A/N: This is just a little two-parter that I wanted to get published before season two starts (of course, that means I'll have to make sure chapter two is up before Tuesday, but it's half written, so I'm confident...). I've already explored what I think could happen to Fitz, but I've never really dealt with any physical effects that could also plague Jemma.

I have to give a trigger warning, because this fic will be dealing with panic attacks, something I used to be quite familiar with (luckily not so much anymore), so I hope I've done the subject justice.

It happens before she even has a chance to stop it - one second she's watching Fitz from the other side of the lab, as he struggles to unscrew a small panel underneath one of the D.W.A.R.F.s ("Grumpy", she recalls him saying, and in another lifetime, she'd have made a joke about that), wondering when the right time would be to step in and help him, and the next Fitz's grip on the screwdriver has slipped, the tool scraping heavily across his hand, and he curses loudly, the little drone falling from his grasp and bouncing hard against the surface of the floor.

"Fitz!" She doesn't mean to startle him, but he jumps all the same, turning away as she rushes towards him, his injured hand pressed against his mouth as he breathes deeply in an effort to calm himself down.

Jemma steps delicately around the damaged drone, its current state ignored, her priority the injured man right in front of her. She rests a gentle hand against his back. "It's all right."

"It's not," he replies, dejectedly, sinking against the table, his elbows resting on the edge, and his palms hiding his face.

A wave of guilt washes over her - she shouldn't have waited so long, but he's been adamant about doing everything for himself, doesn't like the fuss, and so most of the time she ends up anxiously floating around in the background, like some sort of rubbish ghost, waiting for the right moment to step in - but she knows she can't keep allowing him to be so obstinate, not when there's a constant risk of him hurting himself.

"It is." She pulls gently on his shoulder until he acquiesces and stands upright, then leads him over to a chair and sits him down. "Let me see your hand."

"Jemma-"

She waggles her own until he holds his out, and tries to ignore just how much his arm is shaking. "Hush. I'm going to clean this up, and you're going to stay exactly where you are."

Fitz smiles weakly at her stern voice, too tired to argue with her, which Jemma's thankful for, because he can be as stubborn as a mule when he wants to be.

She examines his hand, trying to ignore the feel of his skin against hers, how she all of a sudden wants to twirl herself into his arms and wrap herself in his warmth. Focus. His flesh is torn, and the wound is bleeding a little, but it's not deep, just a nasty scratch. "Right, then," she says, sweeping over to a drawer to fetch some antiseptic wipes and a plaster, picking up Grumpy as she goes and placing him safely out of the way. She pulls the drawer open, and then frowns as she stares inside of it, her stomach clenching a little. "I'll be back in a moment - I just need to fetch some more wipes."

Fitz's face moulds into a look of protest, and he waves his good hand at her. "No, it's fine, I'll just run it under the tap."

She smiles at him, one that falls somewhere between 'affection' and 'no-nonsense doctor', and she can feel how odd and twisted it is on her face, how odd it must look to him. So much has happened, they've both had so much to deal with, Fitz even more so, and the atmosphere between the pair of them hasn't exactly been as cosy and easy as it once was. It scares her to admit that they're damaged, but she's never going to stop helping him; she's never going to stop doing what's best for him, no matter how much he protests, no matter how distant she might seem at times.

"Jemma..."

"I won't be long," she calls back, already out the door.

She's barely at the end of the hall when her hands start to feel clammy. She wipes them on the front of her jeans, and tries to ignore the dread that's starting to claw its way up inside her. You'll be fine - in and out, that's all it is. But telling herself that doesn't stop her from feeling utterly hopeless, doesn't stop the quickening of her breath or the pounding of her heart. Jemma concentrates on her breathing - inhale, exhale, nice and slow and deep - until she comes face to face with the door to the store cupboard. You can do this, nothing bad is going to happen. It's okay. You're okay.

Trembling a little, she reaches for the door handle and pushes down on it, giving the door a shove - it's heavy, and she has to hold it open to stop it from swinging back, her eyes flickering up to the lights as they flash on as the sensor is triggered. She looks left and right to make sure no one is coming, that no one can see her hesitation and the fear she's desperately trying - and failing - to hide, and then takes a step forward, just enough so that she's properly over the threshold. Jemma taps restless fingers against the side of her thigh, the rapid movement and the pressure against her skin helping just a little to keep her on the right side of freaking out, and she inches slowly inside. The tiny room is far too cramped for her liking, far too oppressive, and even with the lights on, it's still too dark.

A quick turn of her head, and she finds what she's looking for - sort of. Something to stick between the door and the frame, because even though finding and grabbing a box of wipes will probably only take seconds, the thought of being shut in this room for even a moment is just too much for her to even think about dealing with. She reaches out and just manages to grab hold of a broom (and really, why is there a broom in here? It's not a cleaning cupboard), and wedges it in place. She can't let go right away - it's like she's wrapped her hand around a metal pole on a freezing day, and her skin has become stuck to it, unwilling to budge. Finally, though, she takes a breath and manages, not without some effort, to lift it away, thankfully without the aid of warm water. Her lifeline is detached. The anchor has been raised, and she's been left to drift across a dark, never-ending ocean, and if she doesn't do this quickly, she'll become lost in the fog.

Jemma hates that she feels like this. She knows why, knows the exact reason her body is reacting in this way, knows it's not her fault, but it doesn't stop her from feeling weak and vulnerable and stupid.

She feels stupid. Stupid and ridiculous, and she's never been either of those things. But, her skin is prickling, and she can feel hot salt in her eyes. She has no choice - Fitz needs her, and she has to get the supplies she needs in order to patch him up.

Bravely moving forward, Jemma quickly finds the box she's looking for, on the middle shelf of the second shelving unit she comes to, and is proud when she manages to pull out a few packs of wipes without dropping them, as well as grabbing the bottle of hydrogen peroxide she spots on the shelf below. This room really needs more organisation - it's a mess, as far as she's concerned, and it displeases her greatly to see things out of their proper order. Even so, she can't do a thing about it.

Jemma steps back from the shelf, clutching her supplies to her chest.

See? No problem. Job done, and now you can leave.

Or so she thinks, because at that moment, the moment when she should be walking free again, something begins to creak, and she whips round just in time to see the door get the better of the broom, the brush sweeping across the floor, the handle moving up and away, and it falls in the opposite direction of the way she needs it to in order to lodge itself back between the edge of the door and the frame. Jemma lunges for the handle, sending the packs and the bottle she's holding flying as she does so, but she's not quick enough, and the door slams shut.

"No!"

She grabs the handle and pulls hard, but it won't open. "No, no, come on!"

How could it have locked? It wasn't... She hadn't...

Jemma tries again. And again. And every time she does, she feels her throat tighten just that little bit more, feels her heart attempt to make a desperate bid for freedom by forcing itself painfully against her ribcage. She can't breathe - oh, god, she can't breathe. She gulps down air, but she can't seem to force all of it into her lungs, and it makes her head spin. "Help!" She bangs on the door, pounds on it with the palms of her hands. "LET ME OUT!" The tears come, and she's sobbing and banging and struggling to breathe, her voice getting weaker and weaker and her legs no longer willing to support her. Jemma slides down against the cool metal of the door, but it has no affect on her feverish skin. Pulling her knees up under her chin, she tries desperately to control herself, but she can't, and the threat of hyperventilation panics her even more, until that's exactly what she ends up doing, her face flooded with tears and her fists clenched so tightly that her nails bite her flesh.

The room is too small, all the air has been sucked from it, and in that moment, Jemma Simmons is convinced that this is where she's going to die.

xxxx

Fitz hisses as he prods the skin around the wound on the back of his hand. He knows he shouldn't be touching it, but that's what everyone ends up doing, isn't it? No matter how much something hurts, no matter how much you know that it's a stupid idea, you just can't leave well enough alone. He wraps his other hand around the top of his wrist, as if the heat of it will somehow help ease the sting. For something that's barely more then a scratch, it doesn't half hurt. He supposes that it serves him right for pushing himself further than his current capabilities will allow, but if he admits to that, then that would mean he would also be admitting to the fact that he doesn't work as well as he used to, and he's not sure he's ready for that.

Jemma's been there, silently guiding him, even though she's... different. And he is, too, no matter how much he likes to tell himself otherwise. Things have been strange between them since he came back, and he's not surprised at all, but she's still there, and he's grateful for that. He's even more grateful for the fact that she hasn't mollycoddled him. He knows that she watches him when she thinks he's not looking, but apart from the odd occasion, she hasn't interfered too much, and that's been both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because he hates being fussed over, and a curse, because struggling makes him feel even more powerless, and then things happen, things like slicing your hand with a screwdriver and sending innocent drones smashing into the floor. Poor Grumpy - he hadn't deserved that. Fitz is certain he can fix him, it'll just take a little extra time. He shifts in his chair, and yawns. It could have been much, much worse, and he knows he's been lucky - he just has to keep reminding himself of that every time his arm fails him, every time he can't grasp a certain word. He remembers science, and he remembers Jemma, and he's eternally thankful for that.

This fracture between him and Jemma will repair itself in due course. It has to. No matter how long it takes, he refuses to leave it patched precariously together, criss-crosses of different bits of tape bridging the gap which was once one whole, seamless piece. To lose nearly a decade of friendship and partnership is unthinkable. They're stronger than that. He can't force her to talk about it, and he certainly doesn't want to make her even more uncomfortable than she already seems to be, but weaved amongst the ever present threat of danger, the future is full of possibilities, and he has to believe that they'll get there, because the alternative is too painful to even consider. Still, he can't help the pangs of hurt and panic that plague him on a daily basis - he's only human, after all.

Fitz puffs out his cheeks, air rushing forcefully from between his lips. He's pretty sure Jemma should have been back by now - the store cupboard in question is only up the hall, and it's not a huge one. He has a brief moment of insanity where he thinks she might have got distracted and forgotten about him, except that most of the team aren't there, and she wouldn't do that, anyway. Not that he'd blame her... Fitz quickly pulls himself out of that line of thinking, before he slips into self-pity, and makes a decision. No doubt she'll chide him for moving, but he gets up anyway, quickly rinsing his hand under the tap and dabbing it dry with a paper towel before making his way out of the lab to find her. Maybe what she needs is too high up, and she's spent the last ten minutes jumping up and down, trying to reach it. Fitz chuckles fondly at the image, and a little part of him can't help but be pleased that he might be able to do something for her, even if it is just reaching up with his good arm to grab a box.