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Jemma woke up with a start, finding a flight attendant readjusting her blanket over her shoulders. She amiably dismissed the ensuing apology with a shake of her head, waving the well-meaning woman away before she could bother Fitz, who was very much asleep.
"I'll do it," Jemma whispered with a small smile. If someone had to bear the brunt of his just-awake grumpiness, she'd rather it was her.
The plane's cabin would have been quiet if not for a baby crying in the distance, and the furious typing of a sleepless businessman a few rows over. It had been a while since she'd been on a long commercial flight; Jemma made a mental note to properly appreciate the comfort of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s own aircraft the next time she boarded it.
She would never fall back to sleep with the procession of stewards and hostesses in the alley next to her. She hadn't battled with Fitz for the window seat as she usually would.
In fact, she didn't battle him for much of anything anymore.
One look at her phone informed her they still had a few hours of flying left ahead. She stretched her legs languidly and took a gulp of water before turning to her slumbering companion.
Jemma had yet to get accustomed to the bristles that now adorned his cheeks, which made him look so different from the boy she'd befriended at the Academy. His hair was shorter too, the spring curls long gone since he'd taken to using clippers on both his hair and face for convenience. It looked good on him, certainly, but she selfishly wished there was something about Fitz that would remain the same.
He stirred a little when she covered him with a spare jumper, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing even. With the armrest up and no barrier between them. Jemma couldn't refrain from nestling against his shoulder. She missed him so much –which was ridiculous. He wasn't gone. Not in any way that mattered.
He was still Fitz. Her best friend. Or more than that.
She still didn't know what to do with that piece of information. The succession of events had left little time for her to solve her side of that equation.
It had weighed heavily on her mind when Fitz was in the coma and she thought those words spoken at the bottom of the sea were the last he would ever say to her. It kept popping into her head over the harrowing weeks during which they familiarized with the extent of his trauma and, later, as she talked him through many fits of rage at his perceived impotence.
More recently, the knowledge was front and center in her mind when Coulson delivered the cold, hard truth: Fitz was not improving the way he should be. His explosive bursts of anger had already exhausted two top rehab specialists and his recovery was stalling while his spirits declined swiftly. In fact, Fitz appeared to be giving up.
He refused to speak for days at a time, typing one-word demands on a tablet rather than pushing past his frustration with words. Instead of working to regain the use of his hand, he was learning to omit it as if it had been cut off. None of this came as a complete surprise to Jemma –his being short-fused and stubborn was hardly news. More concerningly, she'd never known him to plainly refuse to give his best effort to anything before, and was finding herself at a loss for what to do.
When she indulged him and suggested his path to recovery didn't have to match anyone's expectations for it, he was incensed at her for infantilizing him. But when she urged him to toughen up, he broke, his misery so absolute it left them both in sobs.
This 'vacation' was all Director Coulson's idea and it was more of an order than a suggestion. They had been both instructed to go home and regroup, no doubt much to the team's relief. Naturally, Fitz had argued against it, before quietly giving up the fight after a long and tearful conversation with his mother, during which he'd done very little talking.
And there they were, side-by-side and halfway above the Atlantic Ocean.
Cautiously, Jemma pressed her lips to his forehead before settling her head on his shoulder again, her eyes fluttering shut. His body was warm, his scent familiar and comforting. As sleep engulfed her, she allowed herself to forget the events of the past months and to enjoy snuggling up to her best friend for a nap the way she so often had.
When Jemma woke up, the seat belt signal had just flashed on and the plane was initiating its descent.
It was evening in London and the sun had already set. Now matter how familiar Jemma was with air travel, she would always enjoy watching the luminous maze of lines and dots become more defined as the plane lowered over the city.
She was contorting on her seat to get a better view when Fitz started stirring next to her.
"We're landing," she informed him with a tired smile.
"Why d-d-didn't you wake me s-s-so– before?" Fitz asked drowsily. He stretched his arms as well as he could in the confined space and frowned, glaring at his left hand in annoyance.
"I just woke up myself," she explained. "I may have drooled on your jumper."
Jemma's heart clenched as she watched his eyes soften. In just a few minutes, they would have to part ways. She'd catch a train back to Sheffield while he transferred to his next flight alone. More than once she had offered to make the trip to Glasgow with him, but he was adamant that he didn't need to be escorted home like a child.
If she decided to take up Coulson’s offer, she would be gone before Fitz returned to the Playground.
She wasn't supposed to say.
A mere few weeks earlier, she would have refused to even consider leaving his side. Since then, she had been informed her guarding vigil by his side and indulging his every whim was adding to the problem. A sense of trepidation rose through Jemma each time she recalled her conversations with Fitz's psychologist and physiotherapist. Both had unambiguously sided with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s head of command and yet her ambivalence wouldn't lessen.
Was Coulson manipulating her perplexing feelings to ensure her participation in the infiltration job? And who could even tell for certain that Fitz would fare better without her? Honestly, Jemma feared her judgment was distorted by the shameful wave relief she felt rising through her at the thought of not being the prism through which Fitz sorted out his emotions anymore.
She only had two weeks to agonize over a decision that would, one way or another, impact both their lives.
When the plane started dipping lower, Fitz grabbed her hand without a word and held it until after the plane touched ground. It was a tradition they'd formed a long time ago, the first summer after they stroke a partnership. Travelling around the world was still a novelty for the both of them at the time, especially Fitz, who had admitted to growing nervous during takeoff and landing. They were barely out of childhood then and so far away from home.
Soon, they were standing in a crowded airport hallway, hurried people striding around them in conflicting flows, and she was hugging him goodbye fiercely. It wasn't until he squinted at her questioningly that she realized her cheeks were wet. They'd never been ones for tearful farewells before.
Jemma gave herself the entire cab ride de St Pancras to cry her heart's content before she proceeded to pull herself tightly together. She had a tense breakfast at her parents' table to look forward to in the morning. Each visit went down the same. She had to prepare herself to throw cleverly misdirecting answers to the most pressing inquiries and elude the others, until they found a fraught equilibrium again. But convincing her parents she was still their perfect daughter was the easy part.
She had two weeks to figure out how to be the friend Fitz needed.
This was not the time to fall apart.