Chapter Text
Jemma has stared down the barrel of this gun too many times to count. But it never feels any different when the scene replays all over again.
You mean nothing to me.
Like clockwork, the first thing that hits Jemma is a shock of helpless grief, punctuated by a searing pain in her left thigh. In the next moment, she crashes to her knees and a gun is pressed to her head. It is then, confronted by the contempt twisting his features into someone unrecognizable, that Jemma feels the slow burn of resignation creeping in—
I mean nothing to you. Say it.
—but there is defiance somewhere in there too, simmering in Jemma’s chest, desperate and needy. Because she can’t fathom, even for a moment, that he cannot be saved; that their entire history could be so easily overwritten by a series of codes and false memories.
(If Daisy’s words and candor could sway Coulson enough to trust in her cause– If Coulson and May could fall into each other’s orbit again and with ease despite not knowing precisely why, despite their doubts, their differences, their histories changed and eradicated—why not them?)
And then he shouts, rage and restraint in the same breath.
Jemma tries to search his face for a crack, a way in for her belief and her love to wriggle through and undo the memories programmed into his very soul. But all she sees is a cold and unfamiliar gaze.
A gun goes off. It echoes in her ears like thunder, the muzzle flash like lightning kissing the earth and scorching everything it touches. She closes her eyes and hopes her death would be quick, but the blackness never takes her.
(In the end, it is Holden who finds a way in, and Jemma – with all her love and defiance – is reduced to nothing but mere distraction.)
Jemma is no longer startled awake by her nightmares. Now there is only a sharp intake of breath, a jolt as she crashes back into reality, and then she’s awake. She no longer cries – Jemma palms her face roughly – at least, not aloud.
Beside her, Fitz stirs, mumbling her name. Jemma freezes. She doesn’t let out her breath until she knows for certain that Fitz is still asleep. He is. Though his hand is lethargically roaming under the sheets as though in search of her. Jemma exhales and turns to face Fitz, because it is easy to meet his touch like this without flinching. She squeezes his hand, trying to convey reassurance. The sleeping pills Dr. Seymour prescribed him seem to finally be doing their job, because Fitz relaxes without so much as another twitch. The tension on his face disappears as he settles back into what Jemma hopes is a dreamless slumber.
She drinks in the sight of him, tracing every line and curve of his face like it will be the last time she will ever see him. Asleep like this and in the low light of their room, Fitz looks so much younger, so much less burdened by everything they have ever gone through and witnessed – like he doesn’t have an entire other-life, an other-self he is trying to separate into neat boxes of real and not-real.
It should be easy. Because Fitz, her Fitz, is nothing like The Doctor. But he struggles with the weight of him in his mind anyway. He's still there, Jemma. I can feel him. His disdain. His callousness. His rage. All of it. What he loved. What he loathed.
Jemma can’t tell him that none of it matters. (Because it does.) She can’t ask him to dismiss the Framework for being a manufactured world. (Because it and its people possessed a realness that even Jemma, towards the end, couldn't deny.) Logic alone cannot wholly convince Fitz that The Doctor is just a result of Aida's manipulations. That she had used him, had nearly broken him, when she made him the center of the universe she created to fulfill the fantasy of human experience she craved.
The world was a simulation, yes, and the people in it were born mostly from code and data. But there were bits of them that were created from our memories. Fitz was animated when he spoke, impassioned in a way that reflected his frustration and horror. There's a reason why Aida had to erase you, to replace you in order to push me in the direction she wanted. Because The Doctor's 'brilliance' - Fitz spat the word out like acid - and his drive? That's all me, Jemma. Everything he did and excused for her—to save her, to please her, to keep her in his life—are things I would have done for you.
For a moment, Jemma was reminded of an other-him. I did it for you. It had told her. For us. We will never have to fear losing each other again. But she shook the memory out of her head as soon as it came because, like The Doctor, the decoy was not the real him even if it had Fitz's mind.
So, Jemma argued with Fitz, tried to convince him that the real him (the version of him that has a choice, who is free and neither twisted nor infected by Aida's programming) would never go as far as The Doctor had done. Jemma would never ask him to or even let him. And that he is surrounded by people who love him enough to ensure he would never lose himself if he lost her.
But Fitz was- is intent on punishing himself (even with Jemma's forgiveness) (despite her faith in him) because, to him, Aida had done more than just tinker with a few neurons or rearrange a few synapses in his brain. It was more than the mere simplicity of implanting memories in someone's mind or transferring their consciousness in a synthetic body. What Aida had done was to reach so deeply into his soul, and make Fitz confront the worst version of himself, and—in his opinion—lose.
Because Coulson had changed his mind.
Because May had taken a leap of faith. And her decoy - they discovered after recovering footage from the wreckage of the Playground - seemed to have sacrificed herself to stop the other LMDs.
(They argued about this too. Because Fitz is convinced it had been true sacrifice and not some malfunction in her code. She remembers how he'd grown quiet and tensed, mumbling under his breath, So, it's true then. Our consciousness is separate from the physical. And Jemma had almost shuddered at how similar his words had been to his decoy's. Jemma did her best to squash the thought and tried to convince Fitz that while that may have been true, there was no way of knowing whether the choice had been real - May's consciousness overcoming her programming - or if had been some sort of error. But Fitz is convinced of "May's" sacrifice nevertheless, and it is all Jemma can do to be grateful that there is no footage of her encounter with his decoy.)
And on, and on...
Because Mack, despite holding on until the last possible moment, ultimately let go of his daughter and went with Yo-Yo. Because I looked at her, this woman who would stay with me in a world that was falling apart before our very eyes, and I knew in my gut that wherever it was she was trying to lead me back to, that there was a life out there for me, with her.
So, why not him?
You are not the monster she made. Jemma said it with all the conviction she could muster, fiercely and tenderly, cradling his face in her hands and looking at him with eyes that were bright with love and filled with unfailing belief.
(A conversation, an argument, a desperate back-and-forth that happens like clockwork—there is always a moment where it would seem like Jemma’s words are getting through to Fitz, and hope would soar in her chest.
This is it, she would always think. An opening. Fitz finally ready to take her outstretched hand. It would be like it had always been before, and they would find comfort and strength in each other. They could finally heal and begin moving forward again. One step, then another, and so many more, until the Framework is yet another hurdle they surmounted together.
But, then, Fitz would flinch, expression crumpling into painful deprecation he will not allow Jemma to soothe — or, maybe, it’s because I can’t — he would avert his gaze and turn away from her completely, and all of Jemma’s hope would come crashing down. It would leave her feeling like the air had been sucked out of her lungs.)
Jemma reaches for Fitz and brushes her fingers against his cheek, a smile creeping onto her lips. She doesn’t shy away from the fondness that rises in her chest at the sight of him, weighed though it is by a clinging sadness. When Jemma looks at Fitz, she doesn't see the monster Aida tried to warp him into; or even the decoy with the uncanny ability to sound so much like him one moment, and completely unlike him in the next.
All she sees is Fitz. Jemma won't lie and say just Fitz, unchanged by the caricatures Aida created, but she will never look at him and not see the man she loves.
(She searched for that man in the eyes of The Doctor's cold and bitter gaze.
She mourned that semblance of him in his decoy as she slit its throat.
And she sees that person, even now, maybe always, on his sleeping face.)
So, she tells herself, that she just needs to give Fitz space and time, and patience, and all of her love, and whatever else is left of her to give because he needs her now. It will be worth it in the end. Because, eventually, Fitz will find his way back to her. Because that is what they do. They always find a way back to each other. And if Jemma fails at carving the way back for him, if she couldn’t fix them then—
Jemma tries to match her breathing to the rise and fall of Fitz's chest. In and out. Slow. Even. She closes her eyes, still breathing deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, the repetition almost lulling her back to sleep.
Everything is calm until it isn't.
"Look at me."
Jemma's eyes snap wide open at the familiar rasp of his voice. He lunges for her, pins her to the bed, hands wrapped around her neck tightly and tighter. Jemma struggles to breathe, to claw at his face, and his glassy and empty eyes, to beat her fists at his hollowed, bleeding chest. Her hands are stained with a red so deep she has no hope of washing it off her skin. He opens his mouth as if to speak but no words come out. There is only the gurgling rasp of someone choking on their own blood. (She hears his voice echoing in her head anyway. Look at me, he says. Look at what you've done to me.) The gash on his neck seems deeper, wider, and more garish than she remembers it being. His blood falls all over her. Her body, her face, her mouth, her eyes.
Jemma wakes up with a scream clawing its way out of her throat. Her body is drenched in sweat, tangled under blankets that feel like trap nets holding her down. She throws them off with a wide sweep of her arm, falling out of her bed in her haste to get away from the phantom haunting her dreams.
Jemma's breaths come out in ragged, shallow bursts. She's hunched over the floor like a supplicant bereft of grace, arms wrapped around herself as her shoulders shake with each shuddering breath. The darkness of the room is an oppressive thing, there is barely anything to focus on but the shadows looming everywhere around her.
The brightest thing in her room is a digital clock displaying the time in standard, military time. Jemma stares at the numbers, displayed in that almost-cliché neon green color, and focuses on the seconds ticking by. Beyond the sound of her sobs, her breathing, the ringing in her ears, there is the air blowing from the vents. It's not much, but it's something else to focus on.
Jemma counts to four hundred and sixty-two seconds before she gets her breathing under control, and another one hundred and twenty-seven seconds before her heart isn't pummeling its way out of her chest. She waits another thirty seconds before standing up and turning the lights on.
Jemma squints, blinking blearily as she adjusts to the light.
God. She needs a drink.
It takes Jemma a moment to realize there's blood smeared against the touchpad of the lighting controls. She looks down at her fingers, and then to her left triceps, and sighs. She really needs to stop wearing tank tops to sleep. Not to mention staying on top of trimming her nails. You miss one night, and then this happens.
First, take care of the scratches. Then, she'll go for that much needed drink.
It's tricky patching up your arm without another pair of hands to help you. But not impossible. It's fine. Jemma can do this on her own. Has been doing it on her own. She's a doctor for crying out loud! And she's dealt with worse out on the field. Anyway, she doesn't want to deal with the pitying glances if she goes to the medbay. Goodness, really. For a bunch of secret agents, you'd think they'd be a bit more subtle, but alas. Jemma's mind wanders to Fitz and she shakes her head to banish the thought away. It's late. He's probably already dozed off. And, even if he's still awake and tinkering away, Jemma would rather not disturb him.
The lab - that is, the engineering bay - is Fitz's sanctuary, so to speak, and Jemma's presence there, especially at a time like this, would be an intrusion.
(And after the incident... Jemma shakes her head again. She's nearly done with her arm anyway.)
Keep your hands busy and your mind busier until you're too tired to dream. That was Fitz's rationale. And he'd told her, moreover, that nodding off at a desk felt less vulnerable than sleeping on a bed, like the nightmares couldn't catch him there, couldn't sneak up on him, or consume him when he least expected. The lab was a place to do work, to keep busy, to make new inventions—there was no space for idleness there, no time to really rest, to unwind, let loose, spare an inch for the nightmares to crawl into.
Jemma tried to follow Fitz's lead, and truly it might've worked a few years ago. But these days, being passed out in the lab is no longer her idea of a good time. Turns out, it's a lot easier to remind yourself that the nightmare is over when you wake up in bed.
(It isn't his fault that she's too slow to shake away the decoy's mirage from her mind, with its empty gaze and indifferent tone and its cold hands around her neck. He isn't the phantom stalking her nightmares, but she hurts him all the same.)
Fitz should get to keep whatever measure of solace he's found by being at the lab. Jemma must simply seek hers elsewhere.
Finally done with the bandages and a change of shirt, Jemma gives herself a once-over in the mirror. When she's satisfied that the bandage is hidden underneath her sleeve, Jemma walks out of her bedroom to the bar on the opposite side of the base.
To this day, Jemma has no idea what strings Coulson had to pull or concessions he had to make to get a fully-stocked bar approved at their new base. (She doesn't know how it's remaining stocked either.) And she definitely has no idea how Coulson managed to get it built under everyone's noses while they were all busy cauterizing every bleeding neck HYDRA had left. But Jemma won't probe too deeply. She can accept that some things in life are better left as mysteries.
She's just mystified by how homey it is, all warm lights and wood and leather nestled in the utilitarian architecture of the rest of the base.
What? It's good for morale, said Coulson, with that smiling, deceptively casual way of his, lifting a shoulder in a shrug; and May, with a shake of her head, interjected, It's sentimental, you mean. But she was trying and failing to suppress a smile, so despite the exasperation in her voice, she's more fond than anything else.
Coulson still smiling, his tone still casual, but now with teasing glimmer in his eyes, replied, I thought you liked Wicklow. If you want I can tell them to— then May cut in, God no, laughing fully this time, a rare and precious song that the rest of the team crane their ears to hear and commit to memory. Wicklow is perfect. And I'd rather not get stuck in more budget meetings because you've turned into a sap.
Coulson, grinning now, Sure, budget meetings. (The rest of the team watched the interaction in bated silence, all curious to lap up at this crumb of “Philinda lore” and yet entirely unwilling to intrude in the moment at all.)
There is a story there, hidden somewhere beneath the soft smiles and the knowing glint in their eyes:
Melinda and Phil, much younger, more bright-eyed, already too bruised and too scarred, dancing together; May and Coulson, older now, more blood on their hands and so much wearier, clinking glasses, downing a shot, sharing a moment of peace before a fraying world unravels again and demands their attention.
Whatever that story is — whether it’s wilder than her imagination supplies, or infinitely more mundane than anyone expects from veteran agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. — Coulson’s version of a grand gesture and May’s consequent fondness bestow the bar with an unmistakable air of nostalgia, seeping into every replicated fixture and furniture.
The corridor leading to the bar and the door concealing it look the same as the rest of the base, all steel and gray uniformity; there are no windows, but when you step inside you'll see a view of the lush mountains of an Irish countryside, vibrant as it peers at you from large screens framed by wooden panes with intricate patterns.
Overhead, there is a complex lighting system, perfectly camouflaged and mimicking the ambient glow of natural light. It's complemented by an equally complex sound system hidden all over the room that tricks your ears into thinking they can truly hear the sweet singing of birds, or the gentle pattering of rain on the roof, or the hustle and bustle of a small town at noon.
It's the closest you'll ever get to the mountainside thousands of feet underground in the desert.
Jemma started going there precisely for this illusion of paradise that it offered. Coulson and May refuse to tell them what the bar is actually called, so everyone just calls it "Wicklow." A few agents would call it "Oasis," which is certainly fitting given their location—but, sometimes, in her mind, Jemma calls the place Eden. For the beauty peering beyond its make-believe windows. For the semblance of peace dwelling within its walls. And for the simple irony that it represents to Jemma a sense of wholeness she can never regain.
But she goes there anyway. Because even the illusion of peace is better than its absence.
Fitz has the lab and Jemma has Wicklow. She doesn't really drink - or, she didn't until Daisy started coming around too - at first, she'd just sit there, zone out, fall asleep, listen to rain fall or the ambient sound of a busy establishment. It isn't a place to do work like the lab, but it is a place to make merry, to celebrate victories; and, sure, it can be a place to mourn their losses or drown their sorrows too—but what it is, at the end of the day, is a place to be with company, to be a part of the crowd instead of hiding away on your own.
Even if Jemma had only ever had the illusion of company before, or the occasional agent wandering in to unwind, it was comforting nevertheless. And, now... Now, there's Daisy.
When Jemma gets to the bar, Daisy is already there and already drinking.
She can't remember when this started. But it's new. And, yet, not entirely new. These days, a couple of weeks feel like a lifetime. Despite this, Daisy's presence there surprises Jemma every time. Like she expects to walk in one night and Daisy will vanish too. (Vanish again.) Leave behind the kind of ghost her separation from Fitz created.
Seeing Daisy fills Jemma’s chest with a curious ache she doesn’t know how to begin disassembling and figuring out. It's different from the pain of feeling Fitz slip away and not knowing how to stop it. Less bitter, less sharp, but no less poignant.
Daisy can pretend all she wants that everything is alright in the world. Just your run-of-the-mill service-related trauma. But Jemma knows better. Something had shifted between them. Daisy is too tense around her now, too careful, like she’s holding her breath all the time, like she’s afraid of breaking Jemma.
But it can't be that, can it?
She's seen Jemma break. Had been there to help Jemma pick up the pieces. [And just when Jemma had started to feel whole again, she up-and-left for a long-term assignment. Jemma knows it isn't fair of her to be mad at Daisy for doing her job and saving the world.] But, God, she misses Daisy. Daisy is right there and Jemma still misses her.
It's like losing Fitz all over again. But, whereas Fitz is like a wall, impenetrable, and unmoved by Jemma, Daisy is the opposite. More like the leaves of a mimosa plant that folds upon itself when touched. As though there is too much of Jemma and Daisy doesn't know what to do with it all. She doesn't avoid her quite like Fitz does, but it still feels worse somehow.
And, then- then there’s the new room assignments. New house means the kids get to pick new rooms and, for whatever reason, Daisy had chosen to bunk on the opposite side of the base from Jemma and Fitz.
And, yes, yes it’s silly, to be even an ounce upset by something as trivial as a room assignment but, damn it, it caught Jemma off-guard anyway. And it stung too.
Even when Ward had been around, when he was still a friend, a trusted teammate, a complicated object of Daisy’s affection, Daisy had still chosen rooms that were close to Jemma's and Fitz's.
There was a time when the three of them would spend nights together like teenagers with less things to give a fuck about in the world, talking about missions, about life, about nothing, and everything that came to mind.
Sometimes, after a tiring day, after a long night, after the last time the world almost ended, they would fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, of warmth shared, of heartbeats in chorus.
But they don't do that now. They haven't for a while. (Fitz doesn't even sleep in his own room anymore.)
Jemma wonders if, maybe, this change was inevitable. After all, it was her and Fitz who were attached at the hip from the very beginning; two bodies that have been trapped in each other’s orbits for so long, and alike in so many ways, that you could hardly tell one from the other anymore. And if Jemma was powerless to pull Fitz back to her, then what more…
But Jemma had never considered Daisy to be an interloper in their world either. She wasn't a mere satellite that got caught in their gravity, meant only to revolve around Jemma and Fitz for a fraction of eternity before drifting away. No, Jemma had decided long ago, Daisy was so much more than that, and every bit as irreplaceable in her life as Fitz.
Even now, so many years later, Trip is still (and will likely always be) right. Jemma can’t imagine her life without Daisy, and it’s awful to feel like she’s floating away somewhere Jemma can’t follow.
"You coming in or what, Simmons?"
Jemma blinks as Daisy’s words cut through her somber reverie. She twitches like she's waking up from a deep slumber, feeling startled and entirely off-kilter.
"I- yes, I am- of course. Sorry, I was just—"
And Jemma is stuttering all the way to her seat beside Daisy, feeling a little silly, a little sheepish, and somehow a little more human. She calms her nerves and, before she can even sit, accepts the glass of whiskey Daisy has poured for her. She downs it in one gulp.
Daisy refills her glass without missing a beat, turning to Jemma with a raised eyebrow and an amused quirk of her lips. “Rough night?”
Daisy already knows the answer. It’s written on Jemma’s face, on the tired droop of her shoulders. It is the same story every night. But Jemma responds with her usual half smile as she sits, "When isn't it a rough night?"
"True," Daisy hums, and that was that.
From where she's sitting, inches away from Daisy, Jemma can feel that now-familiar tension emanating from her friend.
"So, it turns out it's pretty hard to outrun hellfire."
But Daisy's tone is as unguarded as she's heard it in a while. So, just for tonight, Jemma will take what she can get.
Jemma raises an eyebrow, mind suddenly recalling the image of Yo-Yo's singed hair and uniform, storming past Jemma with an I don't want to talk about it, Robbie trailing after her, caught between laughing and apologizing and saying I told you so. "Does this have anything to do with Yo-Yo's new haircut?"
"Oh yeah." A slow grin dawns on Daisy's face and her eyes light up along with it. Jemma blinks, caught off-guard by the sight of it. She takes a glance at her whiskey and takes a large sip. The drink warms her chest, but not nearly as well as the bright expression that Daisy's wearing as she dives into her story.