TW for ableism, meltdown/sensory overload, brief mention of abuse

The key to a successful day, in Jemma's opinion, was preparation. If everything was planned – organized and labeled, listed and scheduled – then there would be no surprises. If there were no surprises, then there would be nothing to handle that she wasn't already equipped to take on. Jemma knew that this rarely happened, of course. The nature of the universe was carved from chaos billions of years before she had taken her first breath, so it wasn't hard to understand that the world around her didn't follow the same rigid structure that she tried to maintain. But that didn't mean she couldn't try.

And it wasn't all chaos. Plenty of things in the universe followed rules and laws as strict as the ones she created for herself. The Earth orbited around the sun at the same rate year after year, and would until the sun collapsed in on itself. The tides bent to the will of the moon month after month. A butterfly would always begin its life as a caterpillar. Energy could never be created or destroyed, only transformed. Jemma loved to think about the unspoken rules of the universe, big and small. It made her feel safe to know that not everything in existence bowed only to chaos.

She didn't consider herself a controlling person. She had long ago accepted that her ability to impact things beyond herself was limited. But the things that she could control – the things that were within her grasp – those things she liked to be prepared for. It was why she started each day with a list of the things she was going to do: 1. Wake up. 2. Dress. 3. Brush teeth. 4. Go downstairs. 5. Eat breakfast. Number 5 was split into subcategories, as eating breakfast first required fixing breakfast, then waiting for the cereal to reach the right texture, then eating, not too fast and without scraping the spoon against the side of the bowl, and no drinking the milk in the bowl once the cereal was gone, either. 6. Gather things for school. 7. Go to the car. 8. Go to school. 9. Meet Fitz. 10. Go to class.

Those ten things were always the same now, at least on school mornings. She had a different list for weekends. Not being a wholly unreasonable person, Jemma allowed for variation within the list – unanticipated conversations with Skye that cut in between 2 and 3, for example, or adding an addendum to 6 if someone was having trouble finding something they needed before they left. But the basic structure remained the same. School was like that too, although it wasn't Jemma who set the schedule there. She went to the same classes in the same order, saw the same people at the same times. She knew some people might find it tedious to live the same day over and over again, but Jemma didn't mind. The conversations were different each day, and the information she learned in class was different, too, so things didn't get boring. Besides, she liked knowing what to expect.

Some of the places she had lived had been full of unexpected things. Foster parents who wanted you to act a certain way one day, only to shout at you when you did it the same way a few days later. Foster siblings who took your things or hid them so that you had to make an addendum on the list to find them. Noises or smells or lights that were too loud or strong or bright and made it so you couldn't keep moving on your list until you were able to make them go away. Living with Phil and May wasn't like that. Things were calm and soft in their house, and whenever something was going to be different about the day, they always made sure to tell her ahead of time.

They hadn't known that today was going to be a different kind of day. Jemma hadn't known either, when she woke up, that her list for the day was going to be completely derailed between steps 9 and 10, but that was exactly what had happened.

She knew something had been bothering Skye since the afternoon before. Skye had come back from Flex Time sullen and short-tempered, and had stayed that way for almost the entire rest of the afternoon and evening. Jemma had weathered plenty of bad moods from Skye over the years that they had been friends – Skye liked to seem like she was tough and brave and immune to having her feelings hurt, but Jemma knew that she wasn't really like that.

When it was just the two of them, Skye would tell her the truth. She would uncover the aches and bruises on her heart and let Jemma try to patch them up. Jemma liked to be the one to heal and to fix. She liked being able to help put something back together, to watch the body or the soul knit its parts back into a whole. Skye would tell her about the things she was afraid of, the words that hurt her feelings, the things that made her angry, and Jemma would listen and take them all in, holding as much of it as she could for Skye before things started sloshing over the sides of the pitcher.

Skye did that for Jemma, too, the times that Jemma wanted to talk. Skye could hold Jemma's feelings, even if Jemma couldn't find the words to speak them. Jemma didn't like to talk, sometimes. Sometimes there was nothing but an empty space in her lungs and larynx, even if there were thousands of words coursing around in her brain. Sometimes, it was just easier to keep words tucked away in her head than to try and force them out into the open. Once words were said, they couldn't be undone, and the things that got lost in translation never came back. The wrong phrasing you picked, or the awkward word choice, or the incorrect tone you used, all of it just sat there, hanging heavy in the air, and then everybody knew that you weren't like them. You didn't fit in. You didn't belong.

That never happened with Skye, though. Skye waited for her to tinker and tailor with the words, to nip and tuck at the sentences until they came out with the precision of language that Jemma wanted. Skye didn't laugh or get upset or misunderstand when the words came out wrong, either, just like how Jemma never made Skye feel badly for messing up her reading or for not being able to control her temper. It was one of the reasons why they made such a good team. A symbiotic relationship. Mutually beneficial.

That was why Jemma had been so worried by Skye's unhappiness yesterday. Usually if something was bothering Skye, she would find a time to tell Jemma, to share the burden, but hours and hours had ticked by (Jemma had counted them) and Skye hadn't said a word. Even when Jemma asked at night, when the lights were out and the pressure of saying the right thing was lessened, Skye had been evasive. Jemma tried not to worry, but worrying was one of the things she was best at.

She didn't stop worrying the next morning, and even added extra numbers to her list to make time for it. 1. Wake up. 1.5. Worry about Skye. 2. Dress. 2.5. Worry about Skye. And so on. She didn't want to see Skye do something that would get her hurt, or that would get her into trouble, but those were the types of things that often happened when Skye got upset.

The truth had come out on the blacktop after the bell had rung and they were supposed to be going inside. Jemma had wanted to go inside – that was where they were supposed to be, and she didn't like to be late. That felt like breaking the rules, and being late meant you had to deal with the horrible moment of coming into a room while everyone watched, each set of eyes staring and reminding you that you were late and late was bad, bad, bad. But she had wanted to help Skye more, so she waited as Skye finally started to tell her everything.

Telling everything was good, because it meant Skye was being honest, which Jemma appreciated, but it was also bad, because it meant Skye said things that hurt her feelings. She knew Skye didn't mean them. Skye didn't really think that she couldn't handle things, or that she needed to be looked after all the time, but Jemma knew that Skye couldn't help herself sometimes. Skye liked to be in charge, liked to be the strong one, the protector. Normally Jemma was more than happy to let her be that, especially when Skye understood that they could both be strong and both be protectors, just in different ways. Skye was the out-loud strong, the protector from other people. Jemma was the quiet- inside strong, the protector from themselves. Sometime Skye forgot, though, and that was when she said things that hurt. It didn't matter so much, not really. She always apologized, and she always meant the apology more than she meant the thing she was apologizing for, so Jemma never took it to heart. People said things they didn't mean all the time. It was one of the reasons why Jemma didn't like to speak so much. She wanted to mean the things she said.

Telling everything also meant that Skye shared her plan – a plan which Jemma thought was far too dangerous to be worth the trouble. They had been lucky when Skye had gotten caught looking through May's files on the computer. That had been a bad day. There had been a lot of worrying on that day. In a different house, Skye would have been sent back for doing something like that, or sent to jail, or punished in a painful way. They were lucky that May and Phil weren't like the others. Jemma wasn't sure how much longer they could be lucky for if Skye kept breaking rules left and right.

Still, she knew how important it was to Skye to find her parents. That was one of the things that they talked about in the late nights, when only the stars could overhear their conversations – if stars had ears, of course. Skye desperately wanted to know where she came from, where she belonged. Jemma understood in some ways. When she had lived with her parents, Jemma had belonged. Her father taught her about the stars and her mother read her wonderful stories with plucky heroines and happy endings. They were three parts of a whole. After they were gone, Jemma felt hollowed out. She was the only 33.333% remaining of her family, and no amount of infinitely repeating threes in her percentage would ever fill it up to whole again. She imagined that was how Skye felt when she thought about her own parents, only Skye had never known what it felt like when things were filled to 100%.

Sometimes Jemma thought that maybe she and Skye could fit together themselves and make a new whole. Her 33% mixed with Skye's 33% to create a solution that looked like 66% to some people, but felt like 100% to them. If you altered your understanding of what a whole looked like, then something that was 2/3 of one whole could technically be considered a whole in its own right. You just had to change your scale. Sometimes, it seemed like Skye could see what Jemma saw, but other times, the math went over her head, and all she could see was the missing pieces.

That was why, Jemma figured, after everything had unfurled around her and derailed her day's plan, she had agreed to help. She could see that Skye was stuck on the missing pieces, and she wanted to help her find them, or at least, to get unstuck from them. Jemma knew what it was like to feel stuck on the things that made you feel bad.

Watching Skye tear across the blacktop after handing over the forged excuse note, Jemma was struck by the shift she saw in her best friend. Skye had always been bold and exuberant, but there was a new kind of fire radiating outwards from her, a determination that Jemma normally only caught glimpses of. Jemma liked to think of people in terms of stars sometimes, and while she usually considered Skye to be like a T Tauri star – one that was still in an early stage of evolution but had great potential to become something luminous and resplendent – there were times where she feared Skye was verging more towards a supergiant, a star that burned too bright and hot to sustain itself for long before it detonated into a supernova. The Skye that had just vanished from sight was definitely acting like Supergiant Skye instead of T Tauri Skye.

"Do you think she'll make it?" Fitz asked, as they walked shoulder to shoulder into the school, Skye's note clutched tightly in Jemma's tense fingers.

"She has to," Jemma said quietly. "She'll make it because there's no other choice but to make it. That's just how she is." Jemma wanted to believe that more than anything, and she hoped that saying out loud would make it come true.

"You're right, Skye's stubborn," nodded Fitz. "I wonder what she'll find…"

"Hopefully everything she's looking for. Then she won't have to look anymore."

They reached the door to Miss Hill's room, and Jemma felt her throat tighten. Her chest constricted and it felt like someone had stuffed cotton in her ears. Her arm ached, telling her to tap, to release some of the pressure that was building up before she exploded like a bottle rocket. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. No, too fast. Pick a calmer tempo. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. Better.

"Fitz," she managed to choke out. "I don't think I can—"

"You can," he said kindly, seriously. "Skye's counting on you. You can do it. Think of it like the atomic spies. Skye's on a mission, and you're keeping her from getting discovered. Klaus Fuchs—"

"—was arrested for espionage and stripped of his British citizenship," Jemma breathed.

"Well, yes, but he also was a brilliant physicist who helped share scientific data," Fitz added. "Okay, fine, not a great example," he conceded, sensing that the parallel had done nothing to make Jemma feel better. "What about a space mission, then? Skye's your astronaut, and you're mission control. You have to keep things running on the ground so that she has a safe reentry."

"Mission control," echoed Jemma. Mission control she could work with. She unfolded the note that Skye had given her to pass to Miss Hill and grimaced. The handwriting was better than Skye's usual penmanship, but it was clearly not the work of an adult. The word "appointment" was misspelled, too. Only 1 "p."

"I don't think this is going to work," she told Fitz. She showed him the note and Fitz's face curdled into embarrassed incredulity. Jemma could tell that Fitz was already thinking of a hundred different ways that he could have improved Skye's plan if he'd been allowed to help make it ahead of time. If she was being honest, she was doing the same thing.

"Well, we don't have time to make another one," he hissed as Miss Hill stepped out into the hall, looking around for stragglers.

"Leo, Jemma, hurry up and come inside. The bell's about to ring." She waited for them to pass by her and through the doorway into the classroom, then asked the question Jemma had been wanting to avoid. "Jemma, where's Skye?"

"She…" Something knotted up in Jemma's throat, something she couldn't name. Fear, maybe, or guilt, or just her own body refusing to let her lie so blatantly to a teacher she liked and respected. Behind her, Fitz nudged her softly with his shoulder. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. Breathe in. Be calm. "She's not coming today." That wasn't a lie, but it didn't give away Skye's secret, either. It wasn't the plan that Skye had made, but it was the best Jemma could muster in the moment.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Miss Hill said sympathetically. She looked sorry, too. "Is she not feeling well?" You could say that, Jemma supposed. She didn't have the words to confirm or deny Miss Hill's assumption. 1-2-3-4. Do something. She's waiting for an answer. Jemma shrugged.

"She's got a note," Fitz said helpfully. Or, trying to be helpful. Skye's plan might not be the best, but it was all they had to work with at the moment. Fitz, her Blue Giant of a star. Blue Giants were rare and highly evolved stars that burned brightly and colored the space around them. Jemma had never known anyone who understood her as well as Fitz, or as effortlessly. Even Skye, who Jemma had shared so much of her life with, had to work to understand her sometimes. She always put in the work, which was why Jemma trusted her so deeply, but Fitz just seemed to get her. Rare, bright, and blue, like his eyes, which were prompting her to show Miss Hill the note. Reflexively, Jemma held out the piece of paper in her hand, and Miss Hill took it.

"Okay, well, why don't you two go and have a seat before the announcements start," Miss Hill said slowly. She was studying the note intensely, and Jemma felt something like a pancake flip around in her stomach. 1-2-3-4. No, not fast enough. More nervous. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. 1-2-3.

Jemma couldn't pay attention to the announcements that crackled over the intercom. She was too busy watching Miss Hill intently. Her teacher took out the attendance sheet that she filled out each morning in homeroom and began to make notes on it. Jemma could tell by her hands that she was writing more than usual, but she couldn't see what was being jotted down. Miss Hill selected a paper clip (a red one – not a reassuring color) and attached Skye's note to the attendance sheet, then folded the papers up and dropped them in the mail tray just outside the classroom door for the office workers to come by and pick up during first period.

Jemma had seen Miss Hill do this plenty of times. In fact, it was so routine that Jemma could have included it in her "things that happen at school" list if she'd wanted to. She usually left it off, since she wasn't the one doing it. Something was different about the way Miss Hill was acting, however. She seemed more serious, grim almost, as she dropped the sheet off in the hallway. The muscles in Jemma's arm tightened and she sped up her tapping. 1-2-1-2-1-2. This was all wrong. Something bad was happening, she was sure.

"She's probably just letting the office know that Skye's absent," Fitz muttered in her ear. "She put the note in there for proof so the office doesn't have to call your foster parents. It's okay. This is how the plan was supposed to go."

Everything was tight, too tight. Her arm, her throat, her stomach, her clothes rubbing against her skin. They were going to get caught. She had told a lie, and Skye had skipped school, and this was bad, bad, bad.

"This is wrong, Fitz," she murmured, squeezing her eyes shut momentarily. "They know something's gone wrong. That note wasn't any good."

"No, it wasn't," Fitz agreed. He reached over and started drumming his own pointer finger on her desktop, matching her own rhythm perfectly. It didn't hurt to breathe anymore. She tilted her head up, and met Fitz's eyes for a second. Blue Giant. "But it was all we had. And there's always the possibility that the office won't examine it too closely. They probably have better things to do than run handwriting analysis." He smiled then, tittering a little at his own joke. Jemma couldn't make herself smile back, but she slowed her tapping back to 1-2-3. Fitz matched her tempo again.

"She's coming back," Jemma said to herself. "She's coming back and then everything will be fine again."

"5 hours, 55 minutes, and 11 seconds," Fitz remarked. "That's not so long to wait."

"21,311 seconds," nodded Jemma. She fought the urge to start counting them down right then and there. Tapping would have to do for now. She would drive herself mad if she counted 21,308 seconds, she thought.

The bell rang, and it was too loud. She could feel the sound of it in her teeth, and she didn't like the taste. Somehow she floated to History class, trailing behind Fitz down the corridor. She didn't look at Miss Hill as they passed her on the way out. Jemma was sure her guilt was plastered all over her face.

Trip had wanted to know where Skye was, but Jemma had lost her words again. Fitz told Trip that Skye didn't come to school that day. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Lying by omission felt bad too, but not as bad as actively deceiving someone. Jemma had lied by omission before. There were things she didn't tell Miss Hand about the families who returned her to St. Agnes. That hadn't been honest, but she had been okay keeping those things a secret to everyone except Skye. Skye always kept her secrets – now it was time for her to return the favor.

She had almost made it through all of first period (only 6 minutes, 32 seconds left until the bell) when the pasty face of the office worker appeared in the door with a note for Mrs. Henry. Mrs. Henry read it quickly and her brow creased into a frown, which made everything go tight again. 1-2-1-2-1-2. She didn't say anything about the note until the bell had rung (too loud, again) and everyone was packing up their things.

"Jemma? Mr. Hanes would like to see you in his office," Mrs. Henry said carefully. "You can go right now while everyone is still changing classes. You'll be excused from second period." She held out the note from the office for Jemma to take. Her arm ached. It wouldn't move, only tapped. She felt sick. This was bad, bad, bad.

Fitz tapped her on the shoulder – two quick taps that didn't match her rhythm. The feeling on her arm snapped her out of her reverie slightly, enough for her to force her trembling hand upwards and accept the note.

"Best not to dawdle," Mrs. Henry said, her tone chipper. She didn't know. She didn't know what was waiting for Jemma down in that office, but Jemma knew, and the knowing filled her with dread.

Fitz walked her there, making sure that she didn't stop putting one foot in front of the other. Everything was blurring in a filmy haze. The hallways were too crowded, people kept bumping into her. She wanted to shove them all away and tell them to leave her alone, but she knew they weren't doing it on purpose. They didn't know about the radius of heat that she felt emanating from her body, the searing sphere that helped her to feel how close was too close for someone to stand. She was a star, a Red Giant, burning too hot, too bright. The lights were so bright.

Mrs. Baumbach in the office waved her through to Mr. Hanes, and she didn't have a pleasant look on her face. Jemma could feel her whole body shaking, vibrating with worry. Mr. Hanes was seated behind his desk. He looked stern and cold. She was sitting across from him. Fitz was gone. She didn't know how she got there, or where he'd disappeared to.

"Miss Simmons… uh, Jemma," Mr. Hanes said. His voice was sharp, and it hurt her ears. She jammed her hands underneath her legs to keep them from finding their way up to cover her ears. She didn't think Mr. Hanes would like that.

"We're trying to determine why your… why Mary Sue Poots didn't show up for school this morning. We have reason to believe the note you gave us is… inauthentic. We've been trying to get in touch with your foster parents, but as of yet we haven't been able to contact them."

The tightness was coming back. It started in her throat, then seeped into her chest. She needed to tap. She brought out a hand and began drumming nervously on the arm of her chair. 1-2-1-2-1-2.

"Why is Mary Sue not in school, Jemma?"

"Skye. Her name is Skye."

"Right, Skye. Where is she, Jemma?"

If she had been a better friend to Skye, Jemma could have opened her mouth and told Mr. Hanes a lie – that Skye was at a doctor's appointment (with 2 "p"s), just like the note said. She couldn't make herself do it. Her ribs throbbed with the effort of not confessing the whole ordeal. She couldn't make herself lie, but at least she could keep the secret. At least she wouldn't be a tattletale. She shook her head, and Mr. Hanes' expression clouded.

"I don't understand, Jemma. I need you to tell me where she is. A shake of the head doesn't answer my question."

His voice was too sharp, everything was too tight. Her vision was narrowing, and she could see none of the colors and all of the colors all at the same time. 1-2-1-2 wasn't fast enough. Faster. 1-1-1-1-1-1. She shook her head again. She had no words to give him.

"I don't know if you think you're protecting her, but if Mrs. Baumbach gets ahold of your foster parents and finds out the Skye is not excused for the day, you both could be in some very serious trouble." Jemma heard herself make a whimpery, strangled sound that caused Mr. Hanes to recoil slightly. That was the exact wrong thing for her to hear from him. She never wanted trouble. She hated trouble. She hated being in trouble and being bad, bad, bad. Tapping wasn't good enough. She lifted her hand off of the arm of the chair and tried to press against her fingers with her thumb as hard as she could. She needed pressure. She needed something to make the room stop feeling like it was spinning. She needed to go back to step 1 of her daily list and start the whole day over again.

"Jemma, I need you to calm down," he said. So, so sharp. She couldn't calm down because she didn't feel calm and nothing around her felt calm and everything was tight she felt like she was going to explode. Without meaning to, she felt her hands start to shake, big shakes, trying to flap the bad air away from her face so that she could think and breathe and so that everything wouldn't be so hot. She was rocking, too, back and forth, just a little, but enough to get her moving and help her not feel so trapped.

"Jesus Christ," Mr. Hanes muttered. He wasn't supposed to talk like that. She wasn't supposed to hear him when he talked like that. He said it under his breath, but everything was so loud that she heard every letter pierce the air. "Nancy, please tell me you got the parents?"

"No word from Melinda. I left a message and I'm trying Phil again, Mr. Hanes."

"Well, could you tell him to get here as soon as possible?"

Mr. Hanes was upset, she was in trouble and now she was being bad, bad, bad because she couldn't sit still like she was supposed to. She could hear the voice of her foster mother Mrs. Williams, practically snarling as she brandished the broom, telling her just how "bad, bad, bad" she was. She didn't want to be bad, but everything around her felt so bad. Mrs. Williams was telling her it was time for punishment, that she'd carried on long enough. The Walkers were warning her about the locks. She hated the locks.

"I've got him, Mr. Hanes!" Mrs. Baumbach called.

"Transfer him, please." There was a moment of silence before Mr. Hanes picked up his telephone. "Mr. Coulson? Ted Hanes, here. I'm calling regarding your daughter Mary Sue's—"

"Skye!" Jemma choked out. He kept calling her the wrong thing, and she knew how much Skye hated her name. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make everything be quiet, and pressed her hands into her face.

"Sorry, um, Skye. She didn't show up for school this morning, and we were checking to see if there was an oversight about excusing the—no, there wasn't? So Skye should be here? I see. Well, Mr. Coulson, I'm sorry to say that she is not. I have your other daughter here with me—" He paused, and Jemma knew he was giving her one of those terrible looks, the ones grownups thought they hid so well from her. The one full of discomfort and pity and disgust. She didn't have to open her eyes to know. "Well, to put it delicately, I tried to ask her about Skye's whereabouts and she's… throwing a bit of a tantrum. I think it's best if you come down here as soon as possible, Mr. Coulson."

Jemma wanted to shout and rant and rave and tell Mr. Hanes that he had it all wrong, that Skye was a good person, that she wasn't throwing a tantrum, but she didn't have any words to say it. She didn't know how to explain that she was only trying to make everything feel right again, to get the sharpness to be quiet, to get the brightness to be soft, to get the loudness to be dim. She could hear Mrs. Williams telling her to do punishments. She didn't want to. They hurt. Skye didn't like it when she did them either. Skye. She had to be strong for Skye.

She couldn't count the seconds between the time Mr. Hanes hung up the phone and Phil came rushing into the office, so she wasn't sure how long it had been. Long enough for her to pull her feet up into the chair with her and try to curl into the tightest ball she could. Every one of her nerve endings felt like it was being set aflame, and she needed to hold them together, increase the pressure to snuff out the fire.

"Oh, good, Mr. Coulson. As you can see, Jemma's being wholly uncooperative—"

"What happened?" Phil asked. "Jemma, sweetheart, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

"Mr. Coulson, this kind of juvenile behavior isn't—"

"Ted, I'd like to ask you to stop, please. The things you're saying aren't helping right now." Phil's voice was soft. Calm. It was like a blanket on her ears. Mr. Hanes had stopped talking, too, which helped. She started to cry from pure relief that there was someone here now who she knew would be nice, who wouldn't think she was being bad. Jemma could feel the vibrations in the floor as Phil walked close to her and knelt down in front of her chair.

"Jemma, it's Phil. Can you hear me?" She nodded, but didn't lift her head from the crook it was tucked into between her knees. Her shoulders were shaking as she cried shuddery, gasping tears.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she whispered over and over again. She needed him to know that she felt bad, bad, bad. She felt sorry.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Phil promised her. He was speaking barely above a whisper. Jemma could smell his aftershave, the lingering scent of the detergent that they used on all their laundry. Everything was still too bright, but the tightness was starting to fade. "Is it okay if I keep talking to you?" She nodded again. His voice was a good sound. Her heart rate was slowing down when he spoke. Her ears could hold onto the sound. His voice was an anchor.

"Is there something I can do that might help you feel better right now?" he asked. She shook her head and another round of "I'm sorrys" spilled out of her.

"It's okay," Phil soothed. "It's really okay. You can take your time. I'll just talk, and you can do whatever you need, okay?" She had stopped crying – choked down the tears and swallowed the shakes. Her insides wriggled when she did, but at least she didn't feel like she was going to explode anymore. She rocked a little, letting the back and forth lull her into a rhythm. A pattern. She liked patterns. Back and forth. 1-2-1-2-1-2. Her hand unwound from the knot it had been tangled in around her knees and found a place to perch, right behind her ear. She began to tap, 1-2-1-2 at first, in time with the rocking, then slower, 1-2-3-4. Calmer.

Phil was talking, but she didn't have any idea what he was saying. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was that his voice felt good.

After a while, she felt the last dregs of tightness fall away from her stomach, her chest, her arm, her throat, and suddenly all of her muscles were limp and tired. The lights didn't hurt anymore, nothing felt sharp. She lifted her head, and her watery eyes found Phil's, only a foot away, and full of softness. She started to cry again, more from relief than anything, and luckily Phil seemed to be able to tell the difference.

"You're okay," he said. "You're doing great." He lifted a hand, then paused for a moment, the hand suspended in midair. "Is touching okay?" Jemma nodded, swiping the sleeve of her sweater across her face to rub away the tears. Phil rested his hand on her shoulder and gave her a squeeze, firm and gentle at the same time. She sagged off the chair and into his touch, bending her head downwards to rest her forehead on the back of his hand. Phil smiled and checked for permission before wrapping his other hand around her other shoulder and pulling her into a strong hug. She hugged him back, tightly, sinking into the even pressure of his arms.

They stayed like that for a minute or two, until Mr. Hanes cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Look, Mr. Coulson, I have no idea what upset your daughter so much, and I'm glad she's all right, but there is still the matter of Skye…"

"I got ahold of my wife on my way here," Phil said evenly. "She's checking our house to see if Skye went there. I'm imagining we'll be hearing from her in just a minute or two."

"I see." Mr. Hanes huffed a little, fidgeted with some of the papers on his desk. He wasn't looking at Jemma, but she could tell it was her that was still bothering him. He was working too hard to make sure he didn't look at her for that not to be his problem.

"She's not there," Jemma whispered to Phil, ducking her head. Phil's eyebrows inched their way up his head, but he managed to keep the rest of his face calm and his voice steady.

"Skye's not at the house?" he asked carefully.

Jemma shook her head.

"Do you know where she is?"

Jemma nodded.

"Can you tell me where?" A lump gathered in Jemma's throat. Yes, she could, and she wanted to be honest. She didn't want to lie to Phil. But Skye's big brown eyes kept swimming into her thoughts, begging and pleading Jemma to keep the secret. She couldn't tell. Skye would never forgive her.

She shook her head. She felt sick with shame, but she couldn't make herself tell. Somewhere beside her, Phil sucked in a breath.

"Why not, Jemma?" Her words were gone. She shook her head. Mr. Hanes made an agitated sound.

"That's all I could get out of her. Obviously, she's covering for Skye. I told her there were consequences for students who help others break the rules—" Jemma whimpered and increased the tempo of her tapping. She was going to be in so much trouble, but she couldn't do that to Skye. Skye was counting on her.

"Jemma, you're not in trouble," Phil said quickly, cutting off Mr. Hanes. "And honestly, I'm not really worried about the rules so much right now. What I'm the most worried about is making sure Skye is okay. I want her to be safe. I'm sure that's what you want too, isn't it?"

Jemma nodded. Of course. That's all she ever really wanted for the both of them. Safety. Shelter. Maybe things like happiness and home eventually, but always safety first.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where my husband is? Phil Coulson?" A new voice carried from the front office, and Jemma twisted around to look through the open door to see May standing there, looking more worried than Jemma had ever seen. To her surprise, she also saw Bobbi, wearing a nervous expression and sitting tensely in one of the waiting chairs near Mrs. Baumbach's desk. The chairs where she and Skye had met Fitz all those weeks ago.

Mrs. Baumbach pointed May in their direction, and May beckoned Bobbi to follow her into the office. Then May was standing beside Phil. The energy around her was all wrong, not May-like at all. If May had been a star in that moment, she would have been a star on the brink of collapse, one about to fold in on itself and create a black hole.

"Phil, she's not at home."

"I know," Phil said softly. "Jemma said she wouldn't be." May turned her gaze to Jemma for the first time, and Jemma watched as her face morphed from surprise to concern to seriousness.

"Jemma, how—" May stopped herself, fully taking in the tear tracks on Jemma's face, the tremulous tempo of her tap, the emptiness still lingering in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Jemma's been trying to protect Skye, and she was in the middle of a tantrum when your husband arrived," Mr. Hanes said icily. May's eyes narrowed into what could only be described as a glare.

"Somehow, I doubt that, Mr. Hanes. Jemma doesn't have tantrums."

"Well, a fit then, whatever you want to call it."

"I was bad," Jemma said quietly. "Like at the store."

"Jemma, love, that is not bad. And it's not a tantrum," she added, cutting her eyes back to Mr. Hanes. "That's just… what happens sometimes when things are overwhelming, isn't it? We can't control how we feel about certain situations, especially when they're stressful ones," May told her. "Are you feeling stressed because Skye's missing?"

"Yes," Jemma said, after a minute. "I want her to come back. And I didn't want to be bad."

"Jemma knows where Skye is," Phil informed May. "But she's having some trouble saying."

"I can't," Jemma murmured. "I'm not supposed to tell."

"Jemma, we're all very worried about Skye. Aren't you worried about her, too?" May asked. Jemma nodded. That should have been obvious, she thought. "We need to find her, but to do that we need to know where she is."

"Skye will understand, Jemma," Bobbi said then, speaking for the first time. Her voice was tentative, like she wasn't sure if she should be saying something, but there was confidence lurking in her tone, too. She believed the things she was saying. "You're allowed to tell when someone's safety is a concern. You're supposed to tell, really. I know it's really hard to say something out loud when it feels like the only thing that matters is keeping it hidden, but it's not really true. Keeping Skye safe matters more than any secret, don't you think?"

She did think. She thought long and hard about what May and Phil and Bobbi were telling her. The guilt from the secret and the lying was gnawing away at her, the fear that Skye might have really gotten herself in over her head this time was twisting her organs, making her feel like someone was tightening all the screws in her body. She wanted to be strong for Skye, and she didn't want to tell her secret, but she knew that Bobbi was right. The best way she could help Skye right now was to let everything come spilling out.

"Sheboygan. She went to the hospital in Sheboygan."

"She what?"

"Why would she do that?"

Jemma winced. They were asking too many questions all at once. They didn't sound angry, but their voices were still too hard. She wanted to cover her ears, but settled for tapping instead. She didn't want Mr. Hanes to say more unkind things about her, or for Phil and May to believe them. She thought that telling the truth would make her feel better, but instead all it did was upset everyone and make her heartrate spike.

Someone took a deep breath above her, and Jemma remembered that she should take one, too. Her brain needed oxygen if it was going to function properly, and she needed her brain if she was going to figure out how to help Skye.

"I'm sorry, we need to slow down." That was May. "One thing at a time. Jemma, are you sure that's where Skye went?"

Jemma nodded.

"How did she get there? Sheboygan is miles from here…"

"She took the bus," Jemma confessed. She watched as May turned to Phil, looking utterly bewildered.

"How on earth would she know which bus to take to get all the way to Sheboygan? How did she pay for it?" Jemma was relieved that the questions weren't directed at her anymore.

"I gave her some money last night," Bobbi interrupted, her voice low and flat. Everyone turned around to face her, and Bobbi shrunk a little under their gazes. "She wouldn't tell me what it was for, but it seemed important. It was only a few dollars. I didn't think… I didn't think she could do much with that."

"Well that's certainly true," Phil murmured. "That probably isn't enough to cover a ticket both ways." He paused, and a horrified expression washed over his face. "Jemma," he asked, "Skye's not… running away, is she?"

"No!" Jemma said quickly. She hoped not, at least. Skye had promised she was coming back. Skye had promised not to leave her. "She said she was going to be back before school was over. That way no one would know she had gone."

"But why go to Sheboygan in the first place?" May wondered aloud. "What's so important over there…" She trailed off, deep in thought. "Wait. You said she was going to the hospital?" When Jemma nodded, May let out a deep, painful sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose in between her thumb and middle finger. "God, I've been so stupid, Phil. She was asking me about… and I didn't know what to say… Now she's…"

"Mel, honey, take a breath," Phil urged her, reaching out a hand and rubbing May's arm comfortingly. "This isn't your fault. It's not anyone here's fault, either," he added, taking note of the profoundly guilty expressions on Jemma and Bobbi's faces.

"I have to go find her, Phil," May said suddenly, her back going ramrod straight.

"Honey, do you think, maybe, we should give Victoria a call? I'm sure she knows what to do in these kinds of situations." Jemma felt her face pale at the idea of May and Phil calling Miss Hand. Whatever trouble Skye was going to be in with May and Phil, it would be so much worse if Miss Hand got involved. Usually when Miss Hand got called, it meant that it was time to pack your things.

"Let me find her, Phil," May said, almost pleading. "Let me bring her home before we call Vic. We'll have to let her know, but let me find Skye first. I… she needs to come home safe."

There was a long pause (enough time for 197 taps, although Jemma was using a quick tempo) while Phil thought hard about what May was asking him.

"Okay," he said finally. He looked so tired, and so sad and afraid. He looked just as bad as Jemma felt. "I'll take Bobbi and Jemma home, and you go find Skye. If you don't find her after two hours—"

"Then we'll call Vic," May agreed. "I can do this, Phil."

"I know you can. Just… find her, Mel. Find her, and bring her home."

My first Jemma-centric chapter! I hope you all liked it. I've had a tricky time finding Jemma's voice (maybe because she's the character I feel closest to? who knows...writing is weird that way, sometimes...), which is why it took me until chapter 39 to finally get it right - hopefully you all think I've gotten her right, too :) I would love to hear any feedback that you might have (on any chapter, of course, but especially on Jemma)!