#skyejem

"Skye, no. It's insane. It's way too steep."

"There's snow everywhere! If anything happens, we'll land on a nice pillowy blanket of snow. What could go wrong?"

I balk at her brazen disregard for the danger of 'jinxing it' because the answer is, of course, plenty.

Skye's managed to put together one of the most dangerous looking 'sleds' I've ever laid on eyes on. With a pair of ancient cross country skis we found in the cottage, a ironing board, and a few spare parts from the van, she's constructed a nightmarish contraption that I feel confident will bring about my demise.

"We're too young to die," I plead a bit dramatically. "Please, let's just go inside and--"

"Simmons, you're real cute an I like you a lot, but I'm not going to let you wimp out and miss this most excellent and awesome opportunity. Now, get on the sled."

I try to ignore the way my heart trips up and skips a beat when she says words like 'cute' and 'I like you',

Still unconvinced that this is even remotely safe, I hesitate, but give up in the end and climb nervously onto the ironing board sleigh. Skye gets on behind me, holding onto my shoulders with her gloved hands.

"See? It's even better than a toboggan."

I can hear her beaming and feel quite grateful that she can't see me grimacing.

"Alright," she says excitedly, "on three."

I nod and begin the count. "One," I pause. "Two," I pause once more. But before I can get to three, Skye's pushed off and we're suddenly careening down the hill. The cold stings my face and I close my eyes to avoid watching the trees as they whizz past us.

I'm very worried that Skye neglected to come up with a strategy for stopping before we'd started when, without much warming, the 'toboggan' hits something beneath the snow, stops short and sends us both sprawling into a nearby snowbank.

Despite the relative 'cushiness' of snow compared to, say, asphalt, the landing is rough and knocks the wind from my lungs.

"Nice pillowy blanket of snow?" I manage to hiss.

Next to me, Skye pushes herself up onto her elbows.

"Well," she sighs, "that didn't go exactly as planned."

"No," I laugh lightly as I catch my breath, "I can't imagine it did."

Following a series of crunching sounds, Skye's next to me, leaning on her elbows as she looks over at me curiously.

"Simmons?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I tell you something?"

"'Course."

"You are probably the most gorgeous human I've ever met."

I laugh, in part because I've never been good at accepting compliments and I've no idea how to respond.

"I'm serious!" Skye says, though she's laughing too. "Wouldn't want you to think you're just the prettiest woman I've ever seen," she explains. "You're literally the most gorgeous human being I have ever laid eyes on, Jemma Simmons." She grins goofily, then leans over dramatically to press a kiss to my lips. It takes me by surprise, but warms me in an instant, despite the fact that it's quite cold and we're laying atop several feet of snow.

"I can't believe you're here," she says quietly as she pulls back.

I want to ask her what she means, but I don't. I think I understand exactly what she's trying to say.

Because of all the tiny mountain cabins in all the world, I really can't believe she double-booked mine.

………………………………………………………………………...

Skye's sprawled across the sofa on her back, her feet dangling over the far armrest and her head on my thigh. Though I want desperately to disregard everything outside of Skye for the rest of the week, I couldn't put off starting the grant proposal any longer.

So, here we sit: me reading and outlining and planning and Skye dozing lightly with the magazine she'd been reading facedown on her lap.

It's not until Skye shifts slightly that I realise that I'd been running my fingers absently through her hair.

"Sorry," I whisper sheepishly, "did I wake you?"

"No," she yawns, "I wasn't sleeping."

Right.

"C'mon," I murmur, tapping her shoulder lightly, signaling her to get up, "let's turn in. It's late."

I put the stack of papers down on the coffee table and stand as Skye sits up next to me. Her hair's flat on one side and her eyes, barely open, practically yawn right along with her mouth.

Silently, she slips her hand into mine and follows me into the tiny bedroom, stopping just behind me and sliding her hands around my hips. Her chin rests on my shoulder and her lips are so close to my ear that I can feel her breath as she whispers, "Simmons?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I tell you something?"

I nod, smirking, sure that Skye is going to share with me some silly observation.

"I know that girls who live in vans probably have a reputation for being easily impressed," she starts, her voice uneven and possessing none of the lightness that I'd expected to hear.

"And I know that coming from me, a stranger you met a few days ago, maybe it sounds a little empty," she lowers her voice to a whisper.

"But I need you to know," she pauses, breathing in sharply and letting it out slowly, "that I can't remember ever being happier than I am right now, with you."

My breath catches in my throat and I feel my heart drop suddenly to my stomach. For a moment, I can't move as Skye's words settle heavily in the air, making me feel dizzy.

The truth behind her statement is staggering. In a lot of ways, Skye is a stranger that I've just met a few days ago. I don't know her favorite color or her favorite film or how she likes her toast. I don't know what she wanted to be when she grew up or if she's ever been to Canada or if there's anything that ever made her so sad that she could hardly breathe.

There's so very much that I don't know about Skye. There's so much that I want to know.

We haven't talked about life outside of this cabin. We haven't talked about what comes next. It strikes me that there's a possibility that this is it. That once we return to the city, Skye will return to her life and I'll return to mine and while 'we'll always have Paris', I won't see her again.

It's as if a switch flips in my brain and I realise that I can't let that happen. I realise that want to be around to learn, if she'll let me. I want to give it a shot, if there's something here, and I think there is.

It's only when I feel Skye's arms retreating hesitantly from my waist that it occurs to me that such a confession warrants a response. And so, I spin to face her, immediately taking her face in my hands and telling her silently, with my lips on hers, that I feel the same. That never in my life have I felt this content being exactly where I am.

I tell her without speaking that even though this is so far from what I'd planned when I arrived at the cabin a few days ago, there's no place I can imagine being that isn't here.

My entire life thus far has been filled with carefully calculated decisions. I feel as though nothing has happened to me by chance or on a whim until now. And I need Skye to know that even though she's hardly what I'd expected this Christmas, I'm also struggling to remember a time where I've been happier than I am right now, with her.

I lower my hands to her hips, tugging her closer to me until her body is flush with mine. Slowly, I pull her with me as I back up until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

Skye hesitates, pulling away from me slightly. My heart stops in my chest and I could swear that we completed an entire rotation around the sun before she says, "Are you sure?"

In science, certainty is relative. Often, my findings and those of my team hinge upon the formulas and equations and "constants" that we know to be true.

But the ugly truth is that even in science, a discipline supposedly rooted in fact, constants are overturned. Formulas are found faulty. Widely-held assumptions are disproven. Our theories are debunked and our facts become fiction.

Outside of science, things are infinitely worse.

"Are you sure?"

Skyes words echo and rattle and bounce around clumsily in my brain.

Am I sure?

It doesn't take long for me to arrive at the answer.

Absolutely, unequivocally, irrefutably yes. As sure as I can be. I know what I want, and it's her.

Even though constants change and our facts are a sham, I'm sure. Even if it all goes South tomorrow, I need Skye to know that I'm in. That I don't want to leave this cabin at the end of the week and pretend like this isn't the closest I've ever felt to another person. That even though there's so much about her that I've yet to learn, she's about the furthest thing from a stranger.

I need to tell her that I want her to have the small piece of my heart she's already taken hostage; that touching her is all I've thought about since this morning, when I woke up with her in my arms; that I never knew that a person could feel like home, but she does.

Theres so much that I need to tell her, but words seem to have lost their meaning. So instead, I pull her back to me and kiss her slowly and deliberately, hoping that just an echo of the many things I want to tell her reaches her.

And it must, because her hand is over my heart, feeling it beat wildly as I tug her down onto the bed with me.

I pull back for a moment, taking the opportunity to look into her eyes, searching them for clues as to whether or not she'll let me take up a little bit of space in her life after we leave here. Selfishly, I want to know without asking. I want to look into her eyes and know that we're on the same page. I don't want to take a chance and stand in front of her, asking her plainly and risk hearing her say that this--that I'm not what she wants.

But it's dark in this room, and I don't yet know all of the nuances that make up the way Skye looks at me. I don't know what her eyes are trying to say when they're darting back and forth, searching mine intently.

There's so much I need to ask her, but because it's late and it's quiet and I don't want to mar what we have right now by premature plans for the future, I start with, "Is this--" I struggle, trying to find the right words. "Are you--Is this okay? Do you, um, want…this?"

Skye's face breaks into a grin and her eyes settle firmly on mine. She laughs softly and ducks her head, pressing a feather-light kiss to my neck.

"More than anything, Jemma Simmons."

For now, that's enough.

………………………………………………………………………...

"You're serious?"

Skye stops walking and stands in the ankle-deep snow, staring at me open-mouthed.

"You've honestly never been on a roller coaster?"

"Nope," I shake my head and shrug. "Guess you'll just have to take me." I try to keep my tone light, but watch her carefully as I say it, trying to gauge her reaction. I need to know where Skye's head is at, especially given what happened a few hours ago.

...

I woke up alone this morning. Given what I've observed as an extreme reluctance on Skye's part to get up in the morning, this was confusing.

When I moved to the kitchen, I found her standing by the window, clutching a cup of coffee in both hands and looking…introspective.

I stood and watched for a moment, admiring the way her hair caught the sunlight. As I was opening my mouth to say good  morning, Skye tipped her head up towards the ceiling and blew out an unsteady sigh.

"Fuck," she breathed.

It was then that I noticed the tension in her shoulders. Hers was not the happy kind of introspection this morning.

I stayed quiet, watching as she wiped at her eyes with the heels of her palms and kicking myself a thousand times for what happened last night.

I'd gone and ruined everything. I moved too quickly. Which is something so decidedly not Jemma Simmons that I hadn't considered that I'd ever have to worry about a problem like this one.

She took a deep breath and I felt a sharp pain deep in my chest.

When Skye began to turn, I ducked around the corner and slipped silently back into the bedroom and under the covers.

I wasn't ready to look into her reddened eyes just yet. I needed time to find a way to fix this. I needed time to figure out how to say that we were good. That we could stop now. We could call the whole thing off and just enjoy the rest of the week strictly platonically. We could do that. We could forget about it. We could pretend that it had never happened.

But I didn't want to, if I was being honest. I'd never experienced anything close to what I felt last night. At the risk of sounding a bit crass, the sex was incredible. Phenomenal. Out of this world.

It's not as though I have an especially long list of lovers or a wealth of experience to draw on or compare it to, but even so…nothing has ever come close to that.

And I didn't think there was any way I could be the only one. Surely Skye felt it too. It was electric. It was fun and sexy and awkward in all the right ways. It made me feel whole and safe and…

Loved, for lack of a better word.

I felt like Skye understood me. Like she knew every inch of me and wanted me to know her just as well. I felt like I did.

This morning, though, she was in the other room crying over a cup of coffee instead of in bed beside me and I felt as though someone was going after my heart in the same way you might core an apple.

Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes, but before they had a chance to fall, I heard Skye's footsteps near my side of the bed. I laid still, trying to pretend as though I was asleep, as though I hadn't seen her in her moment of vulnerability.

A moment later, Skye was climbing onto the bed, straddling me and leaning in to press her lips against mine.

It was soft at first and I was hopelessly confused. Then, she deepened the kiss and my confusion along with it.

I turned slightly beneath her, my hand finding its way to the back of her neck.

I was confused, not dead.

As my senses filled with Skye and my confusion took a back seat to my desire to feel just a little bit more of her. Her hands found their way to my hips and she held me tightly, like she was trying to make sure I was actually there. Like she was afraid I might slip away.

Then, she pulled back and rested her forehead against mine, looking into my eyes.

Hers weren't sad or tinged with regret. They didn't hold any trace of second-guessing or reconsideration. She was looking at me like she had last night: with this incredible warmth and affection.

Which, of course, only confused me further.

"Good morning," Skye purred, a small smile playing on her lips. "I've been waiting all morning to do that."

I tried to play along. "Oh yeah?" I questioned, trying to make voice sound groggy in the way it would be if I'd really just woken up. "How long have you been up?"

"Couple hours, I guess," Skye answers.

I nodded, unsure how to respond.

"Come on," she said, grinning. "As much as I'd love to spend all day in bed with you, we need more firewood."

………………………………………………………………………...

That's exactly what we were doing now. I've got the hatchet in hand and Skye is carrying the log tote in her arms as we walk through the snow. Or, at least, we were walking, until Skye stopped to balk at the fact that I've never been on aboard a roller coaster.

"Guess you'll have to take me."

My words hang in the air and the longer Skye goes without responding, the more I wish I could take back the words and swallow them whole.

I can't, though. I try to keep my expression light and unaffected as my heart slams painfully against my ribcage when she gives me a weak, unconvincing smile and answers with a small, noncommittal, "Guess so."

………………………………………………………………………...

Upon returning to the cabin, Skye immediately begins stacking the logs near the fireplace. She has her back to me and works quietly, her shoulders tense like they were this morning.

I try not to overthink it and put a pot on for tea and coffee to keep my hands busy. It nearly works, too. I feel myself relaxing ever so slightly as my hands pick up the routine.

Water, kettle, mugs, leaves, grounds, filter, pot.

But just as I feel my own shoulders letting go of their tension ever so slightly, I feel Skye's hands on them, spinning me gently to face her.

Her eyebrows are knitted and her face is etched with worry.

"Where'd you go, Jemma Simmons?" she asks, her voice unsteady and laced with fear. Like she knows the answer but doesn't want to.

I should ask her the same thing. But I don't. Because I don't want to know the answer either.

So I give her a small smile and say, "I'm right here."

When the corners of her mouth lift in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, I can tell she doesn't believe me.

She pulls me close to her and kisses me hungrily, like she's searching for some kind of assurance.

I've got no idea what she's looking for, though, and I feel almost sure I can't give it to her. This is the first kiss between us that's felt…wrong, somehow.

It's not fueled by want or attraction or affection. It's filled with questions that I can't understand and it's searching for answers that I don't have.

Skye must feel it too, because she pulls back and runs her fingers gently through my hair.

"I have to go to my van," she breathes, her tone wavering.

And then she's gone and the door is closing behind her and I'm alone as the teapot whistles shrilly beside me.

………………………………………………………………………...

It's been ten minutes, which, I realise, is not a terribly long time. But I've checked the window over the sink at least three times to make sure that the van is still outside.

It is. It's running, though, with exhaust rising from it's tailpipe in the frigid air.

Five more minutes, I decide.

I'll wait five more minutes, and if she's not back, I'll go make sure that everything's alright.

My tea's in front of me on the counter, cooling rapidly. I've made it carefully, paying close attention to the amount of leaves, the temperature of the water, how long I let it steep, but it sits untouched. My stomach's in knots and I can't bring myself to pick up the mug and take a sip. My hands shake and I can't seem to hear anything aside from my own breath flowing in and out of my lungs and my own heart, beating in my ears.

I can't take a sip when Skye's outside in her van, possibly getting ready to leave without so much as a goodbye. I can't drink tea when the last thing I said to her was a weak, "I'm right here."

I don't even know her last name. If she left right now, there's a good chance I would never be able to find her again.

Oh fuck it.

I slip into my boots and tug on my jacket. There's no way I can stand here in total agony for another five minutes.

When I close the door behind me, I breathe a small sigh of relief upon seeing that Skye's not in the driver's seat of the van. Hopefully I'll have time enough to intercept her, at least.

I move quickly, hurrying clumsily through the snowdrifts until I reach the back doors of the van. I open the right one slowly, hoping not to startle Skye.

It's all for naught, though, because as soon as I've opened the door and she sees me, she jumps and lets out a small shriek of surprise.

It takes me a moment to comprehend what I'm seeing.

Skye's seated on her "bed" in the van, which is really just a small mattress atop a wooden cot. Her pants on the floor beside her and in her hand is a syringe, the business end of which is in her thigh. Her finger's on the plunger and she's frozen, her eyes wide as she looks at me with the cap of the syringe in her mouth.

I stand at the door, unable to speak or move. Skye's half-naked on her bed in the van with a syringe halfway into her thigh muscle, which can only really mean one thing.

Skye springs into action, spitting the cap of the syringe onto the floor.

"It's not drugs," she says quickly. "I swear, it's not what it looks like."

Of course it's not drugs. Any moron would've known that. You don't inject heroin into your leg muscles. Unless, of course, you have no idea how to use opiates.

She's sick, my brain shouts over and over again, as if I didn't know. As if that wasn't the first thing I could tell.

A vial on the "desk" on the right side of Skye's van catches my eye. I grab it and inspect it frantically.

As I read it, I feel my heart hammer painfully inside my chest.

Avonex.

"When?" is all I manage to spit out.

Skye hangs her head, injects the remainder of the drug and withdraws the syringe.

"A few months ago," she says tightly as she picks up the cap from the floor and puts it on the needle. "Started with the hands. Tremors. You know." Her speech is halting. Clinical. Detached.

"Relapse-remitting?" I ask hopefully, realising how fucked up it is that there's a "good" answer to this question.

She shakes her head. "Primary-Progressive."

I close my eyes hoping desperately that when I open them again, this will make sense.

That's the problem, though. It makes too much sense. Of all the tiny mountain cabins in all the world, she had to go and double-book mine.

The universe has terribly skewed sense of humor, and this feels like a sick joke. MS is not an especially common disease. The chances of this happening--of any of this happening; the cabin, Skye, that kiss, all of the ones after it--are astronomical. These things were infinitely more likely to not have happened than to happen.

I can't think of anything to say as Skye sits on her bed, half-clothed and deflated.

So instead of saying anything, I do the only thing that feels right. I jump into the van, kneel on the floor in front of her, between her knees, and take her face in my hands, kissing her furiously. Hungrily. Angrily.

I want so badly to be angry.

I wish I could be angry with God or a god or any deity, but as a woman of science, I know better.

I want to be angry at Skye for not telling me, but I can't be. Once people know that you're sick, they treat you differently. They can't help it. I understand why she didn't want to tell me.

Which leaves me with this horrible, directionless rage.

Because there's this girl--this perfect, gorgeous, amazing girl--and she needs the cure that I haven't been able to find. I'm the head of one of the foremost MS research laboratories in the world. If someone's going to find a cure, it's almost certainly going to have to be us.

In an instant, my anger ebbs away.

If there's anyone who's going to find a cure, it's going to be us. And there's no one that I trust with Skye's life than my team. We may be miles away from a cure right now, but we're getting closer all the time. We've had a great year, full of breakthroughs and promise.

I take a moment to step outside of myself and consider what's Skye's been through.

As far as I can tell, she doesn't have any family. She lives by herself here, in this van. She was planning spending Christmas alone, which tells me that no one else knows. Even the most casual friends would insist that someone who'd just been diagnosed with a serious illness spend the holidays with them.

I pull away to look at her and notice that her eyes and cheeks are wet. She begins speaking immediately.

"Jemma, I'm sorry. I should've told you. I just--"

I shake my head, putting a finger over her lips to silence her.

"I know."

She closes her eyes tightly, seemingly both relieved and overwhelmed.

"I didn't want to scare you off," she says quietly. "I know it's your job. But maybe that makes it worse. You know…everything. You know what's coming," she breathes in shakily. "It's a lot."

I nod slowly, wiping gently at her tears with my thumbs. "It is," I admit. "But we can handle it." My voice is confident and assured. "If there's anyone who can handle it, it's us."

Skye opens her eyes and looks at me, searching my expression for an ounce of uncertainty. She won't find it, though. Because I've never been as sure about anything as I am about the fact that I want to be with Skye. I know that MS is a terrible, harsh disease, but there is nothing that scares me more than being without Skye after these last few days.

I've been ruined for a life without her. I can't go back to the way I was before. I can't go back to coming home to any empty apartment and leftover take-out. I can't go back sleeping alone and talking to myself. I can't go back to not holding her or kissing her or laughing with her.

I can't go back.

"You're not alone," I say simply. "I'm right here."

………………………………………………………………………...

"First time in a van--how was it?" Skye asks, laughing softly.

"Surprisingly comfortable," I admit, laughing along with her. "A little more, er, rocking than I expected, though."

I take Skye's hand in mine, threading my fingers between hers.

Skye's curled up into my side, her face in the crook of my neck and her breath tickling my skin ever so slightly. This bed is tiny and there's no telling where my skin ends and Skye's begins. She's so close, I think I can feel every inch of her.

We stay like that for what feels like a long time. I feel myself beginning to drift to sleep when Skye's voice brings me back.

"Jemma?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I tell you something?"

"'Course."

She takes a deep breath and I can feel her pulse quickening against my skin.

"You don't have to stay," she whispers. "I don't want you to feel like you have to take this on. I can handle it. If you want to--"

"Skye," I cut in gently, "I'm not going anywhere."

I feel her shoulders relax slightly.

"I want to be here, if you'll let me. I want to be with you, if that's what you want."

I hear a small noise come from Skye, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

"Is that what you want?"

My heart beats painfully, and for what feels like an hour, I can't breathe. Not until Skye says:

"More than anything, Jemma Simmons."

We fall back into silence again until Skye whispers something softly into my neck.

"I'm scared."

"I know," I whisper into her hair, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

"But this doesn't change anything," I tell her, my voice unwavering. "I mean, it changes a lot of things, but it doesn't change us. It doesn't change you and me. Okay?"

I can tell by her uneven breathing that she's crying again, so I hold her closer.

It doesn't change the fact that I'm falling in love with you, I think.

I want to tell her, but I can't. Not yet.

I don't want her to be in tears the first time she hears it. I don't want to tell her when her heart hurts the way I think it must right now. I don't want to tell her when she's already so vulnerable and emotional and raw.

I want to tell her when she's smiling. When she's on the couch next to me, telling me about some film I haven't seen over coffee, or when she's next to me staring up at the night sky and shivering and grinning.

So I don't tell her just yet.

Skye whispers something softly into my neck, and this time, I can't quite hear her.

"Mmm?" I ask.

"Nothing," I can hear the smile in her voice. "Okay, Jemma Simmons," she says quietly, tracing a delicate pattern on the back of my neck.

"You and me."

………………………………………………………………………...

A/N: Ohman.

I know, that was a lot.

Thank you so much for reading and for being so nice and supportive. It might be a rocky road for Jemma and Skye for a little while, but I am a fluff-lover at heart. Y'all are safe in my hands, I promise.

I hope you enjoyed it, and please, drop by to tell me what you thought. Again, my ask box is forever open (and accepting anons for my shy folks). You can always leave me a message me or comment or whatever else strikes your fancy as well.