The thing about Skye
She ends up in strange places
Skye breathes, slow and barely controlled. Not too deep. If she tries to take too deep of a breath, the box springs above her press down on her chest.
The ground- firm and unmovable against her back. The bed- so close she brushes against it with every inhale. It's better under here. It is. She doesn't know why.
She digs her nails into concrete under her, but it's not enough, so she lifts them, slides them, until they are boxed against the bed and her chest and she has to take even shallower breaths- but it's better.
The firm pressure pressing on her front and on her back, are better. It's a relief.
She breathes, trying to keep the shake out, trying not to send herself into hyperventilating.
This is fine.
She is fine.
She is fine, damn it. Why won't her stupid body understand that?
A knock sounds at the door, deafeningly loud to Skye after the spiraling quiet, and she jolts. A shudder of anxiety and panic race down her spine before she's able to remind herself that she's safe. She's okay. Everything is okay.
"Skye?" a voice calls. She closes her eyes. Takes a slow breath. It's not enough air, but the pressure is good- it's good. "Skye, I know you're in there. Coulson needs you," Mack calls again
No- slow breaths. Slow. You're fine. Everything is fine.
"Is it," Skye's voice comes out barely audible- more of a wheeze- and she has to cough to start again. "Is it an emergency?"
There is a long pause that sends even more anxiety crawling under her skin and trying to burrow into her spine.
Then her door is pushed open, and she goes rigid. Air hitches in her chest. She holds it. Twists her head to watch the large feet hesitate in the doorway, and then step over the threshold.
"Skye?" The knees bend and a face appears, etched in concern.
A flush of hot shame rises up from Skye's toes, suffusing through her body until it settles uncomfortably in her face. It's almost enough to overtake the panic hovering on the edges.
"Just… give me a minute." She just needs to convince herself that something awful won't happen if she comes out. "I was… trying to find my sock."
"Right," Mack agrees. "And then you got stuck."
Skye looks away, up toward the shadowy box spring a few inches from her face. "I'm fine."
"I'm sure," he says. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" Skye hisses, anger rising quickly- quicker than the embarrassment took her- quicker than the anxiety. She hits her hand against the bed boxing her in. It hurts her palm. She does it again. "Nothing happened- I don't know why I'm under here! Sometimes, I just feel like I need to crawl under the bed, so I do."
"Okay," Mack soothes. Sits down fully on the ground in Skye's room. "Okay. I'm pretty sure it's not an emergency, so Coulson can wait a few minutes."
Skye purses her lips. Takes inventory on her body. It seems her flash of anger wiped everything else out. Sometimes, she feels like she could drown in it. She doesn't know which she would prefer- the rage or the irrational fear.
She reaches out and grips the edge of the bed.
"It's fine," she huffs, dragging herself out. "Let's go."
"Skye-"
"It's fine, Mack."
…
Jemma is annoyed. First, she was stuck in a pointless meeting where all they do is talk about things that never actually get done, then she couldn't find Daisy even thought she told her stubborn patient that she needs to check on the progress of her healing arms, and now she's at her work station and hears the crunch of glass under her shoe.
She takes a deep, calming, breath, and pulls her foot away, looking at the innocent shards just sitting there in the middle of the floor.
"Who broke a beaker and didn't clean it up?!" Jemma demands, her irritation finally finding an outlet as she glares at the other lab techs. They freeze for a moment, not saying anything, and Jemma huffs. With a dismissive wave, they scurry back to work.
Jemma scowls as she sweeps up the scattered glass, grumbles as she dumps it in the bin, and utters (very quietly) a curse as she moves to the cabinets so she can replace the beaker in her work area.
She almost screams in fright when she opens the door to find the inhuman she hunted for all over the base, crouched inside with a miserable expression that quickly morphs into embarrassment. The only reason Jemma doesn't shout is because she slaps a hand over her own mouth and almost falls backward in shock.
"Daisy," she hisses, once her heart doesn't feel like it's going to leap out of her chest. "What on Earth are you doing in there?"
"Um." Daisy fiddles with her fingers. "I didn't mean to? I mean, I came down, like you said, because you wanted to look at my arms, but then I got bored so I was messing with the stuff on your desk. But then I kind of… broke something? And then I was suddenly in here and I couldn't get out."
Jemma pinches the bridge of her nose. Feels the beginning of a headache behind her eyes.
The cabinets aren't normal cabinets. You have to press down on a button as you pull- like a door, except you can only open it one way because people aren't supposed to crawl inside.
"Why didn't you just knock on the door, or call for help? People come in and out of the lab all day, someone would have heard you."
Daisy's face grows even redder, and she throws her head back with a thump against the wall. "That would be so embarrassing! Who does this?! It's weird!"
Jemma softens at her friend's distress. Processes again that it really is an odd thing. She's gotten used to Daisy's bizarre behavior- knows it stems from some childhood abuse and trauma- but other people probably wouldn't understand that.
Still.
"So, what, you were just going to sit in there forever, until your body decayed?"
Daisy's head lulls, peeking up at Jemma through her fringe. "I was going to wait for everyone to go to bed and then break the latch," she admits sheepishly.
Ignoring that the lab won't likely be empty for at least another eight hours, Jemma sighs, checks either way down the aisle she's in, and then holds out her hand. Daisy takes it, and allows Jemma to help her out of the cramped space.
"I love you," Jemma huffs, and watches in part amusement, and part grief, as her friend flounders in a flustered mess under the endearment that comes so easy to Jemma. After a moment, Jemma decides to take pity on her. "Come on, let me look at your arms."
A/N: Please review!
~Silver~