Jemma

Three months. It's been three months since Fitz rescued me from Maveth. Three months of flinching away from touch. Three months of ears ringing from loud sounds. Three months of studiously avoiding the color blue. I sigh as I drink my tea, clothed in a white sweater, a black skirt with white lines crisscrossing randomly, and black thigh high boots. It keeps the skin on show to a minimum. No one understands why I can't handle touch. No one tries to understand. Fitz is angry and frustrated with me constantly. Skye doesn't notice anything that isn't inhuman or her new boyfriend, Robbie Reyes. Coulson and May are too busy with their plans and strategies. I don't think anyone has asked me if I'm okay since I got back. It hurts more than I will ever admit so I fall back on the one thing that I'm good at even when everything else in my life is broken; science. I know I have some form of PTSD, I am a genius after all. I know I need help, but everyone is so busy all the time it just doesn't seem worth asking about. I can't talk to anyone so I journal and I experiment and I make discoveries. On a cold winter's day something happens that I never expected, a soulmark burns its way into my skin on my left wrist; a golden triangle. It looks like the lovechild of Geometry and Greek Mythology. I scream as the mug in my hand crashes to the floor and shatters. The pain is so blinding I crumple to the floor; knees slamming on the broken pieces and slicing up knee caps and the flesh on my palms. A man runs to my aid, but the pain is too much, tears blurring my vision. All I can feel is blinding pain as I'm lifted into strong arms and set down on a loveseat. The man phones someone and as the pain fades away I catch the tail end of the short conversation.

"...Simmons. ...Hurt. Needs help... Yes, Sir."

My rescuer hangs up and puts away his phone when I'm finally coherent enough to understand what's happening. Because of course he does. The man, Chris Markham, Grant Ward's second in command kneels in front of me with concern in his eyes.

"Dr. Simmons? Are you okay? Director Ward will be here with a med kit in a few minutes."

I want to laugh or cry at the irony that is my life. The first person to ask me if I'm okay is Grant bloody Ward's lackey. And Ward is coming to patch me up. A wet laugh bubbles out of my chest without my permission.

"Ma'am? Are you in some kind of trouble? Did someone hurt you?"

I laugh again with a touch of hysteria as I stare at my bloody palms. I slowly look back up at the increasingly worried 6'4 Hydra agent.

"I believe you're the first person to ask me that since... Well, since before I went undercover in Hydra and promptly got swallowed up by Maveth. The irony of it all... Can you believe my best friend, both of my best friends, haven't bothered to ask? Not even once. Like because I'm still breathing and I don't have bloody brain damage I must be fine."

Markham simply stares at me with confusion and sympathy and more confusion. I find myself feeling sorry for the big man. Today I seem to be ruining more than just my day.

"Seems to me like you need better friends ma'am. Uh... Director Ward will be here shortly and he'll know what to do. Don't worry."

It must be nice to have so much faith in someone. How do you do it Ward? I muse to myself silently as my palms and knee caps throb. Before I know it I've drifted off into my own mind to a memory I'd rather forget.