TW for anxiety/panic attack

Holidays at St. Agnes were usually pretty lackluster. The annual birthday party was decent, and the decorations that went up around Christmas were okay (albeit a little heavy on the Baby Jesus pictures), but usually holidays meant extra Mass, a special meal with food Skye didn't especially like, and, since there wasn't school to give people a place to go, too many kids all cooped up inside with little to do. This year was no different.

Rather than join the little kids crowding around the TV to watch the parade, Skye opted to spend her morning up in her dormitory, avoiding the gawking stares and snide comments about her return. The clamor that followed a kid who got sent back always died down after a few days, but it hadn't been quite long enough yet for surly Skye and her purple cast to be old news, and she wasn't interested in being the subject of furtive glances and whispered gossip.

There had been plenty of surreptitious chatter about her yesterday when Miss Hand had come by with an investigator. The investigator, who had introduced himself as Mr. Sitwell, was bald and stuffy and asked a lot of what were, in Skye's opinion, stupid questions. She'd had to answer questions about former foster families before, although usually it was just Miss Hand or her social worker at the time asking them, and she'd never been in the position of answering questions about a foster family she'd actually liked. She found it frustrating to have to explain herself and defend May and Phil at every turn.

Some of the questions were normal stuff, like about their day-to-days, how they divided the work around the house, what school and homework was like, what kinds of things they had to eat, but other questions were much more pointed, and made Skye feel like her whole body was on edge.

How often did you get in trouble while you were staying with Mr. Coulson and Ms. May?

How did they handle discipline while you were there?

Why did you feel the need to run away from home twice?

Did you feel unsafe while staying with Mr. Coulson and Ms. May?

"I keep telling you," Skye insisted hotly, after yet another question about Phil and May rubbed her the wrong way. "May and Phil wouldn't do stuff like that. They're nice. They never hurt us or shouted or any of that usual stuff. All they ever wanted to do when I screwed up was talk about how we were feeling and why I made dumb decisions. They wanted me to be better, and I… they made me want to try."

"If given the choice, would you want to continue living with Mr. Coulson and Ms. May?"

"Yes." Skye gave Mr. Sitwell a long, hard look, trying to kindle as much fire in her eyes as she could. There was nothing as important in that moment as making sure he heard her, unequivocally, unambiguously, no room for guesswork or misinterpretation. May and Phil were her choice. As far as Skye was concerned, they would always be her choice.

"Tell me about your father," Mr. Sitwell prompted, once he had made a note in his book. "One might be inclined to think that you indicated a preference to live with him over Mr. Coulson and Ms. May when you left their home to go reconnect with him. Is that the case?"

Skye's face went hot, and the bright boldness flickered away into dim docility. She ducked her head, too overcome with shame and regret to hold Mr. Sitwell's unwavering gaze any longer. "That's not… that's not what happened. It wasn't like that."

"Explain it to me, then," Mr. Sitwell pressed. "Why leave a home you claim to prefer for a man like that?"

"I wasn't leaving!" Skye erupted. Her good hand balled into a fist, and she dug her fingernails into her palm to keep herself from leaping to her feet and storming over to get in Mr. Sitwell's face. "Why won't anybody listen to me? That's not what happened, and if any of you jerks would actually do your jobs, you'd know that."

"Skye." Miss Hand had been observing silently from the side of the room, but now she issued a warning, her voice low. "Try to calm down. Take a deep breath."

"No!" Skye wheeled on Miss Hand, and all the pent-up fear and frustration that had been stewing in Skye the last few days boiled over, sending her scalding words out into the room, looking for someone to hurt as badly as she was hurting. "You don't get to tell me to calm down. You're just like the rest of them, you don't listen. I told you I didn't want to go. I told you. And you let them split us up, just because you're too scared of breaking the rules to actually help. You don't get to tell me to calm down, because you don't care about me. You just care about looking good for your boss."

There was a horrible silence after Skye finished, too long and too stunned, and Skye knew almost immediately that she had crossed a line. She shouldn't have said that, but there was no taking it back now. Miss Hand's face was unreadable, except for the tiny muscle that jumped in her jaw. Skye felt like she had just been kicked in the stomach, and she imagined Miss Hand didn't feel much better. Before Skye could so much as open her mouth to splutter an apology, though, Mr. Sitwell spoke.

"I think that's more than enough for today," he clipped coolly, narrowing his eyes at Skye somewhat. "I think I have what I need, and I certainly know where to go if I need further information. We have other appointments today I believe, Miss Hand?" Miss Hand gave herself a small shake and nodded at Mr. Sitwell. "I suggest we not delay in making them," he finished. He packed his notebook and files away in a briefcase, clicking the latch shut with a finality that filled Skye with a nauseating guilt.

"Miss Hand," she said weakly, as the two adults got up to leave. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"I know, Skye," Miss Hand told her gently. Her face was still veiled, emotions concealed, but her eyes didn't seem quite so hollow as they had a few moments ago. "I'm sorry, too." She looked like she wanted to say more, but Mr. Sitwell cleared his throat impatiently from the doorway, pulling her away.

"I'll see you soon," Miss Hand said, suddenly all business again. "Don't forget to take the duffel bag up to your room. You should have everything you need in there, but let me know if you're missing something."

"Okay."

She hadn't been able to open the bag yesterday, not after she'd said those things to Miss Hand and probably blown the interview with Mr. Sitwell, so she stuffed it under her bed and out of sight. She didn't want the visual reminder of yet another thing she'd ruined, another relationship she'd broken, another destructive mistake she'd made.

Today though, with another sleepless night behind her and with the bickering of the little kids downstairs about whether or not the Cookie Monster in the parade was the real Cookie Monster grating on her, Skye found herself back in her room, desperate for something that would take the edge off of her frayed nerves and miserable unhappiness. Hopefully there was something in the bag that would do the trick, or at the very least, she could finally ditch the ill-fitting clothes from the donation box and put on something that made her feel a little more like herself. It would be worth it to be reminded of her screwups if it meant she found something to take her mind off things, or if she at least got to change into clothes that didn't swallow her whole.

After making sure the door was ajar, she flopped on her bed, careful not to land on her still tender stomach. She rummaged under the bed and drug out the duffel bag, steeling herself for what might be inside. She kept telling herself it would probably just be the bare essentials – Miss Hand was a practical person, after all, and she was probably too busy to put much time into packing a lot of special, sentimental things – but she couldn't help but hope there might be something, anything, to make the world a little less grey and unbearable.

As soon as Skye unzipped the bag and started rifling through it, she could tell that it wasn't Miss Hand who had packed it – it was May and Phil. In addition to all the basic stuff a person would need to pack, she found things that no grown up but May and Phil would have thought to include – her hula girl, the notebook she had been drawing up plans for her computer parts in, her favorite pencil for doing homework (a stubby, half-gone Captain America pencil with a purple cap eraser that Phil had given her after her first week of school), and even a copy of The Prisoner of Azkaban, which just so happened to be her favorite of the Harry Potter books. She couldn't even remember if she'd ever told May and Phil that was her favorite one, but there it was, ready for her to crack if she wanted to. She probably wouldn't, without Jemma here to read it with her and help when the words got too jumbled, but the fact that she had the option made a lump form in her throat.

Also in the bag were some of her favorite clothes – her blue plaid shirt was in there, her pajamas with the sloths on them, her good jeans, and, best of all, her green jacket with all the pockets. Quickly, Skye shimmied out of the baggy t-shirt she'd been forced to wear and pulled on a soft, purple, long-sleeve tee that still smelled like the kind of laundry detergent May liked to use. Something soapy and citrusy and comforting. She shrugged on the green jacket next, and even though it took some work to fit her cast through the sleeve, it was worth it to have the familiar feeling of the coat on her shoulders, to have so many pockets right at her fingertips. Absentmindedly, Skye started fiddling with the flaps on the pockets, flipping them up and down, then eventually sticking the fingers on her good hand inside. To her surprise, there was something in there.

Someone had stuck things inside the pockets, Skye discovered, as she hurried to check all of them, pulling out each and every object and setting it lovingly on the bed in front of her. The tiny screwdriver from her computer kit, a couple double-A batteries, a few pieces of wire, a paperclip twisted into a heart. In spite of herself, Skye felt her face split into a fledgling smile. Someone had tucked these things away for her to find, little reminders that they knew her and cared about her.

The last pocket was the hardest to check, since it was on the opposite side of the jacket from Skye's good hand, but eventually she was able to pull out the last secret trinket, which turned out to be a folded-up piece of paper. She recognized the handwriting that spelled out SKYE on the outside of the paper – it was Phil's, the same handwriting that wrote notes on her lunch bag and marked the questions on her math homework she needed to check again – and her heart skipped a beat as she clutched the note in her now trembling hand.

Dear Skye, the letter began, in Phil's clear, bold print. He had made sure to space out his letters evenly, which helped keep them straight to Skye's eye. We miss you.

The next line was in a different handwriting, a little looser, a little spikier, but still neat, with the same deliberate spacing and attention to keeping the letters as clear as possible. May's. Here are a few things we thought you might want for now. You can let Miss Hand know if we forgot something important.

We had to leave some things here, wrote Phil, but hopefully you can come back to get them yourself sometime soon.

We want you to know that we love you very much, said May's hand, and Skye felt the lump in her throat grow larger. She squinted hard at the paper and, even though it felt a little childish, she found herself dragging her finger under each line to help her slow down and focus on keeping the letters in place. She didn't want to miss anything. We also want you to know that we're doing everything we can to bring you home. What happened was not your fault, and even if it was, we would still want you to be a part of our family. The house isn't the same without you, Jemma, and Bobbi in it.

We're so proud of the brave, smart, and caring person you are, Phil wrote next. No matter what happens, you'll always be important to us, and we'll always be proud of you.

Stay strong, finished May. They both signed the letter in love, and there was a postscript from Phil down at the bottom.

P.S. I hope you like the other things in the pockets. I couldn't pack your whole computer, but I wanted you to remember that you're far more capable of creation than of destruction, especially with the right tools in your hand. Make something amazing for me!

A few tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she traced the letters of the note over and over again with her fingers, desperately tracking the dips and bumps in the paper made as their pen pressed down. Someone had written her a letter, a letter full of love and hope and promise. Someone who didn't hate her, didn't resent her, didn't think she wasn't worth the trouble of fighting for. Someone who believed she could be capable of amazing creation, rather than deadly, catastrophic ruin. The ache she had been cradling and nursing in her chest ever since she'd been marched out of the hospital, away from Jemma and May and Phil, exploded into her ribs, her lungs, her stomach, and she felt herself sag back on the bed, totally overwhelmed by just how badly she missed them, how lonely she felt, how deeply she wanted – wanted more than she had ever wanted anything in her life – to turn back time and go back to before she had ever even thought about walking away from the closest thing to a home she had ever known to go looking for someone who would bring nothing but strife.

Everything about the letter was perfect, except for one part. May had written that this wasn't her fault, but Skye couldn't see any way for that to be true. It was her fault. She was the one who had broken their family. She was the one who hadn't been able to leave well enough alone, who had searched and searched for something she didn't really need to be looking for. She hadn't trusted May and Phil, hadn't gone to them when things got out of hand. She had led Jemma into a trap, had raised the suspicions of the doctors, had shouted at Miss Hand and snapped in front of Mr. Sitwell. She was the reason they had been split up, and now she was going to be the reason they couldn't come back together.

The air in her lungs felt sharp, and there wasn't enough space for her breaths, which were coming faster as she struggled to gulp down her tears. The last thing she wanted was somebody coming into the room and catching her blubbering. Cast or no cast, crying in the dorms like a baby was a one-way ticket to getting pulverized. She pressed the heels of her palms deeply into her closed eyes, not quite hard enough to hurt, but close, ignoring the scratch of plaster from her cast that scraped across her cheek. There had to be some way to try and fix things, something to make up for her mistakes, some way to get her chest to stop feeling like it was being crushed under the weight of a semitruck. She couldn't be acting like this, not here, not anymore. She had to do like the letter said. She had to be strong. She had to focus her energy on making things good, making them right, not on tearing them down and blowing up the world in her wake. She had to be a person May and Phil would be proud of, not this miserable mess. The only problem was, she couldn't. She didn't know how.

There were no grand plans, no brewing schemes simmering in her subconscious. She didn't know what to do, where to start, how to quit breathing like she had just sprinted half a mile, her chest rising and falling faster and faster the longer she thought about how hopeless her situation was. She felt the same sense of defeat and helpless surrender she had felt locked away in Cal's warehouse, only now there was no Jemma to think of an escape, no window to break and crawl through. A sharp, stabbing pain was starting to ripple out from her heart, spreading amongst her ribs and up to her shoulders. She wondered briefly if this is what it felt like to have a heart attack, then wondered just as briefly if thirteen-year-olds could even have heart attacks. She wasn't sure. Jemma would know. Jemma would know if Skye was having a heart attack, and she would know what to do to help fix Skye's mess.

Without really thinking about what she was doing, Skye got up from the bed on unsteady legs, and numbly swept all of her things back into the duffel bag, stowing it back under her bed once she was done. Even while she was maybe having a heart attack, she knew better than to leave her stuff lying out in the open for anyone to take. She ground the cuff of her jacket sleeve into her eyes to try and dispel the lingering tears and sucked down a shaky breath. If she were Bobbi, she could spin some batons to try to calm down, or if she were Jemma, she could tap, but she was just Skye, and Skye didn't know how to slow her racing heartrate. Not without some help, at least.

There were two phones at St. Agnes. One was in the kitchen, and would be far too tricky to use without drawing attention since most of the nuns were in there working away on the dry turkey and bland mashed potatoes they were supposed to eat after Thanksgiving mass. The other was in Sister Margaret's office. Skye had snuck into Sister Margaret's office plenty of times before, and had only gotten caught about sixty percent of those times. With the hustle and bustle of the holiday and shepherding a whole building full of kids down to the church in an hour, Skye was hoping Sister Margaret would be much too distracted to notice if she slipped in to use the phone.

She crept past the rec room, holding her breath so none of the kids in there, still arguing over the TV, would hear her still struggling to breathe normally as she darted down the hall. A quick scan of the main hall revealed, as Skye had suspected, that none of the nuns, including Sister Margaret, were anywhere to be found. She eased herself inside Sister Margaret's office before that could change, leaving the door open just a crack.

The phone was on the desk, right where Skye knew it would be, sitting jauntily on the corner, just to the right of the computer Skye had cracked her way into on more than one occasion. She grabbed the receiver out of its cradle and sank, weak-kneed, to the floor, sliding her back along the side of the desk to help keep her upright. Her heart was still going way too fast, like Sonic the Hedgehog was hooked up to a treadmill in there, and the shooting pains hadn't gone anywhere either. She needed to talk to Jemma.

It took Skye longer than it should have to realize that she didn't know how on earth she was supposed to accomplish that, as she sat shaking on the floor and stared hard at the buttons on the phone. She didn't know the phone number for the hospital Jemma was at. It wasn't like she could just call 9-1-1 and ask to be connected to Riverside General. She didn't know the number for the house Bobbi was staying at either, so that wasn't an option. A tendril of desperation flared up in Skye's chest and she squeezed her eyes shut, tipping her head back so it bumped lightly against the desk behind her. She knew May and Phil's number, but she wasn't supposed to talk to them right now. As much as she might want to, as much as it might help to hear the smile in Phil's gentle voice or to be reassured by May's steady tone, she knew she couldn't risk ruining things any more than she already had. If Mr. Sitwell somehow found out that she'd broken the rules of the investigation, there was no way she'd ever have a chance of going back.

Frustrated tears sprung up in her eyes, hot and stinging, as she sat there and tried to keep the phone from trembling in her hand. She was all alone and she felt like she was dying and she needed help, but there was no one who she could call, not without making the situation that was causing her to feel this way worse. Then, she remembered. There was one other phone number she knew. One other person who she might be able to convince to help. It might be a longshot, given what Skye had said to her yesterday, but there was no one else. Skye dialed the number for Miss Hand.

She picked up on the first ring.

"Victoria Hand speaking."

Skye froze for a moment, a little taken aback that she had managed to get Miss Hand so quickly. She hadn't gotten far enough along in her plan to know what to say now.

"Hello? Sister Margaret?"

It hadn't occurred to Skye that Miss Hand would recognize the phone number from St. Agnes, but it made perfect sense now. Without meaning to, Skye let out a quavery breath. Her chest felt like it was going to explode from trying to force everything to stay inside, stay slowed down. There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Skye was filled with the sudden sense that this had been a very bad idea. She was about to hang up and just try and pull herself together on her own, when Miss Hand spoke again.

"Skye? Is that you?"

She couldn't find a word to speak. Maybe Miss Hand was still upset with her for yesterday. Maybe if she knew it was Skye on the other end, she would hang up. Another gaspy, gossamer breath wrenched its way out of her lungs.

"Skye," Miss Hand said quietly, in a voice more gentle than Skye had ever heard her use. "What's wrong?"

"I… I can't… slow down," Skye managed to choke out. She tried to press the fingers on her free hand – her right hand, her casted hand – into her eyes, to apply some pressure and try to stay focused on getting her words out the right way. Unfortunately all she really managed to do was knock her nose with her cast, eliciting a small noise of disgruntled pain.

"Skye, can you try and take a deep breath for me?" Miss Hand inhaled loudly on her end of the phone, drawing the breath out for Skye to match. Skye did her best, but her breath puttered out before Miss Hand began her exhale. "Good. Let's do another one." They sat like that for a few more breaths, Skye never quite getting hers as long or deep as Miss Hand's, but still getting more air into her lungs than she had since she'd been upstairs. "What's your name?" Miss Hand asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Your name. Tell me who you are."

"I'm… I'm Skye," Skye said, confusion scrunching up her nose.

"Good. How old are you?"

"Thirteen. Why are you asking me—"

"What day is it today?"

"Thanksgiving," Skye supplied. Her breathing was almost normal now, although her chest was still pounding with every sharp beat of her heart.

"And where are you right now?"

"On the floor in Sister Margaret's office," she admitted. "She doesn't know I'm using the phone."

"You let me worry about Sister Margaret," Miss Hand said wryly. "I'm sure she'd make an exception. Tell me all those things again, Skye."

"My name is Skye. I'm thirteen years old. It's Thanksgiving and I'm sitting in Sister Margaret's office at St. Agnes."

"Good. One more time."

"My name is Skye," Skye repeated. Bit by bit, the tightly wound coils of her chest began to unfurl as she was able to get more and more air with each slowing breath. "I'm thirteen years old. It's Thanksgiving and I'm… I'm sitting in the office at St. Agnes." To her surprise, her voice fractured on the last part of her repetition. "It's Thanksgiving and I'm all alone in the office at St. Agnes," she whispered around the lump rising in her throat.

"Do you still feel like you can't slow down?"

"No," Skye said softly. "I'm slower."

"That's good," said Miss Hand. It almost sounded like she was smiling, but Skye wasn't sure she believed her ears right then. "Do you want to tell me what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm sorry for bothering you on Thanksgiving. I should go—"

"Skye." Miss Hand's voice was firm, but in that way that reminded Skye painfully of May. Firm but not unkind. Not letting Skye wriggle away because she cared about her enough to see past the deflection. Skye winced as she recalled the accusation she had thrown Miss Hand's way yesterday. How wrong she had been to say something like that. Of course Miss Hand cared. She was one of the few adults Skye knew who had always cared. "You're not bothering me, Skye. I'd really like to talk, if you feel like it."

"I'm sorry," Skye murmured. Even if she said nothing else, she wanted to make sure she said that.

"What?"

"For yesterday," Skye explained, hot guilt flashing up the back of her neck and making her ears grow warm. "I never should have said that stuff to you. I didn't mean it. It's not true."

"I know you didn't mean it, Skye, it's okay. Thank you for apologizing."

"I just got mad and I… I took it out on you," continued Skye. "But I shouldn't have done that."

"You know, Skye, I meant it when I said you could be mad at me," Miss Hand said kindly. "The other day, when I dropped you off at St. Agnes. I told you you could come to me if you needed anything, even if it was somebody to blame and be mad at. I can take it, I promise."

"I'm not really mad at you, though," Skye confessed, as the realization set in. "I'm… I'm mad at a lot of people, I guess. I'm mad at me. I messed everything up, and I feel horrible and I… I guess I just wanted somebody else to feel horrible, too. That's really screwed up of me. I'm sorry."

"I think a lot of people do that from time to time," offered Miss Hand. "It's not a great way to handle our feelings, but it's a very human thing to do. All you can do after is apologize, which you've done, and work on finding other ways to work out our feelings, which I know you'll do. So it's okay, Skye, really."

"Okay."

"Is that the only reason why you called me?" Skye didn't have an answer to that, so Miss Hand tried a different question. "Did something happen that made you feel like you couldn't slow down?"

"I don't know," Skye admitted, her shoulders sagging a little. "I was just upstairs and I guess I just… thought about how messed up everything is, and how I probably messed things up with Mr. Sitwell, so he's never going to let me see May or Phil again, which means I'm never going to see Jemma or Bobbi again, and I… I just really want to go home." Her voice cracked again, and she felt her chin quiver at the admission. "My heart started beating really fast and I thought I was having a heart attack, but then I didn't know if 13-year-olds could even have heart attacks, so I thought about calling Jemma to ask her and to see if she knew how to fix it, but then I remembered I don't know where to call, and so then… I called you instead."

"I'm really glad you did," Miss Hand told her. "I want to be able to help you when you need help, Skye. You didn't ruin things with Mr. Sitwell yesterday, I promise. He knows this is a tense situation and that there are a lot of factors to consider. He's good at his job, and he's working as fast as he can."

"It feels like forever."

"I know," soothed Miss Hand. "Time slows down when we're apart from the people we care about, I think. It shouldn't be too much longer, though."

"Did he talk to Jemma and Bobbi yesterday, too? Did they tell him the same stuff I did? That May and Phil are good and we want to go back?"

"Skye, you know I can't tell you that."

"It's against the rules, I know," Skye scowled, huffing a little. "Always the dumb rules."

To her surprise, Miss Hand laughed slightly on the other end of the phone. "I know I seem like a stickler to you. It's just part of my job. But I'm not a total stick in the mud."

"You dyed your hair. That's kind of cool, I guess."

"Thank you," Miss Hand laughed again. "That's not actually what I was talking about, though. I was going to say that I know how to bend the rules a little bit from time to time, too."

Skye wrinkled up her nose. She wasn't sure she believed Miss Hand. It was too hard to imagine her social worker ever doing anything even remotely rebellious. "Okay…"

"For example," Miss Hand said pointedly, "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but Izzy and I are having a lovely Thanksgiving with a friend of ours right now—"

"—I didn't mean to interrupt your—"

"—at the hospital in Two Rivers," Miss Hand continued, cutting Skye off before she could apologize. "We're spending the day with Jemma. Nobody should be alone in the hospital on Thanksgiving."

"Oh. That's really nice of you."

"And I was thinking, if you were interested, maybe you could ask Jemma that question you had about heart attacks."

"Really?" Skye's mouth fell open.

"Really," Miss Hand said. This time there was definitely a smile in her voice. "Would you like that?"

"Yeah," Skye said, amazed at her good fortune and Miss Hand's kindness.

"Great," Miss Hand replied. "Just don't tell Mr. Sitwell I did this. And try not to talk about the investigation, okay? Just so we're not breaking too many rules at once."

"Deal," agreed Skye.

"Okay, let me go back in her room and pass you over, then."

"Thank you," Skye said quickly, before she lost the opportunity to do so.

"You're very welcome."

The utter relief that washed over Skye's entire body from the minute she heard Jemma's hesitant voice say 'hello' made every one of her muscles go limp. It was a good thing she was sitting on the floor already, because she might not have been able to stay standing, she was that allayed by just the simple sound of Jemma's accent and tentative tone.

"Jemma, hi," Skye breathed, a broad smile washing over her face for the first time in days. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Jemma told her. "Mostly tired and sore now. They let me start walking a little this morning. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Skye echoed. She wasn't telling Jemma the whole truth, mostly so Jemma wouldn't have to worry too much about her, but she suspected that Jemma might be doing the same thing for her, so she didn't feel too guilty about it. "I really miss you."

"I miss you, too. Miss Hand said you had a question. What is it?"

"Can people our age have heart attacks?" Skye wanted to know.

"It's rare, but not impossible," Jemma said. Her voice was getting stronger, more confident, the way it did whenever she got to talk about something she knew lots about. It made Skye's heart feel like it had been filled with butterflies, which was a marked and appreciated difference from what it had been feeling like half an hour ago. "Usually it's associated with heart disease or heart defects, though. A person our age without either of those conditions isn't likely to experience a heart attack. Why?"

"Just wondering," Skye said vaguely.

"Skye."

"I thought I was having one earlier. I was kind of freaking out a little bit about… everything. I calmed down, though. Miss Hand helped."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

"Are… are you at St. Agnes?" Jemma asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"How is it?"

Skye bumped her cast against her knee absentmindedly as she worked out in her own mind just how much she was ready to tell Jemma. Over the phone wasn't exactly ideal for uncovering her buried feelings. Still, it felt so good to have even the most tenuous of connections back to Jemma, so good to have someone to talk to again, and she wasn't sure when she might get another opportunity like this. "It sucks. Same as always, except…"

"Except I'm not there, too."

"I wasn't going to say that, exactly. It's not like I want you to have to come back here, too, it's just… I'm…" The corners of Skye's mouth twisted downwards as she fought to keep her voice steady. "I'm really lonely and everything feels like… it feels like it's never going to get better and it feels like it's all my fault."

"It's not your fault, Skye—"

"I know. I know. My brain knows it. May told me, and Phil and Miss Hand and Bobbi and now you, but I… I can't stop feeling it. It's stupid. It's just stupid St. Agnes getting in my head. I'm glad you're not here with me—"

"—You don't mean that—"

"—because I don't want this stupid place sucking you down, too," Skye finished stubbornly. "You've always been way too good for crummy St. Agnes. Maybe Miss Hand can find you a good foster home once you get out of the hospital. The place she took Bobbi seemed okay. Maybe you two could live together again."

"Skye, we're all going to be living together again," Jemma insisted. "Miss Hand is going to fix things. We're going back to May and Phil's."

"You don't know that," Skye scowled. "You weren't here when I talked to that Sitwell guy. I really screwed up with him. I'm not getting out of here."

"It sounds like you're giving up."

Skye didn't have anything to say to that. Even though Jemma couldn't see her, she shrugged one shoulder instinctively, a defense of apathy. She bumped her cast on her knee again, savoring the pointed pressure of hard plaster against bone. To her surprise, when Jemma spoke again, she sounded almost angry.

"You're not allowed to give up, Skye. It's not fair."

"What?"

"You're not allowed to give up," Jemma repeated sternly. "You're not allowed to give up just because you think you made a mistake or because you think you deserve some kind of… of banishment or punishment. You're not allowed to give up, because it's not just yourself that you're giving up on anymore. If you give up on coming home, then you're giving up on all of us. You're giving up on May and Phil, who worked hard to make us a family. You're giving up on Bobbi, who never stopped fighting for you. And you're… you're giving up on me."

"Jemma, no, I—"

"We're better together," Jemma murmured. "You always said so. We take care of each other. But it sounds like you'd rather decide for the both of us that we're just… what, never going to see each other again? Because that's not fair, Skye. You don't get to decide for both of us that we're just going to stop trying."

"I just don't want you to feel like how I'm feeling!" Skye exploded, the awful reality of everything bursting to the surface. "It feels like being a tiny thing in the middle of a big, empty space. It feels like there's no point in fighting so hard anymore, because nothing ever works out, and I'm just so tired of trying and failing. All I want is to go home and see you again and feel good, but I don't know if that's going to happen, because none of us do, and I can't take one more thing not going right, so it's easier just to not try at all. And I don't want you to feel like that, too, because it sucks. It'll work this way. I'll give up so that you don't have to."

Jemma was quiet for a long time, and Skye wondered if she shouldn't have said all that. Without being able to see Jemma, it was hard to say if she was mad at her, or if she had that sad, sorry look people got when they realized you were more messed up than they first thought. Eventually, though, she spoke, and her words caught Skye completely off-guard.

"You're giving up because you don't want me to feel bad like you, but I already do. Maybe not exactly the same way, but I'm scared and lonely, too. Being stuck here by myself makes me feel like… like I'm the only star in the galaxy and the rest of you are billions of lightyears away from me, so there's nothing but dark space. I'm tired of things going wrong and of good things getting taken away, too, but… if we stop trying, then we never get a chance for good things in the first place. I'd rather try and have a slight chance than not try and have no chance at all. Even one or two percent odds are better than zero. And with all the people we have fighting for us right now, I know our odds are higher than one or two percent. If everyone tries, if everyone brings their piece and does their part—"

"—then all the pieces will add up," Skye said cautiously. "But you know I'm not good at math or probability. I don't know if I can take a chance on one or two percent."

"I can," Jemma told her, with more certainty than Skye would have ever expected. Jemma wasn't a risk taker. Jemma didn't like to leave things to chance, she liked to know what was coming. "I can take that chance, and I will, because our family is – because you are – one hundred percent worth it. You always told me we were worth fighting for. If I'm wrong, you can tell me, but I don't think you stopped believing that."

"No," Skye agreed softly, "I didn't stop believing it. I just… I'm scared. I'm scared it's going to hurt too much to lose you all again."

"I know," whispered Jemma. "Me too. But we've been scared before. We can help each other be brave."

"You're the bravest person I know," Skye said, eyes damp and voice thick.

"Where do you think I learned it?" asked Jemma, a little playful and a lot proud. "You always know how to help me do things that frighten me. Now I get to return the favor."

"I love you," Skye told her, bringing a finger up to the phone to tap three times on the receiver.

"I love you, too," Jemma murmured, returning the tap, making a fuzzy bump sound that tickled Skye's ear. "And we'll see each other again soon. I just know it."

This time, Skye couldn't help but believe her. If Jemma had done the math on them, then those were odds she knew she could count on.