She dreams, and all she can see is the black.
Once her dreams had been blue waves and then blue dirt and then blue eyes. The color that had once meant all her pain and suffering and hate wasn't really that at all—it was the color of him.
But now her dreams are black and when she opens her eyes to darkness and stretches her hand she touches nothing.
It has been a week since he's gone.
Gone, she says defiantly to anyone and everyone who will listen. Not dead, but gone. She said this when May met her when she came back to the Playground, took her to her empty room, and told her with a quiet voice. She says it when Daisy rests her head on her shoulders and cries about how everything's her fault even though nothing is.
And Jemma says it as Mack looks at her with those bloody eyes of his—full of guilt and pity and sadness that she refuses to feel—and tells her that he's here if she needs anything.
(but the only thing she could possibly need is Fitz. So she gives Mack a smile and a nod of the head, telling him of course she will come to him of course, thank you so much.
And when it's night and she comes back to her room and there's no one waiting in her bed, and there's no one there at all. That's when she's lying in bed, and she cries.)
Her tears taste like salt. Salt of the body, salt of the ocean. Her dreams are colorless but she's still holding tight on to Fitz, holding her breath, trying to break the surface.
It has been a month since he's gone.
Gone, she whispers to no one at all. Gone, but not dead. She's a chicken without a head, scrambling for anything that makes sense. Jemma buries herself in science, something she's familiar with, and prays, something she's not and yet the weight of the world on her shoulders grows heavier and heavier. May still speaks in a quiet voice, Daisy still cries on her shoulder, Mack still watches her with a careful gaze and Jemma still searches for a way to bring Fitz home.
And then she remembers that Ghost Rider—Robbie, Daisy corrects—is gone too. One look at May and Daisy's haunted faces remind her that Coulson's missing as well.
Mack's face reminds her of the guilt that claws at her relentlessly when she's lying in bed, sleeping alone, in a bed meant for two.
Her guilt tastes like iron. Iron of the soul, iron of the blood. Her dreams are colorless but she's still resting her head on his shoulder, hands tied behind her back, trying to tell him to come back to her.
It has been three months since he's gone.
Gone, she thinks to herself. Gone, gone, gone. Even if all the evidence, the facts, and the research all point to him being dead it's not true— it can't be true.
She drags herself away from the science and hopes that there's enough faith in her to save him.
Don't give up, Daisy cries, clutching her hands in hers. You're Jemma fucking Simmons. When have you ever given up?
But Jemma knows who she is. She's just not sure who she is without Fitz.
And she never said she was giving up.
She's lying in bed alone when she should be holding him and him holding her and it's just wrong. She can't cry because she's holding back the tears, but her hands clench the blankets and her breath is short and thick, heart pounding.
Her anger tastes like fire. Fire of spirit, fire of mind. Her dreams are colorless but red blooms in the center of her chest, and she leads the team to hunt down Eli, trying to make him pay for what he's done.
It's a miracle.
She doesn't really know how, and, really, she doesn't care. She knows that Coulson and Robbie are back, and May, Daisy and Mack are here too but they don't matter and she doesn't care because he's standing right in front of her, looking at her with his blue eyes.
Is that really you?
Who else would it be?
Damn him for using her very words against her.
(Oh, but she runs. And he runs. And when they meet the tears she's been saving escape and she can't possibly kiss him enough, and he draws her close enough that she can feel his heart beating.)
She's lying in bed with the man she loves, wrapped up in his arms and his love, and she feels content.
Her love tastes like Fitz. Fitz, Fitz, Fitz. Her dreams used to be colorless and before that blue, but now they're vibrant in hues and shades, colors of all kind.
She sleeps soundly.