Hourglass

Sand

It just won't move.

She sits, hands poised over the keys but only one is dancing. Only one is responding to the signals she's sending, fingers brushing over the keys she chooses and causing the air to be filled with a sweet and simple melody. The other just hangs there, useless.

Annoyance and frustration cloud her mind as she tries to force it, concentrating as hard as she can on her hand. It still is sporting the evidence of her recent skin graft, black charred flesh replaced by skin from her thigh, and her fingertips are white from a lack of circulation.

But it doesn't move, no matter how hard she tries.

So instead she lets it rest on her lap as the other plays, her melody simple and thin, a shadow of her former glory. It's like she's a child again, capable of hardly anything but wishing she could do so much more.

The piano is light under her touch and she gently presses down on the keys, notes sending subtle shivers down her spine. After a while of randomly creating notes, her fingers fall into a familiar pattern. His voice rings in her head: cracked and hoarse but unmistakable.

For Auld Lang Syne...

And so she sings along, her duet partner existing only in her head, and when she reaches the end of the song she buries her head in her hands and weeps.

✈

I've heard her play before, not long after she lost Fitz at the bottom of the ocean. The music she created was powerful and raw, hitting me with the force of a train with the emotion it portrayed.

But now, it's hollow. Almost like she's being forced to play with a heavy sense of resentment. Notes here and there, fragments of a piece. And it's almost more heartbreaking than the first time I listened to her, because while back then it was filled with pain, now it's not filled with anything at all.

We've broken her.

I stand outside the door, my back to the wall. I don't want to listen but at the same time I do, and I am in half a mind to leave. It's only when I hear the gentle crying on the other side of the door that I push it open and enter.

She's sitting on the stool, her head in her hands. Her elbows rest on the space between the edge of the piano and the keys. She's shaking with unsuppressed sobs, her body fragile.

I take a seat next to her and put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my side. She shudders against my torso but doesn't reject the embrace, leaning into me and resting her head on my chest. I run my hands up and down her back, my fingers snagging on the wool of the oversized sweater that I'm sure once belonged to Fitz.

"Does it ever get any better?" she asks, her voice thick.

I can't lie to her.

"No," I respond, "but you'll get better at bearing it."

The fingers on her strong hand curl into my shirt, bunching the fabric in her fist. I turn around to face her and hug her properly, wrapping my arms around her and holding her tight.

"I don't know how," she says, her words muffled by my shirt. "I don't think I can keep doing this."

I take a deep breath. "You're not a burden to us, nor are you getting in our way. I know that you're different now, but there's nothing wrong with that. We'll accept you and love you regardless, and we'll do anything we can to make sure that you're okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Jemma, you're the closest thing to a daughter that I've ever had. You and Skye. There's nothing I wouldn't do to protect you," I say.