She turns to him. Leans back. Floats, suspended, above the ramp. And then she is gone.
Since the moment it happened, it is all that he sees every time he closes his eyes.
He thought that he would be ok after Ward's voice echoed over the intercom; he had caught her, the vaccine ("anti-serum" she chirps) worked, and he felt his chest loosen. But there was still a knot pushing against his diaphragm, still a lump in his throat that he could not swallow down.
He thought that he would be ok when Skye let out a squeal and crushed him against her in a hug. Thought that he should be better than ok, ecstatic, even, as he wrapped his arms around her. But he let his shoulders relax, his eyes close, and her tear stained face filled his vision, his mind replaying the moment she fell back over and over and over and over…
He thought that he would be ok when they landed in Casablanca forty five minutes later, hands releasing his seat belt and feet carrying him down the still moving ramp, his mind repeating 'finally, finally, finally, finally.' But as his feet touched solid ground and his eyes searched desperately for her an agent appeared ("boats aren't back yet.")
He thought that he would be ok he offered his hand to her at the dock, helping her out of the boat and unceremoniously yanking her against his chest, arms wrapping around her solid, ("Fitz!") safe, ("I'm soaking!") breathing, ("I'm sorry, sorry, sorry") non-infected form. But she hugged him back, fingers digging into his shoulders, face burying into his neck, hot moisture that was definitely not sea water tickling his skin, and the lump in his throat was suddenly impassible.
He thought that he would be ok after she left his bunk. But his cheek burned where her lips had pressed and he closed his eyes, exhausted, and she was falling, falling, falling, falling.
He wakes with a start, pillow clutched in his hands, fingers digging into the soft down, joints locked. His biceps ache and he thinks (knows) that he strained his muscles against the immovable lab door. His throat itches and he thinks (knows) that he screamed it raw. His eyes are uncomfortably dry, but the top of the pillow is soaked, and he does not think about that at all. He thought that he would be, but Leo Fitz is not ok.
He sets the wrinkled and abused pillow down on the too small, too stiff mattress and stands, knees popping in protest. He barely has to extend his hand to reach the door in the compact, bare room, and all at once is homesick for his flat and his ("their" she would say) lab and that stupid shop with the crap coffee that she used to drag him to and damn if that lump in his throat is not back-
"Fitz?" He is standing in her doorway, hand on her door handle.
"I- uh." She looks exhausted, sitting up with her limbs curled into her, bloodshot eyes watching him expectantly. He slides the door closed behind him and steps up to her bed, pulling her mother's quilt off of the edge and sitting next to her, his back against the wall. "Can't sleep?"
She bites her lip, silent for a few moments, and he knows that look; she is debating what to tell him. She plays with a corner of the quilt. "Every time." She takes a deep breath. "Every time I close my eyes I see you screaming."
He swallows around the seemingly permanent lump in his throat and slips his eyes closed, "you turn to me. Lean back. Float, suspended, above the ramp. And then you're gone."
He feels her hand slip into his, feels their fingers intertwine, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Leo."
He opens his eyes and tugs on her hand, "come here."
She slides into his lap, her tired limbs protesting, and rests her head on his shoulder as he unfolds the quilt and smothers them in it. He winds his arms around her waist and places a chaste kiss in her hair. She fiddles with his tie, "we should talk."
He feels her chest rise and fall against him, her breath tickling his neck, and pulls her a little closer, kissing her hair again. "Tomorrow." She pulls back, eyes searching his face, hands winding behind his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He licks his lips and rests his forehead against hers, smiling, "Jemma…"
"Hmm?" Her fingers brush against the knot at the base of his skull and she flinches, pulling back, but he rests his hand between her shoulder blades, stopping her. "I'm sorry-"
"Can I kiss you?"
She nods and leans forward, tentatively brushing her lips against his, hand slipping further into his hair. She presses closer, firmer, and he feels the knot on his diaphragm loosen as he cards his fingers through her hair and kisses her back.
They pull apart, eyes meeting, "now we have to talk."
He nods and kisses her forehead, "tomorrow."
She tugs gently at one of his curls, "you ok?"
He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes, feels her lay her head on his shoulder. And sees nothing. "Yeah."