares at the offered ring for a long moment. She's thinking—she doesn't know what she's thinking. She's remembering picking it out, visiting jewelry store after jewelry store after jewelry store in the months after he proposed, trying to find the perfect rings, because it had to be a matched set (they would accept nothing less). She's remembering the day she slipped it on his finger, the small ceremony in her parents' back garden, the uncharacteristically wide smile he wore all day and his unusual patience with her various relatives, who kept pestering him with questions and admiration and hugs.

She's remembering all of the times he came back from an op, how the first thing he would do was ask for his ring back. She's remembering him handing it over every time he left—remembering promising to keep it safe until he got back, as long as he promised to do the same with himself.

She's remembering that she vowed to love and honor a serial killer.

"Simmons?" Coulson prompts gently.

"Yes," she says, hoarsely. She swallows again and holds out her hand to accept the ring. "I'll—I'll take care of it. Thank you."

"Sure," Coulson says, dropping the ring into her hand.

She stares down at it, unsure of what to feel. Her stomach is still tied in knots, as it has been for—however long it's been since she realized that her husband was a murderer—and her heart is in her throat. She thinks that she might cry or shout or throw the ring into the nearest bin…but all she can do is stand there and stare at it.

Coulson puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it firmly. She tears her eyes away from the ring to look at him, and he squeezes her shoulder again.

"Simmons," he says. "You're gonna be fine."

It sounds more like an order than reassurance, and she finds it strangely comforting. She nods once.

"Of course, sir," she agrees.

Coulson nods in return, squeezes her shoulder once more, and then walks away. She waits until he disappears around the corner with the agent who was calling for him, then slips back into Fitz's room.

She checks the monitors—he's fine. Nothing's changed. Then she just stands there, at the end of his bed, watching the slow (far too slow) rise and fall of his chest. It's been nearly two days since they were brought to this base, and he still shows no signs of waking.

He looks so small. He's so quiet. Fitz isn't supposed to be quiet. He's supposed to be loud, challenging her and fighting her and making her laugh when she needs it. He's supposed to draw her out of her thoughts, as she draws him out of his. He's supposed to be standing beside her, helping her make her ideas reality, offering ideas of his own to try.

He's not supposed to be silent and still and unresponsive. Not when she needs him the most.

After a moment, she becomes aware of a stinging sensation, and looks down. She's clenching her fist around the ring she's holding, and her nails are digging into her skin painfully. She relaxes her hand, opens it to reveal the ring inside.

She stares at it for a long moment. It blurs a bit as her eyes fill with tears, and she closes them until she's sure she's got herself under control. Then she opens them, takes a deep breath, and slips the ring into her pocket as she walks around Fitz's bed to retake her seat.

She settles into it and takes his hand again.

She hasn't the time for crying.

Not yet.