A/N: And you all are probably going to hate me and kick me out of the fandom, but I don't care. Platonic Skye/Fitz with Fitz/Simmons as the ship thank you very much! Set after the last episode, so you have an idea of where this one is going. Enjoy some serious, SERIOUS angst with some triggers for suicide. You have been forewarned. But other than that, enjoy! Reviews are wonderful creatures :)

Hello, Goodbye

The moments after Simmons's death, no one was able to comprehend anything. There was too much sound, too much rushing about to make sure the entire plane was secure. There was too much data, too many tests, and far too many pitying looks for Fitz's pleasure.

There was too much hugging and crying and touching. Too much feeling.

He just wanted to be left the hell alone.

But he didn't even know how to be alone. He had always had Simmons right there next to him, nagging him, talking to him, at him, around him. Just her presence, even from across a lab table or – God forbid – a cadaver, was what he had grown to depend on. Ever since college, since grad school, since S.H.I.E.L.D., he'd always had her. Now he didn't, and he would gladly dissect a thousand dead bodies if it meant being able to hear her voice again, to see her face as it scrunched up into a frustrated glare and then break out into ecstatic joy as she figured out something completely brilliant.

And it was just so damn unfair, because she was brilliant, brilliant enough to figure out a cure for an invasive alien disease. But she could be so stupid, so, so stupid for someone with that much intelligence. Because if she had just waited…if she had just waited five more minutes before jumping out of that damn plane. If she had just given him more time…

Well, maybe then he wouldn't feel like he was drowning.

The days after Simmons's death, everyone tried to avoid the lab like the plague. It was like a mausoleum, something eerie and haunted permeating the space, held captive by the memory of someone who never should've left.

They all spoke about Fitz as if he were the one who died, their whispers echoing off the walls of the plane, still carrying to his desensitized ears. He hated being talked about, especially by people he knew. It reminded him all too much of his earlier days at school when the pretty girls would roll their eyes and snicker before the jocks decided to bash his face in. Those were the darker days… the days before Simmons.

The team thought they were being kind, not saying anything to his face to spare his feelings, but in all honesty the secrecy and sense of exclusion only made him sink lower than he was before.

They said that he's broken. He wished that they were wrong.

There were no more shouts or screams, no more petty fights or bickering to be heard throughout the plane. There were no more fires or explosions. No more gadgets. No more anything.

No one on the plane would've thought that they would miss Fitz's laugh so much.

The invisible line in the sand was carefully adhered to until Fitz opened his lab again many days later, insisting quite intently that he was ready to go back to work (not that he had much of a choice in the matter anyway). And of course, after a few days in with no problems, with everything going back to 'normal' it was only right for Skye to shout the one name that everyone on the plane had been so accustomed to.

"Fitzsimmons!"

The bubble of safety shattered with a deafening silence. Almost immediately Skye's overly-exuberant demeanor fell as she realized her fatal mistake, taking in Fitz as he noticeably tensed, his knuckles going stark white as he gripped the table hard. Her entire color drained, her mouth gaped in silent apology.

"Oh my God, Fitz I am so sorry I-"

"Get out," It was barely a whisper, lips clenched tightly as not to let any emotion pass.

"Fitz, believe me I didn't mean-"

"I said. Get. Out."

The sheer force and frigidness of the words shocked both people into silence, the trembling man not even lifting his head yet the intention in those words were deadly clear.

Skye left without hesitation, practically sobbing by the time the doors shut behind her.

But there was no word from Fitz. Not a single protest. There was only the audible bang of hands on a table followed by the startling crash of what could only be shattering glass.

The weeks after Simmons's death, things started to get better, at least on the outside. Breathing came easier, the fog started to clear as the missions piled in again.

But the lab was still ground zero. No one even looked at the cargo bay, and everyone still walked on eggshells every time Fitz passed their way. There was no easy way around what had happened, and while Agents May and Coulson appeared to have moved on, Ward put on a good show, and Skye hid herself in her computer, Fitz felt like he was being put on display.

Oh, look at the poor man. He lost his best friend; let's go comfort him and coddle him and feed him more complete and absolute bullshit about how things would get better.

They wouldn't.

But Fitz knew better than to let anyone know that. He had learned long ago, way before he entered the world of S.H.I.E.L.D., that no one wanted to hear about the bad things, not from maintenance at least. Everyone wanted to see a smiling face, the face of someone who could stay strong and carry on.

So Fitz carried on. He lived day by day, slowly drowning in a silence that he still wasn't used to.

They had talked about getting a new scientist – without his knowing of course, no need to upset the poor kid – but no one really had the heart to go through with it. It just seemed so…wrong.

No one could replace Simmons.

...

One day, after a particularly hellish nightmare and too many sleepless nights, Fitz lost it.

He wandered right into the lab and started throwing anything, everything that he could reach. Beakers, test tubes, chemicals, files, months worth of theoretical groundbreaking research tossed and torn in a rage. Tables were kicked over and doors punched repeatedly until the bulletproof surface fractured and left splatters of bloodstains in the facets.

There was screaming too. It wouldn't be a proper tantrum without screaming. Curses, blood-curdling screams that could only be described as devastating woke up the entirety of the plane, placing everyone into a panic.

Everyone was distraught to see Fitz just curled into a ball in the center of his handy work, tears streaming down his face, blood smattered on his usually crisp and clean button-down. He looked so fragile, so tiny there in the lab surrounded by the ruins of all that he used to love.

But he didn't love those things now.

And when Skye went to reach for him, kneeling down beside the trembling man, she realized what had made him stop.

That mouse, that one white mouse that had changed everything, had given them hope and then so hatefully torn it away, rummaged around in its cage, sniffing for a way out, oblivious to the chaos around it.

Fitz sniffled a bit, his body shaking, and Skye wrapped her arms around him and rocked him as he sobbed.

Poor, poor boy.

...

The lab was cleaned out and restocked the next morning. Fitz was honestly disappointed that it had been removed; he wanted to remind himself of what he'd become: unstable.

However, as he ran his hands over the new stainless steel counters, he found that he missed the old ones, the ones that he and Simmons had spent so many hours pouring over the latest scientific breakthroughs, the ones that supported some of their finest experiments, that held some of his fondest memories. However, one object in the room remained untouched, safe from his rampage.

There, in the corner of the newly furbished lab, the mouse sat scurrying about on its wheel, squeaking up a storm.

Fitz glared at the rodent, thinking for a brief moment of removing the vermin from the room, but decided against it. He let it go, his effort not worth exhausting on something so trivial.

So he threw himself into his work as best he could, punching out numbers angrily and rapidly. That was his only style now, fast and furious and unconnected, and honestly his output had increased nearly twofold. But now, the only thing on his mind was that absolutely horrid, grating screeching from the mouse's wheel. Accompanied with its incessant whining, the high-pitched sound assaulting his ears in discordant strides that made focusing impossible, he was ready to pull his hair out.

Finally, after what felt like ages of being suppressed by that unbearable noise and having his pencil reduced to a gnawed nub, he cracked. He threw the writing utensil across the room, letting out a frustrated cry.

"Simmons, would you please shut up!" he barked, his eyes going wide the second after that name escaped his lips, because for a second, he truly believed that Simmons was back in the room, causing too much noise again.

It felt like blasphemy, saying that name out loud again. But miraculously it worked, the mouse ceasing all movement and noise, almost staring at him with patient, curious eyes.

Fitz let out a small, disbelieving laugh, walking over to the cage in wonder as he went to get a better look at the mouse. He opened the top and pulled the mouse out, cupping it in his hands with child-like curiosity.

"Simmons…" he tried again, and the mouse nuzzled into his palms, scampering about the new space. Fitz ran run finger over the creature's fluffy head gently, holding it close.

"Okay Simmons, it's just you and me now…"

He placed the mouse gingerly back in its cage, moving the creature so that it could be nearer to him and his work, just in case he needed someone to talk to. Yes, this Simmons would do…it would have to.

The next few months after Simmons's death improved drastically after that night.

Fitz had decided to keep the mouse, and no one really asked why he named it after Jemma. They just assumed that it was his way of grieving.

Whenever they heard him shout at the mouse, the tabooed name ringing out through the plane, everyone tried not to cringe. Fitz would consult the mouse for any and everything, as if expecting that it could respond. And maybe in his mind it did for all they knew. But Fitz was happy. He was dashing about the lab again, smiling, being sarcastic, humming even! It was as if the old Fitz was back…almost.

There were still times when the team could see that his precariously placed illusion had been shattered, when he looked at the mouse expecting to see someone else standing there instead of the mammal in the glass cage. They all wondered whether or not to let him go, to get him the help he needed to get over Simmons's death. But cases and projects and time just got in the way, and Fitz's supposed deteriorating mental health was just another thing that got shoved under the rug.

Eleven months, thirty days, and twenty-two hours after Simmons had jumped from the plane, no one could find Fitz.

There was a high-profile mission in Cameroon. Agents May and Coulson ran surveillance while Ward tried to break in the hard way. No one was on the plane except Skye and Fitz, the former being temporarily banned from missions after a nasty incident in Montreal, the latter left to his own devices as the gaping hole in his chest was ripped even further apart as the one year anniversary of his partner's death ticked closer and closer by. By that point Jemma's death had become more of a patched-over scar than a gaping wound. She was always in the backs of everyone's minds, but even Skye, as emotional as she was, had learned to let go for the most part by now.

And Fitz was left alone once more.

There was no other biochemist; the lab was still Fitz's and Fitz's alone, but it still felt like a tomb. No one liked going in there, and no one understood why Fitz willingly spent so much time torturing himself by being there as well. He was offered new labs and gadgets, a new room, even a new position higher up in the S.H.I.E.L.D. science department where he would never have to face death again. But he rejected it all, choosing to stay behind in that tiny, lonely lab.

He supposed, if he had to go back and think on it, that was why he chose the loneliness as his main motivator to stop the pain in the most secure and final way he knew how.

And he was smart about it too. He waited until everyone was called away and Skye was safely asleep in her bunk before preparing, methodically counting out the steps until he could finally just stop feeling.

Liquid mercury. 500mgs. Injected directly into the cephalic vein. He'd be dead in a matter of minutes, maybe less. It was just so simple, so blessedly easy...

He knew that there would be a million reasons why. They'd all want to know why he would do this, how he could do this. He could say that life was just so…meaningless without someone to share it with. Every victory, every discovery felt hollow. Every question went unanswered, every joke left flat in the air. There was no joy in what he did, no pleasure in getting to see his partner jump around and dance at a new discovery or becomes ridiculously animated when talking about nuclear decay algorithms.

He could say that it killed him every time he wandered upon her unfinished work, sticky notes in alarmingly upbeat colors plastering certain charts and diagrams. He could say that he lost a bit of himself every time he looked at her picture, every night he clung to that stupid bear she had bought him as a joke oh so long ago. He had worn the fabric of that stuffed animal down so much that it had lost her scent months ago. And perhaps he could say that was when things began to get worse. But in reality, he knew it was when he woke up in a cold sweat realizing that he would never get the chance to tell the one person that he had ever cared about how much he loved her.

But on top of everything else, the last straw was definitely that stupid mouse, that stupid stupid creature that had given him so much hope once upon a time. And maybe, he thought if he kept it then he could move on, focus on something other than the gaping hole in his heart that bled out every time he turned around and realized that his better half just wasn't there. But it didn't work. He still turned around and he was still greeted by empty space.

No more empty space.

As soon as the needle pierced his skin and the silvery metal slipped silently beneath the surface, he collapsed against the cabinets, banging his head hard against the edge of the table. The effects were instantaneous. He could feel his whole body revolt from the poison he had injected himself with, his eyes spotting, lungs restricting, muscles spazzing until he could no longer control his limbs. It was all a rush of feeling, so much sensation and none of it good, like a cold fire that iced over his veins and set his chest on fire as he fought for oxygen.

And then there was nothing.

...

"Fitz?" Skye called into the strangely empty lab. She couldn't sleep - not so close to that cursed day - and needed someone to talk to. But the only someone still on board was Fitz and something deep in her gut told her that talking to him so close to the day would not end well.

Nonetheless, she could tell that someone was there in that darkened lab. The Bunsen burner in the corner still had a boiling beaker of water over it, and there was the unmistakable acrid scent of chemicals in the air, but there was no Fitz to be seen.

"Fitz…where are you?"

She called his name repeatedly as she tore through the lab now panicking. How stupid could she be, leaving him alone on a night like this?! She began looking over table after table, tripping over her own two feet until finally she found who she was searching for. But she really couldn't fathom what she was seeing, her hand flying up to her mouth to cover her gasp of horror.

There, body sprawled open and limp against the cabinets, head lolled back, with eyes glazed over and unfocused was Fitz. But what really drew in Skye's attention, what made her immediately scramble to her knees in a mad frenzy, was what was currently sticking out of his arm: the long, shiny needle lodged into skin far too thin and pale to be healthy.

She ripped the cursed thing out of him roughly, clutching the limp man tightly to her chest as she checked frantically for a pulse. Her fingers shook violently, her entire body erupting into tremors. Her mind was racing at a million miles per hour, heart hammering out of her ribcage as she let the implications of Fitz's actions sink in. And she realized that she was just as furious as she was terrified. He couldn't die. No, he couldn't. Not again!

"Fitz! Fitz what did you do!? What did you give yourself?" she demanded, still trying to find signs of life, tears streaming down her face as she realized that she still hadn't felt his heartbeat.

Panicking, she smacked the man, a loud crack echoing off the metal walls, but Fitz didn't move.

"FITZ!" Skye practically screamed, pounding on his too-pale chest. She couldn't bear to believe it. She refuse to believe it! Fitz, the loveable, happy Fitz, Fitz who always had a plan, could not be capable of this. No.

Not again…

But there she was, sitting in the middle of the lab, cradling a body that was not breathing, whose chest was not rising and falling as it should be, and who was so painfully still. No twitch or squirm, no sigh of discomfort or sassy remark of how clingy she was being.

Fitz wasn't there anymore. He wasn't behind that cold, clammy skin or those sunken dark eyes with rings of blue that matched the tinge of frozen lips. He wasn't behind the greying veins. He wasn't anywhere.

"Fitz," Skye choked, "why?"

But instead of an answer, as she raised her tear-stained face to the tables around her in attempts to find a reason why, she found herself gravitating towards the glass cage that had been so completely, hauntingly silent for the first time in months. And Skye instantly understood what he could not say. For there, in that cage lied a completely motionless and quiet mouse, all signs of life gone.

Simmons had died again, and this time Fitz wasn't going to get better.

Precisely one year after Simmons's death, Agent Coulson came back to find that his team had lost one more member. It was he who found Skye curled up in a ball across from Fitz's body in the middle of the lab. He immediately rushed to the dead man's side in search of a pulse, but Skye didn't have to tell him that they were all too late. They found that out the moment they touched his ice-cold skin.

Melinda May was speechless. Coulson was heartbroken. Agent Ward was shell-shocked. And Skye had nothing to say, as if she would anyway.

They all wanted her to speak, to give her side of the story. They all asked her question, but she didn't hear them. They flew in one ear and out the other, her mind permanently fixed on snow-white skin contrasted with blackened veins.

When the lab was cleaned out and all the evidence was collected, after the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had scoured the plane and removed all of Fitz's effects like they had done Simmons's, Skye faced the team. She didn't say a word, not a single syllable. Instead she pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket no bigger than an index card - something she'd found next to the glass cage after she'd been forcibly removed from Fitz's body - and placed it on the table before walking away. No one had to read the card to know what it said.

Unlike Simmons, Fitz had left a note:

I'll tell her you say hello.

Goodbye.