skimmons + "please stay" please? :)
But, at the moment, there’s no one in the hallways or in the pod with Jemma. It’s only her and Skye, though she’s not sure how much the latter counts for. Skye is dying slowly, slipping away inch by inch with each passing second, leaving them all behind. Leaving her behind.
Jemma had never wanted to be this kind of doctor. The one who worked primarily with living patients, the one who saw the hurt and ruin that could befall the human body after one second of carelessness. One second of miscalculation that could change things forever. She’d been relieved to be recruited by the Academy, to have an excuse to give to her parents as to why medical school was off the table. She hadn’t wanted to admit that she was afraid, that she wasn’t strong enough, for that kind of work. The Academy had given her an out.
Now, of course, Jemma can’t help but reason that that very same saving grace is what has put her in this situation now: pulling a chair over to the bedside of a patient, praying that death isn’t inevitable.
But that’s exactly what Jemma is doing. She reaches for Skye’s hand, which is cold in her own. Skye has always been unusually warm, making her the ideal person to snuggle close to during movie nights or when Jemma reads journals in the common room instead of her pod.
Jemma closes her eyes against the tears welling there, feeling them slip between her lashes and onto her cheeks. It’s been hours since she’s cried, since that moment when they’d returned to the Bus with Skye in the chamber and she hadn’t been able to keep herself together. There’s no one to see her tears here either, so she doesn’t bother to wipe them away.
Jemma holds Skye’s hand to her cheek and then to her lips, a soft caress. The kind she’s thought about giving to Skye’s lips countless times but never managed to muster the courage for. It seems wrong to think about that now, to want to kiss her. Jemma also feels guilty for thinking about regrets, like she’s already lost Skye.
"Skye," Jemma says softly, opening her eyes and giving the other woman’s hand a squeeze. Everything she thinks to say after that suddenly freezes on her lips, dying in her throat. Useless observations about Skye’s spirit, about how she’s a fighter, about how she doesn’t give up. She feels foolish, even though it’s just the two of them here in in this room.
Besides, there’s only one thing that really matters. One thing that she wants to say.
Of course there’s no response from Skye, no miracle moment, no twitching of the fingers or fluttering of the eyelids. It’s only the two of them and the machines keeping Skye alive.
