Lyrics from "The Universe" by Gregory Alan Isakov
the Universe, she's wounded
she's got bruises on her feet
I sat down like I always did,
and tried to calm her down
It doesn't matter how it happened, it happened.
Another mission, another encounter with one of Hydra's squadrons of elite assassins, and another narrowly missed appointment with death.
It was too much, too much for Skye to handle. She couldn't do her job and worry about Jemma constantly. She couldn't watch out for her own skin when she was thinking all the potential dangers that Jemma was heading into.
It was bad when they were apart from each other, Skye always wondering what the world and Hydra had waiting for her lover.
It was worse when they were together, and Skye was constantly fighting the impulse to turn around, to call out, to check on the woman she loved. Even in the heat of battle. Especially in the heat of battle.
This time it had been no one's fault, a fact which did not comfort Skye at all. No, not at all. Because there was no one to take out her anger on, no one upon whom she could release her rage and her fear. No one but herself, and the woman laying still—always too still—in the bed next to her.
Jemma was sleeping—a mild concussion, a bruised diaphram, some minor lacerations on her limbs from where she fell into the old abandoned trap well-hidden on the florest floor but thankfully nothing more.
It could have been so much worse.
But still, it was too much.
Still, Sky thought to herself as she watched the steady rise and fall of Jemma's chest, still. It was too much to ask, too much to risk.
Something had to give.
the Universe, she's wounded
but she's still got infinity ahead of her
she's still got you and me
and everybody says that she's beautiful
It's a small limp. A small limp and a tiny wince whenever she steps on it that alerts Skye to the fact that the plan to infiltrate and extract a sample of a mysterious biological agent didn't go off without a hitch.
Coulson's supporting Jemma's weight, just the slightest bit, and despite the way the scientist bites at her lip whenever she takes a step, they're laughing.
Laughing.
Skye wants to run forward, wants to pull Jemma away and into her own arms. Wants to lay her down in their bed, bare, and look her over, inspect every inch of her lover's body and catalogue every new scratch, every new scar. But somehow, somehow she holds herself back.
It's later, in the lab after the debriefing, that she steps forward, that she allows herself to stand next to Jemma and drink in that scent she knows so well. Jemma's still hobbling, of course; has been too enthralled with this new substance, this miracle drug, to take care of herself.
Or maybe she was waiting. For Skye to get over the anxiety, the lack of self-confidence, and step forward. Welcome her home.
Skye comes up behind Jemma and pulls the taller woman back, into her own body, into her arms, and just holds her for a second—two, five. She could hold this woman forever.
But not now, not while Jemma is aching and trying to pretend like she's not. Not while Jemma is injured and refusing to admit it.
She pulls her love over to one of the chairs in the corner, makes her sit. And then she kneels before her, kneels and takes Jemma's ankle into her hands to examine it.
Skye runs her hands up, and then down. Feeling over every muscle, every tendon, every patch of precious skin. She notes every sound her lover makes, the hitch of breath at arousal, the hiss between her teeth at a shooting sliver of pain.
"Come then," she says as she put's the scientist's leg back down and stands, hands held out to pull Jemma up, "let's get some ice on that, Agent Simmons."
She aligns herself along side Jemma's injured leg, and pulls the other woman's arm over, across her shoulder, wraps her own around the injured woman's waist. She takes Jemma's weight upon her own, like it's nothing, like she could carry her love in her arms for miles.
The lab is silent but for the sound of feet shuffling across the floor, and the slightest of murmurings as a slightly British voice whispers "Don't be silly, I'm fine," and another one, a little lower, soothing, just "hmmmms" in response.
the Universe, she's wounded
but she's still got infinity ahead of her
she's still got you and me
and everybody says that she's beautiful
and everybody says …
One day there will be no more blood.
One day there will be no more pain.
No more worrying, no more suffering, no more losing the things that matter the most.
One day there will be a house and a garden. Trees in the back yard, tall ones. Ones that cover the grass in cooling shade in the heat of the long summer afternoons.
One day there will be tea at breakfast, piping hot, and lemonade on the patio in the evening. The sound of birds and bees and the little squirrel who lives in the line of fir trees that wrap around their property, that keep the world at a distance and let them live their lives, finally, in some kind of quiet.
In some kind of peace.
One day there will be a dog, and then another, toenails skidding across the bare hardwood floors. A great big bed, always just slightly mussed, and someone's shoes toed off in the hall.
One day they'll be whole again.
One day their wounds will scar over, and even though every now and again, every once in blue moon, they'll itch and scratch and open memories of tragedies best left forgotten, they'll be complete, they'll be strong, they'll be better.
One day, just an infinity of unknowns ahead, one day they'll just be.
Together.