Archive of Our Own ^beta

Entreat me not to leave thee,

Or return from following after thee –

For whither thou goest, I will go,

And where thou lodgest, I will lodge

Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.

The Angel do so to me, and more also,

If aught but death part thee and me.

i.

            If there was one type of demon that Jemma Simmons hated the most, it would have be the Hydra demon.

            They had always underestimated it in the past, convincing themselves that it was a mere guard for other demons, for other things, for people and places – it didn’t have a mind of it’s own, they would say, it was merely following orders.            

Of course, however the root of every problem always came back to the mundanes, the common factor – it wasn’t that Jemma believed they should die, or reverie Shadowhunters or anything, it was the fact that their ignorance of the demon world sometimes led to world changing events.

Like the worshipping of the Hydra demon.

A problem that had started within the mundanes, with your basic ritualistic murders and creepy priests, had quickly spread to the Shadowhunter community, until on one fateful day, they tried to take over the Clave.

“Jemma Simmons?” the voice is friendly enough she supposes, maybe a little sassy and in part creepy, and it startles her out of her reverie. Her head snaps upwards, her hands reaching towards her weapons belt on instinct.

She relaxes when she sees that it’s merely the Warlock she’s hired.

“Mr. Bane,” she says politely, “I apologize – I was merely startled.”

Magnus Bane, with his knowing cat eyes and his sneaky little smile, is looking more tired than usual.

“I tried everything I could,” he starts, and her heart sinks into her stomach. “But I’m afraid the damage to his brain –“

“So he’s going to die?” Jemma asks, her voice dead and flat. This was her last chance, this Warlock in New York (or Brooklyn as Skye had pointed out) of getting her best friend back.

“He’s not going to die,” Magnus says quickly, “I was at least able to stop that.”

“He’s not going to – but what –“

“The damage to his temporal lobe was too severe,” Magnus explains in a voice meant for a small child, “I did everything I could – but he’s not going to be the same.”

“But he’s going to live?” the tightness in her chest loosens slightly.

 “Yes.”

She sighs in relief, one hand going to her Parabatai rune.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “I’ve only met one other Parabatai pair as strong as you two.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks, “And what happened to them?”

“They were split up by fate,” Magnus says after a pause, “Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”

“I won’t,” she promises, even though she doesn’t know why she owes it to this warlock she’s hired. “I won’t,” she repeats, mostly for her own benefit that time.

She doesn’t tell Mr. Bane, as she moves past him into the adjoining room to where Fitz is lying as pale as a sheet – that maybe fate was already starting to split them apart.

ii.

            The Institute is cold.

            It never used to be cold, this cozy little place in practically the middle of nowhere (only placed in the eighteenth century because of the common demon uprising) it used to be warm, almost suffocating.

            Now it was cold. It was like a layer of ice had spread over everything, filling his veins and heart, coating every surface and sealing every doorway. (Maybe that’s why his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.)

            “Fitz, can you even hear me?” her voice is a soft whisper in the dark of the training room, and it snaps him to attention. He hasn’t realized that he’s been staring at a wall until now, and he immediately jumps around.

            She’s standing right behind him, clad in her Shadowhunter gear, with her favorite sword strapped to her back, her hair pulled into a low ponytail.

            “Of course I can hear you,” he snaps, because while the sight of her still makes his heart pump erratically in his chest, he hates her (or wants to) doesn’t want her here, and wants her here at the same time. She clears his head, and then tangles it again.

            “Well you weren’t acting like it,” she continues, and now her voice holds a slight bite, like it used to when they argued.

            “Because I was trying something called focusing Simmons, maybe you should give it a try.”

            “Alright, alright,” she holds up her hands in surrender, backing off. Deciding that he probably should focus now (he wants to prove her wrong) he picks up the dagger that he had dropped on the floor.

            He turns it over slowly in his hand, trying to get it to fit in-between his fingers snugly again. He used to be the best with throwing knives.

            “Remember what I used to say Fitz?” Simmons asks, slowly moving so her arm is brushing against his. “As long as your brain –“

            “Is focused, you can always hit your target, “ he finishes, and instead moves his focus from the girl at his side to the red painted target in front of him.

            He lifts his arm in the throwing position, painfully slowly but it’s something, and then wings the dagger as hard as he can at the target.

            It misses by several feet and instead hits an ornamental sword, causing it to rattle in it’s holding.

            “Damn,” he swears, massaging the muscles in his hand.

            “You must have just been slightly distracted,” Simmons says helpfully, and that’s all it takes for him to turn on her.

            “Of course I’m slightly distracted – I have you talking in my ear!”

            “I was only trying to help!” she fires up, her brown eyes flashing and god does he miss this banter with her.

            “Fitz?” Skye’s voice, unexpected and loud rings through the room, making him stop his argument at once. “Who are you talking to?”

            “No one!” he says quickly, “Just myself. Trainings a bit hard.”

            Skye takes Simmons’ place, her brown eyes just as warm (but cautious to the extreme) and her hand goes to his shoulder.

            “Magnus said it would be hard at first,” she tells him, “But don’t worry. We’ll get there.”

            He steps forward, and her hand drops to her side. (Only Jemma’s allowed to touch him there.)

            “Yeah,” he tells her like he believes her, “Maybe. So what are you – what are you here for?”

            She looks sad at his words, like somehow he’s hurt her from that simple question.

            “I wanted to see what you wanted for dinner,” she says conversationally, like this is a normal night and everything’s completely fine.

            “Um  - I don’t really care.”

            “Oh come on now,” she jokes lightly, “We don’t want something like last night, do we?”

            Yesterday when he didn’t show his opinion, they were stuck with stale bread with lettuce on it. Not that Fitz really cared, it wasn’t like he cared about how things tasted. So he doesn’t answer her, but instead picks up the dagger from where it’s fallen and repositions it in his hand.

            (The sighing from behind him signifies that Skye’s frustrated with him.)

            (He can’t really blame her.)

iii.

            Her sword slices cleanly through the demon's neck, and it makes a satisfying splat and then dissolves into a gray ash at her feet.

            It’s the last demon, and the silence after battle is almost exhilarating.

            “You have to teach me how to do that,” a British amazed voice sounds from behind her, and Jemma turns around with an easy smile.

            “How to do what?”

            “Kill all those demons!” he says, gesturing at the emptiness of the space around them, “There were at least ten, and I only killed two.”

            Jemma flashes him a smile. After switching institutes, Lance Hunter was the one who most reminded her of Skye, and to hear him praise her like that reminded of her brown bobs and friendly smiles.

            “Practice makes perfect.”

            “Bullshit! I’ve been fighting demons for twenty years…” he trails off into an incomprehensible mumble, and Jemma has to fight off a giggle. He really was a funny man.

            “Are you two done yet?” an annoyed female voice calls. Hunter may be funny but his ex-wife? Well, Jemma could safely assume that she was the more professional one of the two. (By a long stretch.)

            “Oh give us a break,” Hunter complains loudly, “We just defeated ten demons.”

            “Demons never take a break,” Bobbi snaps back automatically, and Jemma has to refrain from rolling her eyes. (Honestly, they were sometimes like children.)

            “Can we go home now?” she asks, running her fingers through her sweaty hair, feeling a deep burn in her stomach at the word home. It’s true now, she tells herself, this is your home now.

            “Yes please,” Hunter amends, turning away from Bobbi. Jemma smiles gratefully, her hand going to her pocket where she kept her phone. It had vibrated earlier, lighting up with the name Skye.

            She hadn’t decided whether or not she was going to call her back. It was a choice that in the past wouldn’t have been hard, but as the time she had spent away from her childhood home increased, the phone calls became steadily more awkward, plagued with silences too full of unasked questions and unresolved answers.

            “Okay,” Bobbi says, “But first let’s pick up some dinner, I’m starving.”

            Skye could wait.

iv.

            Dinner is a quiet affair.

            Skye keeps checking her phone constantly, like she’s waiting for something.

            Coulson and May aren’t joining them, they have more important things to do, cleaning up with the mess Ward made.

            “How’s your pasta?” Skye asks eagerly, like she’s dying at the chance to talk to him. He looks down at his limp noodles and decides it’s probably best to lie.

            “It’s – it’s really good.”

            She beams at him, and then checks her phone again.

            “Are you waiting for a call from Jemma?” it’s one of the clearest sentences that’s come out of him in weeks, and it startles even himself.

            “Actually, yes,” she tells him, “I – “

            “She doesn’t like to answer calls,” he pushes back from the table with a bitter sort of ease, “I’m going to the workroom.”

            “Fitz – “

            But he’s already walking out.

            The workroom was also affectionately dubbed  ‘Fitz’s playground’. He was one of the best at manhandling weaponry in the world, so much so that the Iron Sisters would frequently use his designs. Skye and Jemma used to tease him endlessly about how he wasn’t able to join because he was a man, but Fitz didn’t let it bother him too much.

            Of course, he hadn’t made anything in months. His fingers, shaking at the mere touch of another substance, wouldn’t allow that. He still tried of course, tried to create new weapons and devices for May, Coulson and Skye to use in the field, but it wasn’t easy work.

            “Maybe you could try calling Jemma,” the other Jemma says, sidling up to him with that same careful smile, like she was trying to determine which words would break him the least. “Skye isn’t afraid.”

            “Yeah, well Skye’s basically fearless,” he points out, rolling his eyes. It was the truth. She had a bit of a rocky start to her becoming’s as a Shadowhunter, but it had slowly evolved into something much more than that. She was now one of their best fighters, not to mention the most headstrong and foolish.

            “We used to be fearless Fitz,” she reminisces, her imaginary head leaning against his real shoulder, and he could almost pretend that it’s really her.

            “Yes we were,” he lightly amends, “But not anymore.”

            “Not anymore,” she repeats, sighing lightly, and he closes his eyes and lets himself pretend she’s here.

            They enter the institute lazily, stretching out their limbs and yawning, Jemma blinking back sleep as she daydreamed about her comfy bed.

            After dinner, it was just too hard to try and stay awake. (Why bother, right?)

            The Institute's lobby is a church, complete with rows of pews and high stained glass windows, but Jemma’s grown up in a church, so it doesn’t intimidate her like it might others.

            “Wait,” Bobbi’s the first to speak, holding out her arm in warning, and Jemma frowns.

            “What is - “

            She doesn’t get to answer before a head darts above the pews and fires a gun at them. They don’t have the chance to duck; don’t have the chance to do anything but watch as the bullet slams into Bobbi’s chest.

            Jemma and Hunter watch as she falls, watch as her blood splatters the floor, ruby red, before they too are flinging themselves onto the ground.

            She’s reaching back for her throwing daggers, and the sounds of several more bullets hitting the aging pew wood above her snaps everything into focus.

            She reaches for her throwing knives concealed in her boot, and she can hear Hunter frantically trying to apply pressure to the wound in Bobbi’s chest.

            An anger rising in her, she whips out the knives and leaps to her feet, throwing the first one before her opponent can fully show himself, so the knife goes wild, bouncing off the pew as he dodges.

            “Jemma we need to get her out of here!” Hunter calls, and when she looks down all she can see is red.

            She hesitates, the dagger in her hand. Their assailant (whoever he may be) remains hidden, concealed. She suspects the fear of getting hit for real with a flying dagger has kept him -

            “Jemma!”

            She growls in frustration, but if their attacker was too afraid to show himself, this could be there only chance to get Bobbi out of her unscathed.

            “I’ve got your back!” she shouts, “Carry her out of here!”

            She hears several grunts, and raises her daggers threateningly. The head doesn’t pop up again, and she’s having flashbacks as they dash out the door, leaving yet another life behind her.

            “Did you hear about the institutes?” the tone in Skye’s voice automatically tells Fitz that this isn’t just her trying to get him to speak to her, but that something serious is going on. His thought automatically flicker to Jemma, and he turns around hastily.

            “What about the institutes?”

            “Mundanes are getting inside,” Skye’s biting her lip, “Five have already died.”

            “By mundanes?”

            She nods. “But uh - well they’re sending some refugees to our institute.”

            “Oh,” he says, thinking that he probably should have expected that his happy (or not so happy) personal bubble would eventually be popped.

            “It was Hydra,” she whispers, perhaps the thing she’s been waiting to say since she came into the room, “And they’re saying they had to have had outside - outside Shadowhunter help.”

            “Then why aren’t they - why aren’t they - “ his voice falters, the words evading him. He knows the feeling he wants to express, can feel it on the tip of his tongue, but it won’t come to him. Skye looks blankly at him, she doesn’t have the same ability to tell what’s wrong with him that Jemma does, she never has and probably never will.

            “Why aren’t they what?”

            “Why aren't they sending them to Idris?” he finally gets out, and Skye shrugs.

            “I don’t know. I’ve always said that the Clave was full of idiotic bastards.”

            He rolls his eyes, Skye’s always been rather over dramatic.

            “I knew- I knew that. Who’s - wh-who’s coming?” he curses his tongue for tangling in his mouth so the words come out ragged, because all he wants is to hold a conversation without stuttering,

            “We’re not sure yet. Coulson is handling the list,” she shrugs, “What are you working on?”

            He’s currently trying to get his fingers to maneuver the complicated design of one of his seraph blades, but the lights faltering as his hands shake. It’s almost like the blade itself can tell when he’s having a hard time and it doesn’t want to show him any sympathy.

            “Nothing,” he lies, shoving the ruined mess under a rag and turning back to her. “What are you doing?”

            “I was wondering if you wanted to go out and get a drink,” she says, and he can see the nervousness filling her at this statement, because that was something she used to do with Jemma.

            The usual emotion that comes with any reference towards Jemma fills his stomach in nauseating waves, but he shoves them down and tries for a smile, because all Skye does is try, so maybe he should too.

            “Uh - uh yeah that would be - um that would be nice,” he says, and she beams at him.

            “Might as well get some time with the two of us before everyone starts filing in!” she says.

            It’s worth saying he’ll go with her just for the look on her face.

            They pick a mundane bar in the small town their institute occupies, and the bartender knows Skye by name and has memorized her orders.

“Try this,” Skye proclaims, shoving him over some fancy looking drink.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he asks, inspecting the drink with caution.

Knowing Skye, it was probably filled to the brim with strong alcohol, and let’s face it, Fitz hadn’t had a proper drink in almost a year.

            “You know it,” she says, and she almost sounds like the Skye he used to know before Hydra. (It’s a nice feeling.)

            He takes a sip of his drink, and finds that it’s an absolutely foul concoction, and he sputters slightly as it goes down. Skye drinks the entirety of her’s in two gulps, and then slaps the drink down on the counter, leaning forward so she can look him in the eyes.

            “So Fitzy, let’s get real.”

            He’s pretty sure that the alcohol can’t have affected her that fast, and is starting to see her motives for suddenly wanting to go out for drinks with him. (Because of course there had to be a motive.)

            “And what does that mean?” he responds dryly.

            “I want to talk. Like we used to. Do you remember when you told me everything Fitzy?”

            He does. It was in those blissful days between Jemma’s arrival and his own arrival at what had been dubbed the ‘orphan’ institute, but he doesn’t really know why Skye’s asking him about it now.

            “You used to tell me everything,” he counters. She pouts.

            “That’s what I’m trying to do,” she says, waving for the bartender to fill up her drink again.

            Fitz is only halfway done with his first one.

            “Why?” he finally asks, and Skye looks at him sideways.

            “Because don’t you miss talking Fitz?” she asks sadly, “Don’t you miss being friends?”

“We are friends.”

            “Not in the ways that count,” she protests weakly, “All we do is dance around our problems on tiptoes.”

            “You mean Jemma.”

            It’s obvious now, why she called him here. She wants to solve his problems on her own, which isn’t something she can just do.

            She hesitates for a moment. “And Ward.”

            And suddenly it becomes clear, she wants him to be her solver. She wants him to solve her problems and her to solve his problems, but it doesn’t work like that. She couldn’t bring Jemma back as much as he couldn’t make Ward change allegiances.

            So he just takes a sip of his drink. “There’s nothing to say about Jemma.”

            And they leave it at that.

            (It’s sort of true anyways.)

            She goes the only place she knows they’re fully welcome with an injured Shadowhunter and a sarcastic son of a bitch - home.

            Or former home she should possibly say, because it’s not her home anymore. She left it all behind several years ago, and to think that she was coming back now was like a sick punch to the stomach.

            Probably worse than a punch. It felt more like a cruel joke, that everything had come full circle. Homeless. Found. Fitz.

            “Jemma!” Coulson’s voice is a like a warm balm, and she can’t help but let a tired smile spread across her face at the sound. Hunter is slumped against a wall, Bobbi having been taken immediately to the infirmary so she could concentrate on recovery and rest properly while the iratze did it’s job.

            “Coulson!” she says brightly, stepping forward and accepting a hug from him. Step one, pretend you’re happy.

            “It’s so good to see you,” he continues, “I hope you’re okay.”

            “I am quite alright, how have you been?” Step two; pretend everyone doesn’t know why you left.

            “May’s been keeping an eye on me,” is his response, “So I heard that you were one of the first ones attacked by - “

            “They’re saying it’s mundanes,” she responds quickly, “Because Shadowhunters don’t use guns. That of course leads to the problem of - “

            “Who let them into the institutes,” Coulson finishes for her, and she nods.

            Step three; pretend that you’re exactly the same as before.

            There’s a clatter from the entryway behind them just as Coulson opens his mouth (probably to show them to their rooms or something) and Hunter and Jemma both turn around to find Skye and Fitz staring at them.

            They don’t look like they’ve been out hunting, and with a painful reminder Jemma remembers they can’t have been - but instead are dressed in regular day clothes, Skye in a hoodie and jeans and Fitz -

            Fitz has stubble highlighting the lower half of his jaw, his curly brown hair cropped short, his blue eyes slightly faded, his body leaner.

            She misses him so much that it hurts.

            “Hi Fitz,” she says, “And Skye,” she adds like nothing’s changed. Step three.

            “Simmons?”

            “Hello!” her voice is off kilter, her hands are trembling, “How have you been?”

            Something changes in his blue eyes, and suddenly he’s looking at her like she’s a stranger instead of his best friend. (Were they even still best friends?)

            She can feel Hunter’s eyes on her back as she steps forward and hugs Skye. It seems like the proper thing to do at any rate.

            Her best friend’s arms are warm; her hair smells like oranges and her breath like beer.

            “It’s good to see you,” Skye says, and Jemma can hear the sincerity ringing through every word.

            “It’s good to see you too!” she manages, but she’s pretty sure it sounds forced and Skye can probably see right through it because she’s Skye.

            She’s moving forward to maybe hug Fitz? (Should she?) But Fitz is backpedaling towards the front door.

            “I just remembered -” he’s babbling, “I mean I - I mean I - I have to go.”

            And she watches as he walks away.

            Of course, Fitz expected that something’s would change if he ever saw Jemma again, in fact, he should have known that she would be slightly more tense towards him, that maybe they wouldn’t just jump right back into being the same people they had before.

            He had hoped though, and he hadn’t even realized he’d been hoping, that she’d come back and tell him that she had made a terrible mistake and they’d go back to being themselves.

            He hadn’t been expecting her to step forward like she was going to hug him, like everything was normal, and something had twisted in his stomach and suddenly he had wanted to get away from her as fast as possible. Because suddenly he didn’t want to pretend anymore.

            So here he was, walking around the institute grounds like some aimless chicken, his stomach twisting and his eyes watering. (Watering, not crying.)

            The look on her face as he backed away from her, the familiarity that she looked at the man with her, it had made it obviously clear that she was just fine without him.

            Which shouldn’t hurt – but overwhelmingly did. It also made him feel like selfish toad, because shouldn’t he be happy that she was happy? Shouldn’t, being her Parabatai, that be all he wanted? Even if she had broken the oath by separating herself as much as possible from him, even if she had torn their friendship into shreds – or maybe that was him?

            How can you tell if something is your fault?

            The Institute grounds are silent, not even a cricket to break the heavy quiet. He stops at the bank of a small little stream they used to play in as children, and sinks down onto the banks, wishing he didn’t feel so useless all the time.

            “Fitz you shouldn’t walk out like that!” imaginary Simmons chastises, her voice stern. He waves her off, but she doesn’t leave. (Even his subconscious was turning against him.)

            “What should I do?” he snaps, running his hands through his hair, “She was just- just bloody standing there.”

            “Talk to her!” she exclaims, “She’d probably love to hear your voice!”

            (He isn’t sure about that.)

            (In fact, he thinks the opposite.)

            Jemma flops back onto her bed, her eyes sliding shut, her hands rubbing circles against her eyes, trying desperately not to think about the look on his face when he escaped.

            It’s all her fault of course, her fault that the rift between them has grown so large she can no longer see across it – so large that she’s lost herself along the way.

            They didn’t used to be best friends, her and Fitz.

            When she had arrived at the institute, he hated her. He didn’t talk to her, he always tried to beat her in every method of training, he constantly danced around her – until one day they just realized they could be better together. That if they just stopped fighting, they could be something extraordinary.

            Now she feels like she’s back at square one, even after only one brief interaction, back to the hatred and ignoring and it’s her fault.

            She turns over, burying her face into the pillow. She knows she’s messed up, but it still sits uneasily in her stomach – because maybe it wasn’t just her that broke their friendship. Maybe Parabatai were always meant to be split apart.

            The string connecting her to Fitz (she’s always liked to call it a string anyways) feels tight, like the Parabatai ruin between them is pulling them apart.

            (Maybe it is.)

            Breakfast the next morning is sure to be hell.

            Skye comes to his door, probably assuming he was going to try and get out of it, and practically drags him down to the kitchen with the excuse that she needs ‘help cooking’.

            He knows that she probably just wants things to be the same, she and Fitz cooking breakfast while Jemma makes jokes and Ward lingers, but if she thinks Jemma gets the same feeling that things need to be the same – or Ward is going to come through the door with some excuse of brainwashing then she’s delusional.

            Indeed, there’s no Jemma waiting for them in the vast kitchen, and he watches Skye’s face fall a fraction before she’s loudly covering it up with some babbling about pancakes.

            She shoves him the box of mix and the milk, and he gets out the measuring spoons and shakily measures out the various ingredients, trying not to spill.

            He and Skye usually only make breakfast together on Sunday’s  (and even that’s rather touch and go) but he’s assuming that she feels the need to impress the new people. Or maybe she’s still hoping that the last year has been some long drawn out nightmare and she’s just now waking up.

            Well the shaking in his hands isn’t exactly proving that theory.

            He passes her the batter quickly, and she hums as she slides it onto the pan.

            When they were younger, the three of them taught themselves how to make pancakes at the tender age of nine, and they had nearly burnt down the institute. Ever since then, Skye would hum the ‘burning ring of fire’ song when she made pancakes.

            “I didn’t know you two still made pancakes,” comes a quiet soft voice from the doorway, and Fitz whirls around, feeling overwhelmingly trapped as Jemma enters the room.

            “Of course,” Skye answers quickly, because she’s Skye and always knows the right thing to say, “Pancakes aren’t something that just change.”

            Fitz decides that it would make things decidedly more awkward if he leaves now, so he merely leans against the counter and pretends to look calm and collected.

            “Are they banana?” Jemma asks hopefully, peering over at the batter that Skye’s spooning into the pan.

            “I don’t know, are they?” Skye turns to him and he nearly chokes when Jemma looks at him too.

            “Um – they’re – they’re just plain,” he says as quickly as he can, but he hates the way Jemma’s looking at him. “I’ve got to go shower.”

            And he leaves.

xi.

            Jemma knows it’s probably a bad idea, but she decides to find Fitz later. She knows that he probably just wants to be left alone, but she’s afraid that as his Parabatai she’s not going to let that happen.

            So after lunch (which is even more awkward than breakfast if you can believe it) she begins her search, not really sure if she wants to talk to him, but making herself anyways, because the hollow feeling in her chest she’s sure will only go away with the presence of her best friend.

            She first checks his room, which is empty and cleaner than usual (a plus), and then moves onto what used to be his haunts. The kitchen is also empty, and so is his lab, so she finally moves outside, the cold air blowing through her hair so it doesn’t seem likely that someone’s out here, but if anyone’s out here it’s going to be Fitz.

            She finds him by the small stream that runs through the property, fiddling with something in his hand.

            “Hey,” she says softly, and he jumps like he’s been shocked.

            “Jemma! I just - “

            “Please don’t make excuses and run away,” she says quickly, sinking into the sand next to him, “That’s all anyone does.”

            “Then I’m not sure I’m the – I’m not sure I’m the one you should be going to.”

            She sighs deeply, “I was afraid you’d say that.”

            He tenses, his fingers curling tightly over whatever he’s holding in his hands. “What are you doing here Jem?”

            “I think you know the birds and bees by now – “

            “I meant why are you back at the institute?” he asks slowly.

            “What are you holding in your hands?” she answers his question with a question, leaning slightly closer to take a look at said item. It’s a picture, and he shows it to her willingly enough.

            It’s of the three of them (she, Fitz, and Skye) all with their arms looped around each other, their grins so wide that they look like different people.

            “I’m here because I needed help,” she finally decides, “And I know the people here were the only people I could trust to give that to me.”

            “You have a lot of faith,” he whispers, “I’m not – I didn’t – you didn’t really seem to think that when you left.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You don’t leave – you don’t leave the people you trust,” he whispers, “But you left.”

            It is remarkable, she thinks, how much Fitz has changed. Before it would have taken him months and months – perhaps years to muster up the courage to say something like that to her. She supposes that she changed that.

            (She almost wishes she could change it back.)

            “You don’t know why I left.”

            “No I don’t,” he says, “And maybe that’s the problem.”

            So when he gets up to go, she lets him.

            Talking was overrated.

            “Have you talked to Jemma?” Skye asks later that day.

            He has.

            “No,” he lies, and picks up the dagger, winging it at the board. It hits the center, dead on. “I haven’t.”

xiii.

            Jemma finds May in her usual place. Since her return, she’s barely seen the woman she almost considered a mother, but then again – anyone but Hunter and Bobbi (Who are too distracted with Bobbi’s recovery and each other to really pay attention to her) haven’t really felt comfortable around her. They obviously all know.

            “Hello!” she says brightly, May is doing her morning stretches, and while most days Jemma wouldn’t dare to ask her anything during this time, she just – wants to.

            May simply gives her a look and reaches both of her arms towards the sky.

            “So I was just – I don’t know I just needed someone to talk to.”

            May gives a slight incline of her head so Jemma knows she’s listening, and Jemma continues on in a rush.

            “I know I left, but everyone’s been avoiding me like the plague – and Fitz is really – I don’t even know.”

            May gives her a cool look. “You don’t know?”

            Jemma fidgets. “He’s upset because I left. And I know he has every right to be, but he doesn’t know why I left and I feel that’s the most important factor to be considered – “

            “Why did you leave?” May prompts quietly.

            “Because me being there made him worse!” she finally gets out, “Because I’m his Parabatai but I can’t help him and I can’t take it.”

            “So you left because you didn’t know how to solve the problem?” she doesn’t remember a time when May actually has talked like this before, but she supposes it’s probably just something the other woman developed in the time she’d been gone.

            “All my life,” she replies softly, “I’ve known the answers to every problem.”

            “And is Fitz a problem?”

            (She doesn’t know the answer to that one.)

            “Maybe.”

            “Why don’t you try talking to him?”

            “He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

            May just gives her a look.

            “If you really want to be his Parabatai again, don’t give up.”

            For someone who didn’t talk a lot, May certainly had a lot of wisdom.

xix.     

            “Fitz?” Coulson’s sitting at his desk, looking over some paper that’s probably from the Clave.

            “Sir, I was just – uh – I was just wondering – I was wondering if the Clave has said anything more about the attacks on the institutes.”

            Coulson looks tired, but he’s always rather looked like that, like some invisible weight had settled on the man’s chest long ago and he couldn’t quite shake it off.

            “Jemma was just in here with the same question,” he says, setting the paper down, “Are you two still not talking?”

            “I’m – I’m not sure – I don’t know sir,” he finishes in a frustrated sort of voice, wishing he could just get the damn words out.

            Coulson sighs, “You two are Parabatai.”

            Fitz really wishes people would stop reminding him of that fact. Just because they were Parabatai didn’t mean they couldn’t be separated. In fact, it was the oldest story in the book, and one of the most feared. That one day, your Parabatai would leave you. Well Fitz was getting rather tired of being reminded of the fact that his Parabatai had left him.

            “Can you just answer the question please,” Fitz says impatiently.

            “They’re not sure, but it’s probable,” Coulson rubs the spot in-between his eyes, “Although eyewitnesses mentioned seeing a Shadowhunter at the scene.”

            Fitz makes the connection even though he doesn’t want to, and turns towards the door.

            “Thank you sir.”

            Jemma watches Fitz enter his office, and watches him leave wearing the same expression she was feeling.

            “So Coulson told you?” she asks into the quiet of the hallway, and Fitz jumps about a foot in the air.

            “Jesus Jemma, you can’t just pop out of nowhere like that – “

            “Do you think it’s Ward that’s leading them into institutes?”

            “He does have the blood of a Shadowhunter,” he amends, “It only makes sense.”

            “It could be another Shadowhunter.”

            “You don’t believe that.”

            She pictures Ward’s cold eyes and shudders. “No I don’t.”

            “Then stop saying things you don’t believe – “

            “Do you hate me now Fitz?” she asks, breaking off whatever tirade he’d been planning on spewing in her direction.

            “Do I – what do you mean do I hate you?”

            “You certainly act like it,” she points out, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

            “You’ve only been here like a day Simmons.”

            “I can still tell.”

            “You can’t discern a pattern from a single data point,” he points out, and even though they’re fighting she can still notice that he’s speaking better already.

            “Why don’t you let me say what I was going to say?” she asks, letting the briefest annoyance filter into her tone.

            “Fine,” he waves his hand around amicably, “Talk.”

            “I just want to be friends again,” she says quickly, “And I’m sorry that I left but it was necessary – “

            “If aught but death part thee and me,” he tells her, quoting the Parabatai oath. “But you left Jemma.”

            “I didn’t want to.”

            “But you did,” he points out, “I needed help.”

            Her heart constricts painfully in her chest. “I just want – “

            “And what happens when you leave again? When your institute gets cleared?”

            “Who ever said I was – “

            “You were going to leave Jemma,” he cuts her off, “Because that’s what you do.”

            She lets him walk away.

            He goes back to practice everyday, throwing the knives at the board with such a renewed fervor that he hits the middle of the target every time.

            “Fitz,” he hears a soft whisper, and it’s imaginary Jemma again, of course it is, “You’re going to break the board.”

            “I don’t care,” he wings one final knife at the board and where it hits the board splits in two.

            “Told you,” she chides him gently.

            He swears under his breath and strides forward to look at the broken halves. He can probably fix it he supposes –

            “LEOPOLD FITZ!” there’s a shriek like a banshee behind him and he whirls around, automatically startled.

            Skye is standing in the doorway, looking like she’s going to absolutely murder him.

            “Hello?” he tries weakly.

            “What did you say to Jemma?” she demands.

            He’s taken aback, he was pretty sure he and Skye were on the same side regarding Jemma, and didn’t think she’d be this mad.

            “What do you –what do you mean?”

            “She was crying her eyes out in the bathroom!” she strides up to him and pokes him in the chest, her eyes blazing. “She’s your Parabatai, you’re not supposed to make her cry.”

            “Well maybe I don’t want her to be my Parabatai anymore!” he spat, and Skye’s face whitens considerably.

            “You don’t mean that.”

            “Yes I do.”

            “No you don’t,” she says firmly, “She told me what you said, you know. After Ward.”

            He bristles automatically. It was already one thing to have it be the worst moment of her life, she didn’t need to share it with everyone.

            “Well maybe that’s changed.”

            “You can’t choose how to feel,” Skye looks exhausted, “Believe me, I know that better than anyone.”

            He knows what she’s thinking about, and he looks down at his hands, which have started to tremble slightly.

            “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers, “It’s forbidden. It’s better if she leaves.”

            “So that’s what you’ve decided now?” she challenges, “That it’s better if Jemma leaves your life forever?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well I think that’s bullshit,” she snarls, stepping into the room, moving so she was mere inches from him, “And you think so too.”

            “Do I?”

            “You do. You don’t want her to leave as much as I don’t want Ward to be Hydra.”

            “Well unfortunately, it looks like he’s staying Hydra,” he says unkindly, “And it also looks like Jemma’s probably going to leave again.”

            The next three weeks pass in a blur for Jemma, a blur of avoiding Fitz, training with Hunter and Bobbi, and awkward encounters with Skye, talking with May and strategizing with Coulson.

            She’s just starting to accept that this is her life now, at least until the Clave has declared it’s safe for them to go back to their old institute (someone else is there now until they can determine the cause of the break in.)

            Jemma has a few ideas, but Coulson says that they’re concerned that one of them, as in Bobbi, Hunter or herself, that they were working with Hydra. (She tries not to be offended by that one.)

            She’s passing by one of the training rooms when she hears the unmistakable sound of Fitz swearing from within.

            “I know that, I just can’t – “

            She steps inside the room before she can stop herself, because old habits die hard and whenever Fitz was suffering, she wanted to help. It was just their friendship.

            “Fitz?” she questions, and he turns around with a start.

            She realizes that it’s the training room they always used to practice in as children, an expansive room with tall ceilings, the walls lined with targets and weapons.

            They had always practiced separate from the others; because it was easier that way and they were so above the other’s levels anyways. She wasn’t even aware it was still being used until now.

            Fitz stood in the middle of the room, his hand grasping a dagger tightly, before he arched his arm back and let it fly. Last minute, his hand twitched and he released it too early, causing it to hit the side of the target where it stuck, quivering.

            “Close,” she says before she can stop herself, and he’s whirling around, confusion lining his face.

            “Jemma?”

            “You look distracted,” she says softly, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, “You can always hit your target if you’re focused.”

            “I am focused, it’s my damn hand that keeps shaking!”

            Before she can stop herself, she moves so she’s standing behind him, and then loops her arm around so she’s holding hand. She takes the next dagger out of his belt and puts it in his hand, and then helping him, keeps his hand steady as together they arch their arms backwards and let the dagger fly.

            It lands dead center in the middle, quivering slightly.

            “How did you do that?” he asks softly.

            “You just needed some help focusing,” she answers, and then realizes how close their standing.

            “I’m surprised,” he responds after a few moment’s pause, “That you haven’t left yet.”

            She steps forward and kisses his cheek. “I’m surprised too,” she answers softly. “Do you remember Fitz?”

            “Remember what?”

            “What you said to me at the bottom of the ocean.”

            He stiffens.

            “How could I forget?” he asks simply, and then – “If it would make you happier Jemma, you can leave.”

            She laughs, a bitter laugh that reaches to the bottom of her soul.

            “Why are you so convinced that’s what I want?”

            “It’s what you wanted before.”

            “But maybe not what I want now.”

            “What do you want now?”

            She steps away, her eyes fixing on their feet.

            “I want to be friends again,” she says honestly, “Can we be friends Fitz?”

            There seems to be a battle going on in his head, like his thoughts are literally fighting against one another. There’s several moments of pause, before he gives her a smile that looks more like a grimace.

            “Yeah,” he says, “Friends.”

            He doesn’t want to be her friend.

            But wants to be close to her.

            It’s quite the conundrum.

            “Fitz and I are friends again,” she announces to Bobbi later that night, when the two girls are sparring in one of the training rooms. (Not she and Fitz’s training room.)

            Bobbi grins. “You are?”

            “Yes,” Jemma dodges her next punch and throws one of her own. It hits Bobbi’s ribcage and the woman winces.

            “So you finally followed May and I’s advice and just talked to him?”

            “Don’t act like you’ve been telling me that for years.”

            “No, only a month,” Bobbi kicks upwards, and Jemma twirls out of the way. Bobbi was the only person other than Fitz and herself that knew about what had happened between them, and that was only because Jemma had completely lost it one day and Bobbi had been the only one around. “So seeing him again hasn’t rekindled anything?”

            “Like I said before, there was nothing to rekindle,” Jemma points out, “Fitz and I are best friends.”

            “But – “

            “No but’s. We’re Parabatai. It’s forbidden. You’ve heard the stories of what happens when they fall in love.”

            “And yet,” Bobbi says wisely, “You can’t stop falling in love. It’s just something that happens.”

            “I’m sure I can trust you  - miss Divorced.”

            “That’s why I’m the perfect example,” Bobbi says, throwing a punch which Jemma easily dodges. She doubts the other woman is even trying anymore. “I didn’t exactly choose to fall in love with a stubborn bastard like Hunter.”

            “I’m not in love with Fitz,” Jemma says, but her tone wobbles slightly. “It’s forbidden.”

xxiv.

            “A long time ago, we used to be friends,” Jemma sings, or imaginary Jemma he should say, her voice rising slightly like she’s mocking him, “But I haven’t thought of you lately at all.”

            “She wants to be friends with me,” he snaps. “Which means she isn’t going to just leave.”

            “Does it mean that?”

            “It does!”

            “But you love her,” she steps closer, her voice as soft as kittens fur, “You love me.”

xxv.

            Being friends again with Fitz was all she wanted once she saw him again, once she realized that being separated had not done anything for either of them.

            Bobbi’s question now sits in her stomach like some sort of poison, clouding her thoughts. Did she love him? Wasn’t it wrong?

            Her Parabatai rune almost feels like it’s burning as the question circle in her mind – could she possibly…?

            She couldn’t love Fitz, could she?

            Well of course she’d always loved Fitz, just like she’d always loved being a Shadowhunter, just like she’d always loved pancakes on Saturday mornings, but the idea that she might love him in a way that was more than friends –

            Well she’d always been incredibly good at solving problems, but Fitz had been better at reading people, even if he could be a bit socially awkward at times. It was just how they were, she and Fitz.

            She wants to love him.

            It would be so easy to fall in love with Fitz, as easy as killing the weakest demon or reading a book, but as difficult as killing a greater demon because of what they were, because they were Parabatai and Parabatai didn’t fall in love.

            (But what if she already was falling in love?)

            Fitz decides that it’s about time he goes out into the field again.

            He needs to hunt demons; he needs to feel their flesh splinter apart under his fingers and needs to know that he can fight again. He’s been practicing ever since his injury and now he feels like he can finally do this.

            Jemma’s obviously surprised when he asks her to come with him, but if they want to be friends again, this is the best start.

            “Of course!” she says quickly, “Do you have a target in mind?”

            He does, in fact. An eidolon that was rumored to have killed an entire family was living in the small town next to the institute. Skye’s given him the address and he’s ready, fired up, and excited.

            So they leave the institute, weapons strapped to their bodies.

            “Are you ready?” Jemma asks him, and he wonders why she even needs to ask. He has been practically bouncing off the walls with anticipation this whole time.

            “It should be simple enough,” he rambles, “A quick kill.”

            “I know Fitz,” she laughs, “You’ve told me at least five times.”

            His fingers are nervously shaking as they walk through the quiet streets, heading directly towards the building Skye had written the address on.

            “Are you nervous?” she asks him, and his head flits towards her so fast he’s totally proving her point.

            “Maybe,” he admits, “But Jem it’s been a year.”

            “You’ll do awesome,” she says, “It’s in your blood Fitz.”

            They stop in front of the house, a dark scary building, and he has the strangest urge to take her hand.

            (He ignores it.)

            Jemma should know better.

            She should know that’s it a trap, she should know that they’re about to die.

            She should have known from the moment she walked into the dark building, her hand on the hilt of her sword, because everything was too quiet. It was all so silent that she was terrified, terrified of what it might mean – because things were never quiet for no reason at all.

            “Something’s wrong,” she whispers, and her hand finds Fitz’s. She grips it as tightly as she dares, because when things are wrong nothing plays by the rules. (And no, that’s not a good thing.)

            Fitz takes out a witchlight stone from his pocket and raises it above his head, letting the light ray out from in-between his fingers.

            She has to stifle a scream.

            Dead bodies line the walls, hanging upside down from ropes, their long hair brushing the ground, their fingers trailing, blood dripping down.

            This was not the work of an eidolon –

            Before she can finish the thought, Fitz is stepping in front of her, swearing, and there’s a whirring sound and the sound of something sinking into flesh.

            “Fitz!” she shrieks, as he falls backwards, an arrow in his stomach.

            “Run!” he spits, blood already trickling out of his mouth.

            “Like hell,” she snarls, hooking her arms under her armpits and beginning to drag him slowly out the door.

            “Leave me Jemma, you can’t take me all the way home without – “

            “You watch me.”

            There’s not another arrow that comes, and when she examines the floor close enough (between dragging Fitz out and keeping her hand on her dagger) she sees the trip wire.

            She roots around in her pocket, calls Skye. “Fitz has been shot! Please –please come.”

            Fitz is lying in the street, his breath coming out more and more haggard and she desperately rips off some fabric from her shirt and presses down hard on the area around his wound. She can’t take the arrow out without fear of damaging it more, and her hands are shaking harder than they should be right now.

            “Hang on,” she tells him firmly, “They’re on their way.”

            “Sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry that I ruined us.”

            It sounds an awful lot a goodbye, and she shakes her head.

            “You didn’t ruin us, and we’re going to prove that everyday after this.”

            “I – I was the one who said it,” he whispers, “I was the one who said I loved you.”

            “It’s okay,” she begs.

            “Why does it always end up like this?” he coughs, “When I get hurt and you get – get hurt too.”

            She does feel her Parabatai rune tightening, like the fact that he’s injured is affecting her too. Just like that day when Ward commanded the Hydra demon to take a large bit out of Fitz’s neck.

            “I don’t get hurt,” she whispers, “And it’s not like last time because I’m not going to leave.”

            “Are you sure?” he asks, and his eyes are really blue right now, and she wonders why she hasn’t noticed it before.

            “I’m sure.”     

            “Everything got sad when you left,” he murmurs, his eyes slipping shut. “Even the sky cried.”

            She’s sure he’s mumbling delusions now, and that’s obviously not a good sign and she’s getting extremely worried now.

            “Well the sky’s never going to stop crying if you die right now,” she says quickly, as his breathing begins to slow. “So stay with me Fitz!”

            Because I love you.

            The next time he wakes up, she’s asleep, her head propped up on her hand, her brown curly hair spilling over her shoulders.

            She’s beautiful when she’s sleeping.

            She isn’t sure what she had said, or what she was about to say, but seeing him almost dying had awakened something in her.

            She loved him.

            And she wasn’t sure how, or when, or why, but all she knew is that she might be in love with him and terrifies her, but she’s going to have to figure it out with him together.

            He wakes up slowly, his blue eyes flickering to meet her’s and before she can stop herself she leans forward and brushes her lips against his.

            “What?” he splutters.

            “I love you,” she whispers, “and I’m so sorry that I didn’t realize it before now, but I do Fitz, and I – “

            “It’s forbidden.”

            She shrugs. “You can’t choose to feel.”

            (He doesn’t complain when she kisses him again).

            “But – “          

            “We’ll figure something out,” she promises quietly, “We’ll leave the Clave or something.”

            “After,” he reminds her gently, “After we defeat Hydra.”

            She smiles.

            “Of course.”