AN ~ HOW AWESOME IS AGENT CARTER?! Couldn't resist a shout out this chap. There may well be more in the future because oh my god, the parallels between Peggy and Jemma are killing me.

There is a theory/headcanon I have about Simmons and food referenced in this chapter. If you want more detail on it, message me or check it out on my tumblr (warning, mention and/or discussion of anxiety, depression, ptsd & disordered eating).

theclaravoyant . tumblr post/102661574176 /but-wait-what-simmons-theory-im-dying-to-know

Other than that, enjoy (and count how many ships got shipped this chapter)

Chapter Six ~ Treading Water

Their heartbeats were almost audible in the tight, stuffy stairwell. They twisted every couple of steps, switching positions to protect the way forward, and their own backs. By the time they reached somewhere around the third floor, their hearts had slowed to regular but alert, since the running was over, but as silence outside the stairwell persisted, Skye could feel her own beats accelerate. She fought to remember her training, to keep measured breathing so that her heart would keep pace, but the silence nagged at her mind.

"They are in lockdown," Hawkeye murmured. "They're supposed to be quiet, so that if we were bad guys, we wouldn't know where they are."

"Yeah but-"

"I know."

He lowered his bow, pausing with his back to the wall. Gesturing to Skye to take point, he slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. Skye crept onto the scratchy office carpet. Her eyes scanned the desks, and looked for signs of life, but there were none, except-

"Office at the back," she said, nodding toward it.

Warily lowering his bow once more, Hawkeye approached the floor director's door and pushed it open. Skye's finger itched her trigger, gut screaming that something was most definitely off about this situation. But Hawkeye's posture relaxed substantially, and a tall woman in black, with brilliant blonde corkscrews, followed him out of the room.

"Skye, meet Bobbi Morse. Bobbi, Skye."

The blonde woman smiled, but her eyes were like ice. A chill ran down Skye's body, but one that made her want to move closer to this Bobbi Morse, not farther away.

"Clint tells me you're SHIELD. Real SHIELD."

"Yep, real SHIELD, that's me," Skye said, deciding that if Clint Barton could trust her, she could too. "If there is such thing as real SHIELD these days."

"Kinda glad I got out before it went down," Bobbi said. "But then – kinda not."

"You should come back," Clint suggested. "We'd love to have you."

"Ha ha, babe, you couldn't afford me."

"Mercenary? Really?" Skye didn't bother to hide the hostility in her voice. "You here for Azimi? Are you alone? What'd you do with all the people on this floor?" She all but raised the gun again. Bobbi was unfazed.

"I'm only merc when I want to be," she said. "But yes, now is one of those times. I've got a team below us but don't worry, they've been instructed not to hurt anyone except in self defence. Yes, I'm here for Azimi and only Azimi."

"Collect or control?" Barton asked.

"Control."

Skye looked between them, and got a clear indication of what that meant. Not that she could criticise: the very same was probably on SHIELD's mind. On Coulson's mind, more accurately. They'd have sent a sniper, if they didn't have Hawkeye. She holstered her gun, well aware of the climbing number on her wristband.

"You can get a clear shot out that window," Bobbi went on, gesturing to one across the room, "but I missed and he freaked and ran. Couple 'a cops and Hydra chasing him so I thought I'd lay low. I'm paid by hit, not by day for this though." She shook her head, frustrated.

"So your bosses wouldn't mind if you'd come back to SHIELD?" Barton offered – or perhaps, Clint hoped, raising his eyebrows.

"Martini hold the olives I am there. I have been thinking of coming back anyway. I hear Coulson's still ticking. That I gotta see, at least."

.o.o.o.

"We did…good," Fitz said, with a nod and a smile.

"We did do well, yeah." Simmons turned the second prototype of their new bullet in her hands and smiled down at it. She wanted more than anything to sit down right now, to just curl up and go to sleep, but it was only lunch time. Since when had her days become so exhausting?

Fitz must have caught her eyes glazing, because he perked up and offered to make her a –

"aa….ah."

"Sandwich?"

"Yeah."

She could have cried, she could have bloody cried at the look on his face – his eyes big, round, hopeful, feeling successful, either ignorant or unaware of the fact that it was not his mind repairing, but her finishing his sentences, like she always had but had never needed to, until now. She bit her lip and nodded her gratitude, and as he left the lab, she took a deep breath. If she could just keep it together for a little while longer…he was almost there.

Right?

She looked back down at the bullet in her hands. Fitz – Old Fitz, Real Fitz, her Fitz, she could never help thinking - would have named it something. The Byrne bullet. The Byrnet. She nearly pulled a face at her own attempts. She was too proper for this.

She pulled her skirt back into line – though a voice whispered that it was scarcely out – and followed Fitz toward the kitchen. She was so focused on fixing her hair – for the umpteenth time, the voice reminded her – that she walked straight into Trip.

"Hey, English," he said, smiling gently. "Y'okay?"

It was the voice of a man who knew she was far from it. She smiled at his non-intrusive nature, his respect of the walls she was trying to hold up, and how hard that was. She swallowed her tongue. She barely trusted her own words these days. If nothing else, they were all tied to Fitz, and to everything that happened. Carefully measuring each syllable, she explained,

"Fitz offered to make lunch. Would you like to join us?"

"Sure thing." He turned, and Simmons hurried to stop him.

"Oh, don't go out of your way, I can wait, or- or-"

"Nah, it's cool," Trip insisted – if one could insist in so cool a tone. "I was looking for Fitz anyway. Found some stuff in grandpa's box I thought he might find interesting. Might be able to fix. Keep him busy, y'know, something little to do when the cloaking…."

Simmons shook her head. The bloody cloaking was going to be the death of the both of them. She wished she knew enough about engineering to find the solution herself, but though she'd pored over every book on the subject she could get her hands on, there was a finesse with it that Fitz had and she didn't. A fundamental understanding, a flexibility, as if it was in his blood. Like he could see something before him, even touch it, turn it, examine it, before it was built. Such a vision wasn't necessary in her field of study. If she'd ever had it, she hadn't exercised it in too long. Her knowledge came in words and pictures, but never so tactile as Fitz'. Never so inventive.

"God, I miss him," she whispered, in a breath.

"It's gonna take some getting used to, that's all," Trip said. Simmons realised her mistake, and brushed furiously at her skirt, averting her eyes from his.

"Um - Thank you, Trip. I'm sure he'd appreciate it. He will. Appreciate it." She bit her lip. Just a little longer.

"Sure," Trip said, sounding mercifully unaffected by the swinging mood of the conversation. "I'll grab it after lunch. Got some stuff for you too, by the way. Not science stuff. It's a surprise."

Simmons smiled, wishing she had the words, and could trust the words, to express her gratitude to Trip. Instead, she followed him toward the kitchen, where Fitz was chopping tomatoes.

"Mind if I get in on the sandwich action?" Trip asked, sliding into one of the seats at the island bench. Wordlessly, Fitz nodded and pulled another two slices of bread from the packet, before resuming his slicing of tomatoes.

Jemma took the seat beside Trip, back straight, lips together, trying to ignore the way her stomach churned and protested at the mere thought of food.