I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Coulson had been kidnapped, and FitzSimmons' world was suddenly full of interlopers. As Centipede became priority one for the organization, teams of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swarmed the Bus. Foreign objects, they were, like debris in an otherwise healthy lung, keeping them from properly taking a breath.

"Don't ask questions, Agent Cobb!" barked Fitz, his fist clenching as he faced down the junior agent, "Just get me the 5mm injector. That's an order."

Simmons could see that Fitz was in a bad place. When that happened, it was her job to stay positive, so she was trying. Trying very hard to keep her tone pleasant, to avoid elbowing her way past dozens of lab-coated strangers, to hide the fissures that this ordeal had rent in her sanity. She and Fitz never felt entirely comfortable in anyone's company but each other's, and seeing so many unfamiliar faces in their sanctum was taking a mental toll. Still, Simmons was determined to roll with the punches.

In her exhaustion, though, she almost envied Fitz for allowing himself to break down, if only because his non-stop cursing and grumbling gave him a small outlet to let off steam. But that was impossible, of course. Simmons had never been anything if not poised. So she went back to suturing a ripped stitch on Ward's exceedingly muscular shoulder (a girl could look, right? And it wasn't like Fitz had made a move, the prat) and waited to see what fresh audacity Fitz would choose to complain about next.

Fitz's feet sought a less populated section of the lab. "Honestly, how many agents do they think they can cram on this plane?" he fumed, not really caring who heard him.

"It's only gonna get more crowded," Ward chimed in. "We're set to pick up more men when Agent Hand dumps Vanchat off at the Fridge." Vanchat, of course, being the key to finding Centipede recruiter Raina, who would lead them to Coulson.

Fitz sagged against the side of the table, the very idea of bringing more people onto the Bus making his skin itch. 'It already feels about as packed as a Tokyo subway on this bloody plane,' he'd groused the day before.

She tried to sound upbeat. "Honestly? I think it's good they're here. We need fresh eyes. It's been 36 hours since Agent Coulson was taken, and none of us have gotten any rest." And some of us handle sleep deprivation more maturely than some others of us, she added silently. She patted a bandage onto Ward's naked chest, doing her best not to let her palm linger inappropriately.

"Oh, joy," deadpanned Fitz, staring at the big screen, "Agent Hand is giving another briefing."

Simmons maneuvered a smile into place and followed the men upstairs. Fitz was particularly snotty, shoulders slumped, refusing to look at anyone in the room, evidencing his resentment at being required to attend these frequent meetings - 'We could just as easily watch Hand's report from the lab and keep working, Jemma! What do they think we're doing down here, eating biscuits? How is it OK to waste our time like this when Coulson's lost out there?' Simmons had been on the receiving end of that rather pointless tirade for about forty minutes. Silly Fitz. S.H.I.E.L.D. meant bureaucracy, and that meant you went where you were told. It didn't do anyone much good to get worked up about it.

But a few moments later, when Hand outlined their primary goal of taking down Centipede, Simmons and Fitz protested in unison that recovering Agent Coulson was just as important. And for a second, they reclaimed their mental connection, that psychic link that made them whole, made them FitzSimmons, reminding her why exactly she put up with the man next to her.

Feeling thoroughly briefed and properly exhausted, the pair trudged back downstairs to smother their anxiety for Coulson in a flurry of productivity.

A/N: I've already got another bit almost done, so I'll update and add it soon! But life gets in the way, you know. Ultimately, I'd also like to write my own Fitzsimmons Academy/origin story, which relates to this episode.