The Thing With Feathers

Athena02

A/N: One-shot that came to me when I was supposed to be paying attention in a meeting. Hurt/comfort, UST, sheer fluff. Mild spoilers for 2x03 "Making Friends and Influencing People".

XXX

The quiet sounds of footsteps entering the room to stand behind Skye broke through the steady hiss of the ventilator and the metronomic rhythm of the heart rate monitor.

Skye didn't move, recognizing the visitor without turning to face him. A side benefit of May's training. She tightened her grip on the blanket draped over the bed in front of where she sat, trying—and failing—to find comfort in the outline of the slack hand under hers.

"Skye…," Coulson began gently.

"I should have been faster," she murmured, voice flat.

"You can't blame yourself for this. We knew the risks and followed rapid extraction protocols-"

"I know what you're trying to do, Sir, but I needed to be faster."

Coulson paused, biting back his words, knowing that no matter what he said, Skye was in no frame of mind to hear.

The unceasing beeping filled the silence for several moments, a blessing and a curse.

"She wanted you to have this in case something happened. Made me promise to give it to you." The slight rustle of paper on cloth, and out of the corner of her eyes she saw him place an envelope on the small bedside table next to her. The neat, familiar script marked Skye's name on the cream-colored paper, ripping a new wound in her heart. Her eyes flicked away, studying her hand on the bed.

"The doctors say they can't find any brain activity." She paused. "I don't know if I should believe them."

Coulson's answer was deliberate, weighted with the burdens and lessons learned of a lifetime in S.H.I.E.L.D., as he rested his hand lightly on Skye's shoulder.

"Sometimes, you know when to let go, and when to hold on tighter. Especially when it comes to the people we love. Like I knew with Audrey. Like you know with Jemma."

Skye nodded slightly, rubbing her thumb over the back of Jemma Simmons' hand, somberly watching the unconscious woman lying in the bed, too still and pale, draped in the tubes and wires connected to the machines that were keeping her alive. Jemma looked so slight, so shattered—nothing like the brave agent who had risked everything to help bring Hydra headquarters down from within.

Coulson gave Skye's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, reaffirming that he and the team were there for her, as they'd always been, before he stepped from the room.

Long hours passed before Skye bowed to the inevitable, opening the envelope. With Jemma's hand in her left, and her last words to Skye in her right, Skye began to read.

XXX

Skye chewed on her lower lip as she read from the well-worn piece of cream-colored paper, a half-unpacked cardboard box at her feet.

She looked up as she finished the neatly handwritten words on the page, setting it down on the kitchen table in front of her. She stood and took a few steps, standing in the doorway of the house, looking out into the garden with its neatly ordered rows of plants. Clouds darkened the horizon and a strengthening breeze stirred the air.

She left the house and stepped into the garden, closing the distance to the woman standing in front of a trellis of drooping flowers. Wrapping her arms around the other woman's waist, Skye dropped a gentle kiss on the back of her shoulders.

"Jemma, come inside. It's going to rain."

Jemma turned inside the circle of Skye's arms, brows knitted together in concentration. "I don't understand. I crossed it with a more drought-resistant variety, but it still struggles."

Skye smiled softly, "Hope never stops. Don't give up on it yet."

A smile teased the corner of Jemma's lips. "Rather profound words for a struggling Ipomoea nil. Wherever did you hear that?"

"Oh," Skye said playfully, punctuating her sentence with a kiss, "a letter I read once."

Jemma just smiled against Skye's lips, their fingers lacing together.

Behind them, a piece of handwritten paper caught a breeze from the open door and fluttered to the ground:

""Hope" is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me."