A/N: Well folks, it's the moment we've all been waiting for: FitzSimmons finally hash out their issues, but there is a bit more angst before that happens in this chapter. Since we're now past what we know happened in episode 10 of season 2, I tried to give a little background at the beginning of this chapter. It's still pretty short though because I wanted to focus on Fitz and Jemma. There is also one more chapter after this one; it's not very long, but the story just didn't feel complete without it. I'll post it later in the week.
I hope you enjoy!
Trip's untimely death leaves a shroud of grief and regret over the team. They spend several days working out of the Bus in San Juan before returning to the Playground. Though she has been largely catatonic since the incident, Skye does manage to string enough coherent phrases together to explain what she knows to Coulson. Left with more questions than answers, Coulson turns to Simmons to make sense of Skye's account.
An extensive round of testing on the ash Hunter retrieves from the temple confirms what everyone fears: Trip had succumbed to the effects of the obelisk, and Skye's new abilities had reduced what remained of him to dust. Simmons doesn't cry when she relates the results to the team. Her voice remains completely devoid of emotion, as if she is sharing nothing more important than what she had for lunch. At first, she's numb to everything, and then she feels so much she doesn't have the words to express it, so she shoves it aside until she does. It feels just like the days she spent waiting for Fitz to wake up from his coma.
Too caught up in their grief, the rest of the team doesn't notice Simmons wandering around in a daze. She works steadily, answering questions when asked and completing projects and assignments with the same level of ease and efficiency she always has. She patches up all their various injuries, professional and considerate as ever. On the outside, she simply looks a little distant and detached. On the inside, her mind is torturing her with memories of every time she's failed someone on a never-ending loop.
The daze finally breaks on their third day back at the Playground when her brain reminds her again in stunning detail of all the distress and pain she's caused Fitz. The mug of tea she's been holding slips from her trembling fingers and shatters on the unforgiving surface of the lab's floor.
For the first moment, all Simmons can do is stare in shock at the pieces of porcelain and the puddle of lukewarm tea at her feet. When she realizes exactly which mug she has just destroyed with her carelessness, she loses it. Falling to her knees, she keens as she snatches up the broken pieces, heedless of the damage she is doing to her hands. All she can do for the next ten minutes is sob as she completely lets go of the emotions she has tried to keep locked up for months. She doesn't try to curb the onslaught or shove them back in a box as she has in the past. Instead, she lets the waves of terror, pain, guilt, frustration, and remorse wholly consume her. Rather than of serving as some sort of catharsis, the release spurs her into a state of almost violent agitation.
Still choking on her tears, she gives into her manic need to try to fix what she's broken. She can only think of one thing—fix this, fix this, fix this—so she scrambles to gather the last pieces from the ground and place them at the nearest workstation. She whirls around the room in a frenzy, grabbing tools and materials haphazardly before returning to the shattered remains of the mug.
With a level of precision that should not be possible given how much her hands are shaking, she selects the largest shard and secures just above the table with a clamp. She considers the selection of adhesives she's gathered for a few seconds before realizing that none of the bonding agents will be effective on such a porous material. She nearly gives into despair before she resolves to concoct what she needs. If she were in her right mind, she would never attempt to mix chemicals given her level of distress, but she isn't in her right mind, so she mixes away without a single thought for her safety.
Luckily, even on the verge of a complete breakdown, she is more competent in the lab than most people. Within minutes, she has created a workable adhesive. After applying a thin layer to the clamped segment, she selects one shard and attempts to fit it back in place. She fails miserably. Her tears blur her vision, and her hands shake so hard that she can't line up the edges correctly. The failure merely increases her agitation, so she continues trying to repair the mug even though it's clear that she never will in her current state.
Trying to cope with Trip's death while helping a clearly traumatized Mack has left Fitz with barely enough mental capacity to function, much less to worry about Simmons. He feels honor-bound to help Mack find some kind of equilibrium because Mack had done the same for him. He's does his best to distract Mack with small projects, but he's running out of things they can tinker with or fix.
He knows that he should go speak with Simmons. He's barely seen her since they returned to the Playground, but he finds a variety of excuses not to seek her out, each weaker than the last. Their interactions since finding the City have left him even more confused. He is surprised that she isn't more visibly upset when she confirms how Trip died until he reminds himself that she's been very guarded about her emotions since she returned from Hydra. He wonders if she even remembers how to lean on other people anymore.
When he makes his way toward the lab, he isn't looking for her. In fact, he hopes that she won't be there. He's still determined to move to the Garage, and he doesn't want to fight with her about it. He doesn't have the energy right now. All he wants is to find the prototype he'd been working on before he'd returned to the field. He can't find it anywhere else in the Playground or on the Bus, so he assumes it is in the lab.
He nearly turns around when he sees her sitting at one of the workstations, but her low, agitated muttering freezes him in his tracks.
"It's your fault, and you have to fix this," her breath hitches so hard he knows it must be painful, but she continues on. "You have to fix this. He deserves so much better. It's just like the damned Chitauri virus. You were stupid enough to get yourself into this mess, so you have to fix this."
He can't see what she is trying to repair, and he can't understand why she is obviously so frustrated with herself. He wants to offer his help, but because of all the stress he's been having more trouble with his hands in the last few days. He's reluctant to remind her how broken he is.
He focuses back on her when her muttering turns even harsher.
"You have to fix this. You broke it. You broke it. You BROKE it. It's your fault. You should have been paying attention. You should have reacted faster. Why didn't you think of a new plan?"
Listening carefully, Fitz begins to realize that Simmons is no longer talking about what she is so desperately trying to fix. She's muttering about what happened to them. As her rant continues, she confirms what he has only just started to realize and fear.
"Why couldn't you swim faster? He nearly lost his life for you and this is how you repay him. You are such a disappointment, Jemma Simmons. Why are you so bloody useless?"
Once she mutters the last statement, Simmons gives up trying to fix the mug, and just lets the pieces fall back to the table. She finally hunches over and buries her face in her hands, which are littered with cuts from the shattered porcelain. Her shoulders heave and she gives into sobbing once more.
Fitz is floored. All this time, all these months, she's been blaming herself for what happened to them. It's not him she's disappointed in; it's herself. She's held this inside, let it gnaw at her, truly believing that it's her fault. He wonders what she would have told him in the hanger of the quinjet if he'd let her explain. Would she have confessed her apparent guilt? Is that why she abandoned him?
When he finally dares to creep closer, his heart clenches when he catches sight of what she has been trying so hard to repair. He knows that mug. He'd been the one to buy it for her back in their Academy days. The mug itself isn't really anything special. It's just a simple white porcelain mug with a black letter on either side: and F and an S. What it represents, however, is so much more.
He'd bought it for her as more of a joke than anything the day that Professor Hall had first called them FitzSimmons. He'd laughed when he'd given it to her, saying that since Hall had decided they were basically one person, they might as well just have the one mug between them. She'd snickered in return, and he can still remember what she said all these years later.
"Oh, so I suppose you're finally willing to learn to make your tea the proper way then? Goodness knows I am not going to drink that sugary concoction you so blasphemously call tea."
The smile that forms from the memory quickly turns into a grimace when he sees her shoulders heave as she sobs. Still, he can't help but feel a little bit of hope from her reaction to the mug. It's broken, but it's so important to her that she feels she has to fix it. He's questioned it in recent months more than he would like, but he wants to believe that he's important enough to her that she'll want to fix him too. He wonders if that is what she thinks she's been doing all along.
Her distress cuts through him. He was too blinded by his anger to confront her before, but he can't let this continue. He's still upset with her, but he never wants to see her like this: like her world has ended and she doesn't know which way is up.
Cautiously, Fitz creeps up behind her, not wanting to startle her and not sure what to say once he gets her attention. She is too lost in her sorrow to hear him approach. He's nervous that he'll stutter or lose the words, so he decides to place his right hand on her shoulder. Before it all, before the pod, before the weeks of awkward, stilted half conversations, she would have just placed her hand on top of his and continued on.
This time she startles violently and swings around to stand, cutting a slash along her left palm as she catches her hand on the edge of the shard held in the clamp. He watches in anguish as she valiantly tries to hide her physical and emotional pain from him. She swipes at her tears with her right hand, knowing that her efforts are in vain.
"Oh, Fitz. Hello." She plasters on a fake smile so brittle he wonders if she will break into pieces in front of him like the mug.
"Can I...do you...is there something I can help you with?" She winces as the word "help" escapes her mouth before she can stop it. Trying to compensate for her faux pas, she forces her grin even wider as she clutches her bleeding hand to her chest.
"I was just," she starts. "Well, it doesn't matter. What brings you here?"
"Simmons, we need..." He starts to answer her, but she responds before he can finish the thought.
"You and Mack we're working on the quinjet earlier, right? How are the modifications…" The words tumble out of her mouth as quickly as the water rushed in the pod, and once her traitorous brain supplies that remarkably unhelpful imagery she can't stop talking.
"Simmons, just…wait." He tries a little louder, attempting to make eye contact as she studiously looks just over his right shoulder. She just continues to babble on, not even sure what she is saying. It's a tragic parody of their previous free flowing conversations.
"…coming along? I know Coulson is so pleased that you're implementing your designs. Bobbi was just telling me the other day about how you solved the problem with the cooling lines. But of course…"
"Sim…"
"…everyone knows that you're…"
"Simmons!" Fitz finally resorts to shouting at her.
"…brilliant," her last word bleeds out, fading at the end as her breath hitches again, a clear sign that she is losing her tentative hold on herself. She doesn't even try to pretend to look at him. She just drops her gaze at the floor, taking in the sight of his worn chucks and noticing, not for the first time, just how much has changed. Even their wardrobes used to be in sync. Now she looks as out of place as she feels.
"Simmons," Fitz sighs. "Let me see your hand."
He knows that she would fight him even if they were at their best, but he doesn't expect for her to swing her hand behind her back and lie.
"Oh, Fitz. It's nothing, just a scratch really. I don't need tending." They are too emotionally drained to recognize or appreciate the sense of déjà vu this moment should bring.
Words tumble out of Fitz's mouth before he can register them, and he regrets them almost immediately.
"I thought you'd gotten better at lying by now, what with all that 'oh I'm just going to pop in on mum and dad except I'm really going to work for Hydra' nonsense," he mocks her using the falsetto he knows she hates before returning to his natural range. "But what would I know?"
He's tired of her lying and hiding things from him, and he can't control the frustration as it bubbles over. He wants to fix whatever is wrong with them, but he can't seem to get a hold on the anger that he's had for her since she left him.
She tries, oh how she tries, to keep the sting of his words from showing on her face, but, as is par for the course for her life recently, she fails miserably.
He watches, dismayed, as her chin quivers and her eyes fill with tears. It's the third time in the last several weeks that he's been the cause of her tears, and he feels guilty and completely inept at dealing with it.
She opens her mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a half strangled sob.
"It's just…you don't need…I can…it's fine really" she attempts to say, but most of the words are incomprehensible due to the strain of the repressed sobs in her throat.
Though worried, his temper is already on a short fuse, so he yells the one thing they have both wanted to say since she woke up in the pod at the bottom of the ocean floor.
"It's not fine. You're not fine. I'm not fine. None of this is fine!" He thinks the silence that follows his outburst might just consume them both as it lingers on.
"I know," Simmons eventually agrees, her voice so quiet he almost misses it. "I know that it's not fine, but I can't fix it. I've tried, but I don't know how, Fitz."
He doesn't know either, but he's going to try at least because she's not in any condition to make the effort, and he's refused her past attempts so many times that he is afraid she might not try again. It's just like the Chitauri virus and every other problem they've faced. Neither of them had been able to find the solution alone. They only fixed the problem when they worked together.
"Let's start with something small, yeah? Stop being daft and give me your hand. You've cut yourself to...to…well you've made a mess of it."
He can see that she is conflicted. She doesn't want to refuse him anything, but she also doesn't want him to see her hand. Unwilling to just stand there and stare as the blood begins to drip from the bottom of her fist, he reaches out and pulls it toward him. They're both surprised that she doesn't resist.
"It's not too bad, I think. Good for you since I can't…sti…sich….sew to save my life." He says it in a half-hearted attempt to get her to smile or laugh, but he knows that he's missed the mark by a wide margin when it makes a single tear fall from her eyes.
He leads her to one of the sinks in the lab, making no comment when her trembling becomes more noticeable once her hand is under the running water. Once he's cleaned it thoroughly, careful not to press too hard or move too quickly, he realizes that while the cut had looked severe it is really quite superficial. He's thankful since he wasn't joking about being completely inept at sewing anything, especially now that his fine motor skills are questionable. He places a plaster over the cut to help ward off infection.
Just to be thorough, he washes and examines her other hand. She's covered in scrapes, but it's no worse than he's seen her hands after hours in the lab on several other occasions.
She can't think of anything to say, so she watches his ministrations quietly. He's just as careful and tender as he has always been when seeing to her injuries. Her tears threaten to fall again as she remembers time after time that he's patched her up. She can't help but wonder if this will be the final time he does.
Oblivious that his thoughts almost mirror hers, Fitz also thinks about all the times he's done this for her, and how it never felt as important or meaningful as it does now. He isn't just fixing her hand; from his perspective, this is his first successful attempt to address the gaping wound that has become their friendship.
Ever aware of him, Simmons notices when he finishes but doesn't drop her hand immediately. His expression is inscrutable, and she convinces herself that he's trying to think of a kind or at least not entirely biting way to dismiss her, so she does what she's done since Fitz woke up from his coma; she does what she thinks Fitz needs.
"I, uh, thank you. I'll just..." She starts to pull away even though she really wants to stay there with her hand in his. She still has tears in her eyes, but she forces herself to let go.
He finally notices her retreat as her fingers slip from his. And in that moment, it's far too reminiscent of the last time they were really FitzSimmons. He can't let this go on anymore. It's clear that she misses him. He misses her too; he's been missing her the whole damn time, and she's here now, so why does he feel like they're still so far apart even when she is right in front of him?
"Jemma." It's the first time he's said her name like that since he woke up: part exasperation, part fondness, part impatience. It's so familiar and yet now so foreign that she stops moving. Once upon a time, she would have responded in kind, but now she can't even seem to form words, much less say them.
Seeing that she's no closer to responding than before, he pulls her into a firm embrace with her wounded hand pressed between them. He'd intended for it to be light enough for her to escape if she really didn't want it, but as soon as she is in his arms, he can't bring himself to let her go again. Only then does he realize the true toll this rift has taken on her. He'd been too distracted when Skye's powers had nearly brought down the City to notice before.
She's lost weight; anyone with half a brain would have noticed, but he didn't realize how much her clothes were hiding. She's always been slight, but he can feel the side of her ribs against his forearms and her spine against his hand. The bones are far too pronounced and he wonders when she last ate a decent meal.
Simmons stiffens at first, convinced that he being selfless again and that he doesn't really want this, but her resolve fades quickly. With his arms bracketing her body, she finally feels like she can really breathe for the first time since the water rushed in on them. She had convinced herself that his embrace as the world crumbled around them above the City was just instinct. Four legs were more stable than two. This time, she knows his hold is intentional. They aren't in danger. They aren't about to die. He really wants her in his arms. Unable to pull herself away, she burrows into his shoulder, finding the same spot she has always sought out when she is upset.
Now it's Fitz's turn to be unsure. He thought for sure she'd start crying again as soon as she hugged back, but when he glances down there is an almost peaceful expression on her face. She's finally calm, but he knows Simmons, even with all the hurt and raw feelings between them. Despite her apparent composure, she still has a lot of pent up emotions to release. He knows he is just going to have to wait her out, so he lets his cheek rest atop her head. It's a position they've occupied more times than he can count since they met as teenagers.
For the first time since she returned from Hydra, Fitz feels completely in his element around her. There is no need for words here. The words were just for other people, and he wonders how the hell he ever forgot that. He and Simmons could have whole conversations with just glances, gestures, and touches. She didn't need his words. She needed him. She resorted to a fecking sweater, he mentally berates himself, because he was too much of an arse to confront her. She'd needed him and he hadn't been there. She'd always needed him just as he'd needed her.
As his thoughts turn to a darker place, he moves to release her. He needs to know why she left. He can't just keep wondering. It's been a constant source of poison between them for months.
When the pressure releases on her back, Simmons panics. The last time they had embraced like this and he'd let go she didn't know whether or not she'd ever see him alive again. She can't let him go this time. Even if it is best for him, even if it's what he wants. She can't. It wasn't best before. It was wrong, so wrong, and she won't have it. She can't survive it again. And that's all she's done: barely survive.
His hands have only just left her back when he feels her press closer and start to tremble. She's actively clutching the fabric of his shirt in her hands, pressing so hard he worries about further injuries. In the moment, she can't separate past from present. The flashback takes her so quickly she has no time to steel herself against it. It's not her first or the worst, but she's the most vulnerable and drained she has ever been. In an instant, she is back in the moment when everything went wrong, when her world shattered and she struggled and failed to make some kind of sense of the aftermath.
It takes him only a moment to realize that she's not really there; she's back in the pod, and he can't stand for her to be there, even if only in her mind.
Just like that day in the water, she clutches him to her and moans out "no" after "no". Fitz is hard-pressed not to fall into the flashback with her; it's too similar, but now it's time for him to pull her to the surface.
He knows that he has to get her attention and soon or she is going to completely lose it. He pushes her to arms length and winces as she tries to fight against him and burrow back into his shoulder. He hates to see her so upset, but he has to try to bring her back into this moment. Reaching out his right hand, he braces it on her shoulder to hold her so that he can see her eyes. They'll tell him everything he needs to know. With his left hand, he cups her face and strokes his thumb down her cheek, trying to erase the tears spilling from her bloodshot eyes. She latches her hands around his wrists, no longer able to reach any other part of him. She can't lose that tether to him.
"Jemma, come now, lass," he coaxes, "Come back to me. It's not real. It's over. We're out. Look and see."
She wants to look away, to believe what she barely hears over the rush of blood in her ears, but her grip on reality is shaky at best, and she knows, just knows, that this is a trap. If she looks away, he'll be gone. If she looks away, that will be the end of her. The thought of losing him again rips the breath from her body. She's struggling to take in any air. Her chest heaving as hard as it had after she'd powered through 90 feet of water and broken the surface, dragging his dead weight behind her.
He's knows she's about to break. He can see it in her eyes and hear it in the ragged breaths she's trying to pull into her body. On the verge of hyperventilating, her vision starts to fade, which only adds to her panic.
"My god, Jem! Breathe! Come on. You've got to breathe."
Fitz is on the verge of panicking himself. He can't seem to pull her back, and he worried she's going to pass out at any moment. Her eyes have gone glassy and she is barely taking in any air. Her skin is pale and clammy, and her body is shaking from the surge of adrenaline. It's like the afternoon at the pool all over again.
Running out of options, he breaks free of her hold, knowing that it's going to make her panic even more, before twisting her around and pulling her back to his chest, locking one arm around her waist and snaking the other between her breasts to rest over her heart. It's thundering, and he knows it's now or never.
"Breathe with me, Simmons. I know you can. In and out. In and out." He repeats the mantra over and over, throwing in endearments he'd never have dared to say aloud before this moment. He's half convinced that she can't hear him anyway, but half hopeful that she can and it's helping. He never once notices that he's spoken clearly the entire time: no stuttering, no pausing to search for a word.
Simmons feels like she is trying to crawl through the water again. Her vision is blurry and everything sounds muffled. Her lungs are screaming for her to breathe, and after a minute or so she begins to realize that Fitz is all but screaming at her to breathe as well.
She tries and fails for half a minute, each breath getting stuck somewhere between her mouth and lungs, but eventually Fitz's forced but steady rhythm anchors her and she begins matching his pace, finally breathing deeply and evenly. The whole time, he's be running the side of his thumb over her heart; it's a completely unconscious act of soothing and that calms her more than anything else. In this moment, for this brief window of time, they're in synch; they're FitzSimmons. She knows it won't last, but she can't help but wish that it would.
When he's convinced that she's at least mostly back in the moment with him, he gently turns her back around. She mourns the feeling of his arms tight around her and blushes in embarrassment at him having seen her fall to pieces. He doesn't need this right now, she scolds herself. He doesn't need to be focused on her. She is being selfish, claiming his attention this way. The blush that had started in embarrassment moves quickly to a flush of anger, and she continues to berate herself silently.
"You're alright, yeah?" he questions half-heartedly. He knows she isn't, but he needs to hear her say something, anything, to know that she's back with him. He holds one of her hands, thinking that she still might need the contact, and, if he is honest, because he needs it even if she doesn't.
She swallows audibly before speaking. "Yes, I'm sorry, I…" the rest of the apology gets stuck in her throat. She's sorry for so many things that she doesn't even know where to start. She's sorry for dragging him into this mess that SHIELD has become. Sorry for every time his life was in danger because of it. Sorry that the plan she concocted meant that he'd had to make the decision to give his life for hers. Sorry she didn't fight him harder about the oxygen. Sorry that she didn't swim faster. Sorry she didn't try harder. Sorry she didn't stay. Sorry she lied. Sorry he's having to try to fix what she broke. Sorry she isn't strong enough to do it herself.
She's so caught up in her mental tally that she doesn't realize she's speaking. It's soft, but he hears it all the same. Hears the blame and anger she has directed at herself. Hears the guilt and exhaustion.
"I'm sorry, too." She hears him admit and that brings her up short.
"Whatever have you got to be sorry for? You didn't do anything." She's shocked and dismayed that he thinks any of it is his fault.
"But I could've." Now his voice is choked with emotion, his speech breaking and making him even more upset. He's finally seen what their experience has done to her, and he's distressed that he has clearly only added to her suffering. She's his best friend and so much more than that, and he's pushed her to this breaking point.
"I could've…You were….you needed…and I was…" His eyes brimming with tears, he stares at her, willing her to understand what he is so desperately trying to say.
Simmons hates that she's upset him. She's forever upsetting him nowadays. "It doesn't matter what I needed, you..." she never has a chance to finish.
"Of course it bloody well matters," he interrupts, tone hard and unwavering. "You needed me, and I needed you to…needed you to…"
"Stop being so demanding, I know," she interjects, a habit too long engrained in her to stop, even when she wishes she could.
"No, you don't!"
She's startled into silence by the vehemence in his tone. "You don't know every bloody…thing. So just, just,..". He's reaching for the word, but she clamps her mouth shut, willing herself not to give into the impulse because clearly, even though she used to know what he was thinking, she doesn't now.
"Listen," he finally manages. "Just listen, yeah?" It's the weariness of his tone that compels her to really look at him, but now that he has her full attention he's almost afraid of her again.
She sees his hesitation and rather than speaking she squeezes his hand to encourage him to keep going. It's better this way, she thinks, because the words are just making everything harder even though they need to be said.
His grip had tightened, almost to the point of pain, but it is a reminder to both of them that they are here. They are alive, and they are finally talking. Still, he relaxes his hand, wary of hurting her any more than he obviously already has.
"I needed you…" he hesitates. "I needed you to need me," he finally confesses. Her brow draws up in confusion so he pushes on, wanting to get everything out in the open before he loses the words.
"I needed you to need me," he repeats. "Me. Not my words or my hands, but me because that meant, it meant I…you still thought I was…"
This time she does interject because she finally knows the truth she needs to tell him to sooth this hurt and misunderstanding.
"Valuable," she offers. She wants to say 'worth loving', but there is too much between them, chasms of hurt that they need to cross and feelings she needs to sort out, before they can tread there.
"Yeah," he murmurs, now no longer able to look her in the eye. He's admitted it. Admitted that he was, is, broken, and that she's what he needs to be fixed. He's terrified to bare himself to her again; she's never once mentioned his confession in the pod, so he's convinced that she finds it too absurd to even discuss.
"I didn't think I deserved to, need you, that is," she admits quietly.
Emotions bubbling over, he raises his voice again. "The hell, Jemma! What could you have done that you didn't do? You got us out of that place…before we d...before we had no hope. You dragged my sorry…me…to the surface. May said you stayed with me when I was, when I, you know." He finally gives up trying to search his faulty memory for the word. She knows what he means.
"I couldn't leave, not then."
Seeing the opening, he quickly jumps on it. "So it was all fine and dandy to leave me once I could breathe on my own and...and…stumble through sentences like a…like a toddler?" The intensity of his tone on the last word cuts into her.
"No! It's just…I was…you were…everyone saw," Simmons struggles to explain.
"Saw what? That I wasn't….good," his voice cracks on the word, "enough for you anymore? That you couldn't stand to be…" She can't let him finish, but she's still reluctant to reveal the one truth she hates admitting out loud so much that she's avoided telling him for months because of what she thinks it means for them.
"That I was making you worse!" she cries, tears welling in her eyes again. "You were trying so hard, and making so much progress at first, but I wasn't helping. I was making you worse," now her voice cracks, "and everyone could see it but you."
Her confession bleeds the anger from him. He can see that she sincerely believes the lie she's just told, and he can't understand why.
"What are you going on about?" His tone demands an explanation, and she feels obligated to provide one even though admitting that she isn't good for him cuts her to the core.
"It was fine the first few weeks. You were improving so quickly, and everyone was so impressed. But you'd," she pauses to think about how to phrase this part of her confession, "get stuck, and you'd look at me, because that's what we do, did," she amends quickly.
"We finished each other's thoughts. But that wasn't helping you get back those words. So I tried not to, but that just seemed to frustrate you more, and pretty soon you couldn't say a whole sentence when I was there. Your hands shook more, and you started to lean on me even when you could things for yourself. You never did with the others, and then I knew that I was making you worse. I was holding you back. You were never going to get better with me around. So I left."
"You were the only one I trusted to see me broken and struggling. Why didn't you just….tell me why you were going?" He can make himself understand that she believes the lie about her making him worse, because that is just what it is, a lie. But he can't understand why she lied about where she was going and why.
"Because," she pauses, even warier of admitting this because of what it could imply. She's not ready to have this discussion with him. "Because you would have asked me to stay." She sucks in a breath before continuing, needing the moment to force herself to say the final words, "and I wouldn't have been able to say no, even though it was better for you."
"Bollocks! Absolute, utter bollocks!" His response is immediate, and she's dismayed to hear that she's upset him again. It seems to be the only thing she is good at lately.
His volume quiets, but it's clear he's still seething with anger and pain. "I bloody well…imagined you here when you were gone, so you might as well've stayed. Talking to you, well not you, talking to her, it was the only time I felt…like me."
It's the first time he's admitted to her that he hallucinated her. She doesn't have much time to consider the importance of that admission. He just powers on, stumbling here and there, but speaking with a level of confidence he hasn't felt in a long time.
"We're FitzSimmons. We're as fecking codependent as people can be. We never work better alone. I needed you here, and you left."
His words unlock something in her that she's buried deep. In the months since Ward left them to die, she'd only allowed herself to think about how angry she is with him on a few rare occasions. It was wrong, she had mostly convinced herself, to be angry with someone who willingly tried to give up his life for her. Somehow that rationalization feels hollow now.
"You left me too, you know. Or tried your damnedest to." She's as surprised at her obvious fury as he is. "You handed me that oxygen, fully expecting me to just take it and leave you there to die. How could you ever think to demand that of me? In what universe was that really a viable option?"
"That wasn't…I was trying…I had to….it was the only way I could save you."
The look she gives him after his stuttered attempts at validating his choice makes him shrink back a little. An angry Jemma Simmons is a frightening Jemma Simmons, no matter how fragile she might otherwise look at the moment.
"Now," she questions, "Do you understand why I left?"
It's as close to an admission of love as she is willing to give him at the moment. She still doesn't know how to articulate what she feels for him. It's just like he said: they're FitzSimmons, a study in total codependency. Maybe one day she'll be able to tell him with the absolutely certainty they both deserve that she loves him the way her loves her, but she can't do it now. Technically, he's never said the words either, she muses, feeling less anxious about her own lack of declaration.
He considers her explanation for a moment, and he finally understands that she didn't leave because she thought he was unworthy of her. She left because she didn't want him to suffer. She'd wanted him to live and thrive, and she was convinced that he couldn't if she were there. It was everything he'd wanted for her in the pod. They'd both put each other first. Admittedly, they should have realized that being separated was never going to end well for them, but those mistakes were made. All they could do now was learn from them and try not to repeat them.
He wants to push; he wants desperately to hear her say that she loves him, but he knows she won't reveal anymore today. Some of her walls are back up now that she's remembered her anger, and, for as much as she wears her heart on her sleeve about many things, he knows that Simmons needs more time to process what she feels. Still, it's a glimmer of something more, and his heart soars. She cares, deeply and unreservedly. She cares enough to suffer in silence for months while he's pushed her away. For now, that understanding and hope is enough for him. He knows that they have to remember how to be FitzSimmons before they can ever hope to be something more.
She's just starting to get unnerved at the way he is staring at her, his face oddly devoid of emotion as he processes her last statement. She's feeling a little annoyed that her almost, halfway veiled admission of "feelings" doesn't prompt a bigger reaction, but then she sees it: the twinkle in his eye and the start of the grin she honestly thought she would never have directed at her again.
Before she can drink in the sight of his happiness, he engulfs her in his arms again, squeezing her tight as if enough pressure can mend the lingering fissures between them that they both know are there. When he feels her smile against his neck, he can't help the cheesy quality his grin takes on. They're not fine, but they are closer to being FitzSimmons than they have been since Ward left them for dead.
Simmons, for all she's cried over the last several weeks, doesn't think she has any tears left, but apparently this occasion warrants some waterworks as well, though at least they are happy tears this time. Fitz pulls back immediately when he feels the moisture on his neck. Luckily, the beaming smile on her face is enough to assure him that she's just as happy as he is that they've taken this huge step forward together.
Still, the bags under her eyes and the pallor of her skin are as noticeable as they were during their first finals week at Sci-Tech. He's fairly certain that they didn't get more than 48 hours of sleep between them during that 6-day period, and he wonders how much sleep she's had in the past week.
Though Simmons hasn't noticed it, Fitz can feel the quavering of her muscles, and, while he's no bio-chemist, he does know that she needs to sit immediately. Otherwise, she may collapse in his arms. Fortunately, there is a couch shoved in one corner of the lab, and he pulls her along beside him as he makes his way over to it. Though a bit bemused at his insistence, Simmons makes no effort to protest; she is exhausted, and sitting down seems like an excellent plan.
She is convinced that they're going to continue the conversation, but he has other plans. She needs sleep in the worst way, and he's going to make sure she gets it, even if it means engaging in a little calculated deception to force her to take a nap in the middle of the day.
Folding his lanky form into the corner, he motions for her to sit beside him. He's already pulled out his phone by the time she settles in. She sits, resting her weight on her right hip so that her upper body faces him while her legs are curled on the cushion behind her. Since she's left a conspicuous space between them, he realizes that no matter how far they've come in the last half hour she's still a bit more reserved around him than she had been. He can't stand the thought that she feels like she has to maintain that physical barrier even now.
Snaking an arm behind her shoulders, he pulls her flush against his side where he knows she'll be comfortable and able to see the screen of his phone. He's pleased when she immediately wriggles a little closer, tucks her head between his neck and shoulder, and stretches her legs out along the cushions. She's pleased that he evidently wants the contact.
He thumbs through the menu of his phone before settling on a video. It's their favorite episode of Dr. Who, "The Girl in the Fireplace," and he hopes that the familiarity of watching it together will soothe away any lingering tension in her form. His hopes are realized about 15 minutes in as she slowly nods off to sound of his lilting brogue as he supplies their traditional commentary. She tries to contribute, but he is warm and solid and her body needs the rest even if she would rather spend the next several hours talking to him.
Once he thinks that she's sleeping soundly, he shifts toward the armrest so that he can stretch out his legs alongside hers. His movement causes her to stir for a moment, and he sucks in a breath waiting to see if she'll wake up. She doesn't, but she does curl a bit more onto her side to tuck herself closer to his warmth. His eyes soften even more as he watches her settle her head above his heart and let out a soft sigh.
He wants to freeze this moment in time, but it's not long before his eyelids begin to droop and he joins her in slumber. It takes less than an hour for them to gravitate even closer in sleep, their limbs tangling to the point that it isn't clear where one of them ends and the other begins.
It's Skye who stumbles upon them a few hours later. She's been wandering around a bit like a zombie for days, but the sight of FitzSimmons curled together on the couch finally brings a smile to her face. Trip had always told her that their resident geniuses would find their way back together again. His faith in them had never waivered. Her smile fades a little at the thought that he isn't around to see that he was right all along; even still, the sight of the two of them together again lets her start hoping that maybe what is left of them will make it through this in the end.
She can't help whipping out her phone and taking several pictures, especially once she realizes that Simmons has drooled a little. She doubts that she'll feel up to teasing them any time soon, but blackmail material this good has to be saved. With a ghost of a smile still on her face, she turns away to find May and Coulson. They'll want to see evidence that FitzSimmons is finally making a comeback, and she's more than happy to be the one to provide it.