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It was… difficult , to say the least. Watching her in pain, watching her cry from a distance, watching Bobbi push her away. Jemma wasn’t sure how much more of it she could take.
That’s why she was hiding. Hiding in the doorway of the training room, watching as Bobbi pushed herself into another step.
A frustrated grunt echoed around the training room as Bobbi fell, her knee giving out from under her. Jemma reached to rub her neck, wincing. She could almost reach out and touch the anger, the pain radiating off Bobbi in waves, tangible in the air and piercing her ribs like a knife.
“You can come out, Simmons,” Bobbi sighed. Jemma flinched. Bobbi hadn’t called her ‘Simmons’ since she (very recklessly, even Jemma would admit) threatened and tried to fight Grant Ward after Bobbi had been kidnapped.
Let’s just say Ward wasn’t keen on meeting Jemma ever again.
“Hello,” Jemma said. She heard her voice as if from a distance, but somehow it was strangled in her throat. Strange, how contradictory a single word could be.
“What are you doing here?” Bobbi asked, an annoyed edge lacing her words. She was still on the floor as Jemma approached, not bothering to get up.
Jemma kneeled next to her. “I just came to help,” She said delicately. Bobbi brushed her off, bowing her head and hiding her face with her hair. Jemma let her sulk for a moment, allowing the quiet to settle.
She doesn’t mean it, she doesn’t mean it, she doesn’t mean it…
“C’mon. Let’s take a break,” She suggested, grabbing Bobbi’s water and standing. Bobbi snatched it back.
“What if I don’t want to take a break?” She said stubbornly. Jemma fought down her annoyance.
“You need one. You aren’t collapsing because your knee is weak. You’re collapsing because your knee is overworked and tired. That goes for the rest of you, too,” Jemma admonished, gesturing at her shaking arms.
Bobbi grit her teeth audibly. “I’m not leaving until I can walk the four fucking feet across the mat to get to the steps!”
Jemma conceded, holding out her hand. Bobbi struggled to get up, ignoring her hand. Jemma didn’t drop it.
Bobbi limped over to the mat, gently tapping her fingers against the two bars guiding her path. She took her first step, hissing and gripping the wood. Jemma stood at the end, silently praying that she wouldn’t fall.
Bobbi took another step, then one more, pausing to catch her breath and flex her hands.
“Damn it,” She whispered. “Damn it!”
Jemma took a step to reach for her. Bobbi glared at her. She retreated, allowing Bobbi to continue. Bobbi lifted her leg, putting all her weight on her braced knee. Jemma couldn’t get to her fast enough. Bobbi crumpled to the ground in a heap.
“Damn it!” She yelled, hitting the floor with both fists. Jemma opened her mouth to try to comfort her, reaching out—.
“Just leave!”
She wavered, almost wanting to go, to let Bobbi wallow and cry and stay on the floor.
At least she wouldn’t be back in a warehouse, gun behind her back and nails in her—
Jemma cut herself off with a choked sob.
Bobbi stayed frozen on the ground.
Bobbi’s shoulders shook, a small cry escaping into the empty training room. Jemma sat again, ignoring her sick instinct to keep Bobbi safe by keeping her down, pulling Bobbi close.
Bobbi tore herself away, eyes red from crying.
“No! No. You didn’t ask for this. This isn’t your responsibility! Just leave!” She yelled, words strangled. Jemma didn’t budge.
It was difficult, resisting the urge to hug Bobbi close and kiss her temple and tell her that it was okay, she was here and she wasn’t leaving. But Bobbi didn’t seem like she’d respond to anything of the sort at the moment.
Tough love it is , Jemma thought.
“You’re right. It isn’t my responsibility,” She said. Bobbi looked up at Jemma, stringy hair hanging around her face. “It’s yours. No one can heal you, but you. So stop tearing yourself up for not healing fast enough, it won’t help. And stop pushing me away. Because even though it’s not my responsibility, I’m here .”
Jemma took a deep breath, hands shaking after her outburst. Bobbi stayed quiet, no longer crying. The training room hummed with the AC. Jemma closed her eyes, counting to ten.
When she opened her eyes, Bobbi was staring at her with a small smile on her face.
“What?” Jemma asked, nervously smiling, too. She hadn’t seen Bobbi smile since… Well, since before the surgery.
“My PT ended an hour ago,” Bobbi said.
Jemma raised an eyebrow. She knew this.
“Can I shower at your apartment?”
The shower turned off as Jemma plopped more blankets onto her bunk. Her laptop was open to Netflix, her pillows were arranged to prop up Bobbi’s leg, and the fuzzy, cozy nest she had built was inviting her in. She got out the first aid kit, settling herself so that she could work on Bobbi’s knee when she came out.
It only took a couple minutes of slightly anxious waiting before Bobbi emerged from the bathroom, her pajamas oversized and her hair up in a towel.
“Sit,” Jemma pointed to the blanket nest. Bobbi smirked, crawling into the bed with Jemma.
“Yes ma’am,” She murmured, resting her leg on the pillow. Jemma gently pulled the leg of her sweats up. She unwrapped some gauze and uncapped the anti-biotic cream. Bobbi hissed as Jemma smoothed it over the angry red scar on her knee.
“You’ve aggravated the tissue. Three days of mandatory rest, and you’ll need to use the crutches.”
Bobbi groaned dramatically, leaning back on the pillows. Jemma was gently massaging her knee with some sort of cooling cream.
“That feels nice,” She hummed.
Jemma smiled at Bobbi’s relaxed features, moving her hands down her leg to her calf.
“Bloody hell, you’re tight!” Jemma gasped.
“That’s what she said,” Bobbi giggled. Jemma hit her shin lightly, rolling her eyes.
“Not what I meant. You need to get your muscles worked out,” Jemma advised. “Your physical therapist should be rolling out the surrounding area, making sure you aren’t overworking yourself, though obviously they aren’t doing their job, otherwise I wouldn’t have had to drag you out of the training room--”
“You didn’t drag me--” Bobbi started.
“Yes, I did. I dragged you--” Jemma said.
“Fine. You dragged me. And I fired my therapist,” Bobbi said, exasperated.
Jemma stared blankly at her.
“You did what!? ”
Bobbi shushed her, “It’s fine. I can do my own PT. Anyways, if PT ends like this, I don’t exactly mind it…”
Bobbi peeked an eye open, and met with Jemma’s ‘Mom-glare’.
“You look like May.”
Jemma grumbled to herself, but continued with her massage. Bobbi caught bits and pieces here and there, like ‘I can do my own PT -- as if...’ and ‘...Like May...I do not look like May!’
Bobbi drifted off. Jemma watched her for awhile, continuing to massage her leg.
Then she got an idea.
Moving up her leg, Jemma started to massage her thigh, feeling the muscle tense and relax as knots worked out. Jemma moved to her other leg, starting from her shin and traveling up her leg. She finished her other thigh, sighing. Bobbi was still asleep, lightly snoring.
Jemma sat for a moment, pondering whether she should just let Bobbi sleep. Bobbi’s voice popped into her head, a comment from a movie date a year ago…
“Sure, communication is great, but make-up sex is just as good…”
Well, if Bobbi thought so herself…
Jemma leaned over Bobbi, kissing her jaw. Bobbi sighed, turning her head to meet Jemma’s lips.
“Mm, something on your mind?” Bobbi murmured.
Jemma ran her hand over Bobbi’s hip, drawing small circles on her side.
“Just continuing your physical therapy.”