Writerly Human

"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.

Though I often tout my dedication to the art of preparedness, right now I'm desperately wishing I hadn't packed so damn much. After lifting, shifting, and shuffling no less than a dozen odd bags, containers and boxes out of the way, I finally find what I'm looking for: the snow globe.

My parents gave me this snow globe when I was nine.

I take a moment to inspect it carefully, smiling as I remember the Christmas when my parents gave it to me. 

Two reindeer in what's supposed to be a clearing in the forest, standing in front of a brilliant lighted tree. 

It's silly, really. I don't even know why I brought it along. My mum always said that the reindeer were a symbol of the magic of Christmas. She said that just one reindeer in a clearing with a lighted tree is a little sad, but these two reindeer were brought together by some kind of happy Christmas magic. 

Come to think of it, she's always been a such huge advocate of being together on Christmas. I can't imagine what my being gone is doing to her. Though she put on a brave face when I told her I couldn't come home for Christmas, I know her better than that. She's cooking dinner by herself. She's watching our favorite Christmas films alone. She's probably stuffing the stockings at the last minute with no one to keep her company. 

Suddenly, I feel quite badly.

Sure, I couldn't have taken two weeks off to go to Cornwall. But maybe I should've tried a bit harder. Maybe I should've gone for at least a day or two. Maybe I should've offered to have them here, even if my apartment is small. 

I set the snow globe down quickly and take my cell phone from my pocket and dial mum's number quickly with my cold fingers. It's Christmas Day, and I really, really need to talk to my mother.

But when the call doesn't go through, I frown and pull the phone away from my ear. 

'No Service'.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, trying to quell the surge of disappointment rising in my heart. It's Christmas Day and I can't even call my mom.

I feel tears stinging my eyes in the cold. I must be the absolute worst daughter in history. I'm not even sure the gifts I sent will get there on time. From thousands of miles away, I've managed to ruin Christmas for my family. And now, I'm standing outside with pathetic self-indulgent tears freezing in the corners of my eyes. In truth, I'd probably spend all morning out here throwing my own pity party if it weren't so bloody cold.

So, I take a deep breath, gather up the snow globe and wrap it in a few extra jumpers to cushion it, then shut the trunk of the station wagon and wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand as I make my way back to the cottage.

"There you are," comes a groggy voice from the couch as I step inside and wipe my boots on the mat. 

"Good morning, Skye," I smile weakly, dabbing my eyes one last time with the sleeve of my coat. "Sleep alright?"

She's still in very much the position that I left her. 

This morning, I woke up (once again, with the sun streaming through the window) with a stiff neck and something heavy weighing down my arm.

As it happened, between the snow and the big Christmas Eve meal and the fire, we managed to sort of fall asleep on the couch. Me, with my back against the far arm rest and apparently, Skye with her head on my left shoulder, her back sandwiched between my left arm and my ribcage. I'd woken before Skye and had carefully withdrawn myself from the couch, started a pot of coffee and some water for tea, and then, on a bit of a whim, went to the car to retrieve the snow globe.

"Slept great, thanks," Skye responds, yawning. "I smell coffee."

"Yeah," I smirk as I put down the jumpers a crate behind the couch, "I took the liberty of making some coffee. I'm sorry, I didn't consider the possibility that it might wake you."

Skye stands up, stretching slightly, then smiling at me brightly. "Simmons, please don't ever apologize for waking me up to the smell of coffee."

With that, she pads across the main room in her socks to the coffee pot and pours a cup. Just as she replaces the pot, the kettle on the stove begins to whistle: long and low at first, then with increasing pitch and urgency.

I'm unlacing my boots and shrugging off my coat when Skye turns off the burner, takes a mug from the cupboard above the coffee maker and takes the lid from the small jar of dried mint leaves I brought with me for tea. I watch as she takes a pinch of the leaves and puts them in the infuser. Then, in a way that is somehow, inexplicably, familiar, she tilts her head, inspecting it carefully, then adds another, smaller pinch. Satisfied now, she pours the steaming water from the kettle over the infuser.

And then, all at once, it occurs to my why the pinch and the head tilt and the careful consideration of the added affect of just a few leaves seems so familiar: my mother does nearly the exact same thing. She's a big believer in the perfect cuppa. She's precise in the amount of tea, the temperature of the water, even the type of cup if she's feeling very particular.

I can't help but watch Skye in a state of fascination. Before I can fixate, though, she turns to me.

"Here you go, Jems." She leans her elbows on the counter and looks intently out the window at the snow with her own mug of coffee in her hands.

I straighten my jumper as I move around the island to the counter.

"For me?" I ask, as if I don't already know the answer.

"'Course. I don't drink tea, remember?" 

I did.

She turns to me, "Is it okay? I don't make tea, um, ever."

I pick up the mug and take a small sip.

"It's perfect."

Skye is visibly relieved. "Good. I mean, I've been watching you make it, but still. Must've picked up a thing or two."

Suddenly, I feel tears stinging my eyes again. I try to look away, hoping Skye doesn't notice, but it's useless. She's next to me in an instant.

"Jemma?"

I wipe at my eyes, "I'm fine. Really. It's silly." I laugh, hoping to punctuate my point. Skye doesn't buy it, though.

"What is it? Don't tell me the tea's that bad?"

I blink away any remaining traces of tears and shake my head. "No, no. It's just…well, it's just like my mom's."

Of course, this sets me off again and I can feel my chin trembling as I try to keep my emotions in check.

Skye nods, her eyes kind and understanding. "You miss them. Your family." 

It isn't a question, but I nod anyway.

Skye looks as though she's thinking carefully, biting her bottom lip gently.

"Wait here for a minute, yeah?"

I frown, a little confused, but nod.

She smiles, then heads over to her bag, pulls on a large jumper and another pair of pants, tugs on her boots and is out the door before I can ask what she's doing. So, instead, I watch out the window as she opens the back doors of her van, climbs inside and shuts them behind her.

It's five minutes or so before she emerges again, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm and jogging back toward the cottage.

Once she's in the door, she paws through her bag again, this time extracting a laptop with a satisfied "A-ha!"

She takes the laptop directly to the couch and sets it in front of her on the computer, then types frantically. I think maybe something's wrong until she says, "Bingo," triumphantly.

"Simmons, come here for a second."

I comply, sitting next to her on the couch. Though I try to ascertain what it is she's doing by looking at the screen, I can't make heads or tails of what I see.

"It's, what, 8 p.m. or so in the UK?"

I look at the clock on the wall over the fireplace and nod. "Yes, why?"

Skye doesn't answer, but instead says, "Does your mom have a smartphone?"

I nod, "We got her one for her birthday. What does that have to do with--"

"Can I have the number?"

"Sure. But there's no service here."

I hand over my phone and watch as Skye types quickly.

A moment later, a screen appears and the sound of a dial tone is coming through the speakers of the laptop. Skye moves the computer closer to me.

"How did you--"

Skye puts one finger to her lips, then gets up and moves back into the kitchen, towards her nearly-forgotten cup of coffee. She lays a hand on my shoulder as she passes behind the couch, ducks down close to my ear and whispers, "Merry Christmas."

Before I can respond, my mother answers the call and suddenly the screen is filled with her face.

"Jemma? Is that you?"

I can scarcely believe that Skye managed to connect to my parents halfway around the world in a remote cottage in the mountains with no internet access or cell phone service.

Somewhat predictably, tears spring to my eyes once again. Seems to be a good day for it.

"Hi mum," I smile and wave, laughing a little bit.

"Peter get in here! Jemma's on the phone!"

I can hear my dad's stocking feet padding through the house in the background before he appears behind my mom, squinting at the screen and then opening his eyes wide in surprise.

"Oh! Hullo, Jemma!" he laughs boisterously. "I see you're spending Christmas trapped in a cell phone--are you alright?"

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at his dad joke, and instead say, "I'm actually at a cottage. With a friend. Wanted to get away for a few days."

"I thought Fitz was coming home for the holidays?"

"He was. Is. It's not Fitz. It's another friend."

"Another friend?" my mom questions, intrigued. "You have a friend outside of Fitz?" If we're being honest, she looks a bit relieved. Elated, even. Perhaps that's progress, considering she'd been hounding me about when Fitz and I were going to 'get together already' for what seems like ever.

"Well come on, then! Let's meet this friend." My dad sits down next to mum as she props her phone up against something--probably the hideous centerpiece on my nan's kitchen table. 

I turn around and wave Skye over. She here in an instant, reclaiming her spot next to me. I adjust the angle of the laptop screen so that we're both in frame.

Once mum's got the phone settled, I can see all of nan's kitchen behind her and dad: the awful wallpaper, the dated cupboards, the aging countertops. It all makes me more homesick than I'd ever care to admit.

Now that mum and dad can see Skye, I make the introduction. 

"Mum, dad, this is my friend. Skye." I pause for a moment, feeling awkward about saying it that way. Nevertheless, I move on. "Skye, this is mum and dad."

"Pleasure to meet you, Skye," my mum beams. 

"Pleasure's all mine, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons. I've heard so much about you."

"None of it's true," my dad tosses in with a smile.

Skye laughs politely, "All good things, I promise."

Mum smiles kindly, then sets in asking me all sorts of questions: how's work, am I sleeping enough, where am I spending Christmas, will I be able to come home sometime soon, etc. I answer them swiftly and as accurately as I dare to on Christmas Day from several thousand miles away.

Before she can get in another line of questioning, I steer the conversation abruptly away from the incredibly boring details of my life. 

"Did you get the packages I sent?" I ask.

"We did, love. They were magnificent gifts. Too much, really. You shouldn't have."

Admittedly, I did spend a little bit extra on my family this year in hopes that nice gifts might make up for the fact that I wouldn't be with them.

"I'm glad you liked them, Mum," I say simply. "Did you have a good Christmas all in all?"

My mum nods, but her eyes are the slightest bit glassy and despondent. "Of course. We wish you were here, though. We miss you terribly."

I can see a hint of moisture collecting near her bottom eyelid, which triggers the same response in me. Biting my lip in an attempt to maintain a brave face, I nod. "I miss you too. You have no idea."

In the background, I can hear the kettle whistling, signaling that the water for their after-dinner tea and coffee is ready.

"That'll be the kettle," my dad says, a bit obviously. "Love you, muffin. Happy Christmas. And nice to meet you, Skye." Dad waves, then retreats into the kitchen to tend to the kettle.

"I better go help him," Mum adds. "You know how useless he is with the tea. It'll come out tasting like Castrol."

I laugh, feeling yet another twinge of homesickness. My dad's tea (and coffee, for that matter) is complete garbage, but I miss even that right now, whilst I'm so far away from them on my favorite holiday.

"You be good, Jem. Happy Christmas. Enjoy your time at the cottage. And Skye?" my mum directs her attention to my left.

"Mmm-hmm?" Skye responds.

"Make sure she's having fun, would you? She's always been a bit…focused. It's the holidays. Make sure you celebrate."

"Of course, Mrs. Simmons. My pleasure."

"Glad to hear it," Mum grins, "Alright, take care, love you both."

"Love you too, Mum."

With that, she's gone and once again it's just the two of us here in the cottage. But now, suddenly, it feels like a real Christmas. 

I turn to Skye, unsure how to thank her.

"Skye, I--"

She cuts me of, placing a hand on my knee. "Simmons, don't even mention it. I'm just glad it worked." She smiles brightly. "Your parents seem like lovely people."

"They are," I nod. "Thank you, Skye. That's the best Christmas gift I could've asked for."

As the words leave my lips, a thought occurs to me. I stand up quickly and throw a "Just a second" over my shoulder.

Quickly, I rummage through the cupboards in the kitchen until I find what I'm looking for: the jar of blueberry jam, which was adorned with a modest-but-bright red ribbon, which was tied around the glass near the lid. I remove it hastily and search through the jumpers for the snow globe, then re-tie it around the glass of the globe as neatly as I can manage. 

It's not perfect, but my hope is that it's presentable.

I make my way back to the couch, snow globe in hand. 

"I know it's not much," I say, "and I'm sorry that I didn't have anything with which to wrap it. Despite my preparedness, I'd assumed that requiring gift wrap in a cottage in the middle of nowhere was such a remote possibility that it didn't warrant bringing materials."

When I sit down next to Skye again, she looks me in the eyes, her expression amused, if a little perplexed.

Without any further explanation, I hand her the snow globe.

She takes it slowly, inspecting it carefully, like she's trying to work out every inch of it.

"Merry Christmas," I say, feeling suddenly unsure. 

I try desperately to fill the silence. "It's a snow globe. My mum says that it represents the magic of Christmas."

When Skye still doesn't say anything in response, I keep talking. 

"Um, she says that just one reindeer in front of a lighted tree in the middle of a dark, quiet forest is a little sad. These reindeer, though, she insists were strangers, brought together by in front of the tree by Christmas magic."

Another few agonizing seconds pass and Skye says nothing. I try again to fill the deafening silence in the room.

"Anyway, I just think you should have it," I turn my attention to my hands, which are in my lap and sweating as I wring them. "Thank you so much for helping me talk to my parents. You have no idea how--"

I'm stopped short when Skye launches forward, her arms around my neck and her chin on my shoulder.

"No, Simmons," she says quietly, her lips close to my ear. "Thank you. For giving me this. All of this. It's hands-down the best Christmas I've ever had."

------

"Ready to go when you are, Simmons."

I pull the kettle off the stove and carry it to the coffee table, where Skye's set up with her laptop and two mugs, both filled with mint and ready for water.

"Tea tonight?"

Skye nods, "Figured I'd see what the fuss is about. Plus, coffee after eight has a disturbing tendency to turn me into a monster."

"Mmm, yes, best avoid that. Well, prepare yourself, Skye," I say, pouring the water over the infuser, "this is about to be the best hot beverage you've ever had. Or, at least, one of the best. Definitely up there. Very good. Probably. If you like mint, anyway." I'm rambling and try to stop myself, finishing with a simple and stunningly eloquent, "It will definitely be a hot beverage that you may or may not like a lot."

Skye looks up at me, amused, and says, "I'm sure it's lovely, Jems. Thanks."

I nod, pouring water into my own cup and then placing the kettle on the table. "So, Home Alone?"

Skye nods, "It's my favorite. Is that alright with you? We can watch something else if you'd rather."

"No, no, that's great. I've never seen it, actually."

"No way."

"It's the truth, I'm afraid."

"Jemma Simmons, you are so lucky you met me. I'm about to change your life," Skye turns to me, smirking. 

I can feel my mouth go dry as I suddenly become very aware of the fact that we're sitting close enough that our knees are touching. Her eyes are on mine and I can see them shift as they go from amused to confused to questioning. 

Hardly even aware that I'm doing it, I feel myself nod so slightly that I'm almost sure she can't have seen it. 

She must have, though, because in the next second, she's leaning just a little bit closer, her eyes never leaving mine. And then, as though I were an asteroid and she a planet, I'm drawn in, completely helpless against the pull. 

Or at least, I would've been, had the very loud, very irritating timer not chosen this exact moment to go off. 

I jump up so quickly that I might as well be spring-loaded.

"That'll be the tea," I choke out, grabbing the infusers from the mugs and stepping hastily around the coffee table.

So hastily, in fact, that I catch my foot on the leg of the coffee table and am sent sprawling onto the floor with the table following me. The kettle crashes to the ground, which causes the top to come unfastened, sending the still-hot water splashing all over me and the rug beneath me. The mugs come next, only adding insult to injury. 

I'm vaguely aware of feeling as though my skin is burning before my cerebrum gets a bit fuzzy around the edges and logic takes a back seat to instinct.

It's not until a few agonizing moments later that I regain some semblance of reasoning and find myself facedown in a snowbank, up to my shoulders in white powder. When I register the stinging, cold feeling of snow against my skin, I'm afraid that instinct was just a little too well-informed when it comes to the treatment of burns. I lift my head slightly, wincing as my sensitive skin constricts painfully, and confirm my suspicion. 

From the looks of it, I'd tugged off my shirt (which was drenched in nearly-boiling water), run outside, and dove into a snowbank. 

Skye is next to me a second after this realisation, placing her hand gently on my shoulder.

"Simmons?" she asks, her voice uneven. "Jemma, are you alright?" She sounds a little bit scared. 

I can see why, I suppose. It's not everyday that someone destroys a table and an evening in one fell swoop, then manages to burn herself, tear off her shirt and run face-first into a heap of snow when it's below twenty degrees outside. I would probably classify that as 'worrisome behavior'.

"Jems, tell me what to do." Her voice is panicked and I immediately feel badly for worrying her.

Slowly, I withdraw myself from the snowbank, suddenly very embarrassed to be standing outside, in front of Skye, with just my bra and a pair of jeans for clothes.

"Um, well, if you could possibly grab a dry jumper from my bag near the door, that'd be lovely," I say, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

"Of course," she dashes inside and I follow as quickly as I can manage, given that I'm still experiencing quite a bit of pain and made the unfortunate mistake of running out into the snow barefoot.

By the time I reach the door, Skye's retrieved the jumper and nearly runs into me in her haste to deliver it.

I step inside the cottage and take the sweater, nodding as normally as I can and shivering as little as possible. 

Skye shuts the door behind me and watches me intently, trying to figure out if there's something she should be doing to help. 

Gingerly, I hobble to the bathroom to get a look at my skin in the mirror.

Red, angry, and tender, but overall, not too severe as far as burns go. 

I remove the rest of my clothes, now soaked in tea, melting snow, hot water or some combination therein.

Tugging on the dry jumper, I luxuriate for a moment in the feeling of warm, soft fabric against my freezing and exposed skin.

"Skye?" I call from the bathroom. "Could you possibly hand me my bag?"

A second later, she's at the door, bag in hand, her forehead still creased with worry.

"Is it bad? Do you need any help? Do you want me to start the van? The hospital isn't too far, we can be there in--"

"It's not bad," I say gently, cutting her off. I feel the corners of my lips drifting upwards as an unexpected surge of fondness washes over me. "I'm fine, really."

I step behind the door and tug on the fresh clothes. 

"Thank you, though," I say as I open the door, fully clothed once again. "That's very sweet of you."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the carnage near the couch: the mugs and kettle are strewn about on the rug, there are leaves everywhere (work of those shotty infusers--probably should've gotten rid of them ages ago), and worst of all, Skye's laptop is on the floor.

I rush over to inspect the damage.

"Oh god, Skye, I'm so sorry," I stoop, picking up the laptop carefully and setting it gently on the couch. It appears to be stuck on the title screen for 'Home Alone'.

Skye crouches next to me.

"No worries, Simmons. It's the extra-tough industrial model. See?" She takes it from me, closes it, bangs it hard against the wooden end table next to the sofa, then re-opens it and pushes the space bar once.

Sure enough, the screen springs to life and Home Alone resumes playing. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

"What happened here isn't bad as half of the stuff this thing's been through with me in the van. And on the job. And in the odd cafe or two," she looks embarrassed, "I've spilt coffee on my fair share of motherboards, that's for sure. Only took me two or three ruined laptops to upgrade to the disaster-proof model." She flashes me a bright smile, and I return it.

With Skye's help, I gather up the mugs and the kettle and return them to the kitchen. Placing the mugs in the sink, I ask, "Shall I risk another pot?"

Skye looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, then says, "Actually, I think I might have a better idea."

-----

"Oh my," I gasp lightly, wincing away from the screen as Joe Pesci catches a paint can with his face. "I'm almost positive that one, probably both, of these gentlemen would almost certainly be completely incapacitated or--more likely--dead by now, medically speaking."

Skye laughs, "I think you need to suspend disbelief just a tad, Jems. You know, 'movie magic' and all." She takes another sip from the amber glass bottle in her hand, which reflects the light from the fire brilliant.

Following the unfortunate tea incident, Skye had gone to her van to retrieve a couple of bottles of beer she had in what she called the 'climate control chamber' which, to be honest, I suspect it might just be a cooler with a blanket over it to prevent its contents from freezing entirely.

As Harry and Marv get up slowly and resume their pursuit through the house, I notice Skye yawn next to me.

I'm about to offer finishing the film tomorrow when I feel her arm across my shoulders and notice the small smile on her face. It becomes immediately obvious that it was a very fake yawn.

I roll my eyes, smirking, and settle in a little bit closer to Skye.

I feel myself beginning to doze comfortably when Skye's fingertips trace some unknowable pattern on my arm.

"You'll miss the best part," she whispers quietly. I blink a couple of times, trying to fight the drowsiness that comes with being warm and comfortable. 

Partly because I don't want to miss the 'best part' and partly because Skye's breath so close to my skin is sending difficult to ignore shockwaves down my spine, I wake long enough to see Mrs. McAllister come through the door on Christmas Day with the rest of the family not far behind.

When the credits begin rolling, Skye reluctantly withdraws her arm and yawns for real this time as she shuts the lid of the computer.

"My turn on the couch," she says matter-of-factly.

I open my mouth to argue, but am quickly silenced by a finger on my lips.

"Hush. My turn and that's that. I prefer the couch, honestly."

I suspect that that's not entirely true, but sense that I'm not about to win this argument tonight.

Barely stifling a yawn, I nod and turn to make my way to the bedroom. Halfway there, though, I stop, feeling like I've forgotten something important.

In a few short steps, I'm standing in front of Skye, my arms wrapped around her shoulders holding her close.

"Thank you, Skye," I say quietly. "Thank you for getting ahold of my parents. And for Home Alone. And the beer. Everything, really. Thanks."

And with that, not daring to turn around and look back at her, I step into the bedroom, slip into bed gently so as not to aggravate my tender burned skin.

Practically before my head even hits the pillow, a single thought runs through my mind before I drift off to sleep:

What if I'd never set that bloody timer?

-------

When I wake next, it isn't morning. Far from it. In fact, it's only a few hours after I'd gone to sleep.

The sound of gentle padding across the floor followed by someone whispering my name would probably freak me out just about any other night. But tonight, I know the owner of both the voice and the feet and sit up immediately, sure that something is wrong.

"Skye?" I question groggily, my arms suddenly cold where the quilt's no longer covering them. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Skye assures me quickly. "It's just…we've sort of run out firewood."

"Out of firewood? But we had probably a couple dozen logs yesterday morning. How could we have gone through that many?"

Skye shrugs, rubbing her hands together. "No idea," she says, "but is there anyway I could possibly bunk here tonight? It's so much warmer. More blankets. Etc."

I nod, moving over slightly even though the bed is plenty large enough to accommodate us both comfortably. "Of course. Get in."

"Thanks, Jem." Skye slips into the bed quickly, still blowing on her hands to keep them warm and immediately, I feel badly that she's clearly ben suffering in the cold in the living room for awhile.

It's quiet then, as Skye settles in, and I assume she's already gone to sleep. I'm about to lay back down when she says, "Why are you really here?"

"What?" I ask, though I heard her perfectly.

"Why are you really here?" she asks again, her voice kind and patient and even. She sits too, facing me with her legs crossed in front of her.

I'm about to give the same answer I've given every other time she's asked, but this time, it doesn't come out. Maybe I'd successfully fooled myself into thinking that I really just needed to focus on my work, but now even I know that that's not why I'm here. 

Here, in a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere, in a bedroom that's so dark that only the light of the moon that spills in through the windows illuminates Skye's form in front of me, I'm done tip-toeing around my own truth. Even if I wasn't willing to admit it to myself when I made the drive up here, there's no hiding from it now. It's Christmas. And at Christmas you tell the truth. 

I focus my eyes on the quilt and toy absently with one of the fraying seams. When I speak, everything sort of comes out all at once.

"There's just so much pressure everywhere else. My mum and dad are proud of me. Of my work. But they want me to have a normal life. Laughing, love, quiet Sundays, homemade brunches, white picket fence. They just want me to be happy. And I'm not, most of the time. I know that hurts them. I don't want to make anyone else unhappy. I don't want to disappoint them."

I consider that I have, in fact, been quite happy over the last three days. Unusually happy, even. In truth, this just makes it harder.

"Everyone assumes that a genius-level IQ comes with some kind of naturally-bestowed know-how, but that's not how it works. I have to work hard. I still have to learn everyday, or I'll mess something up, and when I mess things up, there are lives at stake. I have to be sharp everyday. I can't have bad days. My bad days are the days when science loses and the diseases win. It's the most exhausting thing in the world, knowing that the thing you love--the job you love--is eating away at you."

My eyes are still intent on the thread on the quilt between my fingers. I feel like if I look at Skye now, whilst the truth--a truth I'd never really intended to share--is pouring out of me at such an alarming rate, I'll burn up on the spot. Still, I press on

"When I go home at night, I feel like there's nothing left. I feel hollow and alone and like I'm fighting an uphill battle of which I'll never see the end. The lab does good work, but it's not enough. We're underfunded and understaffed and MS is an incredibly complicated disease." The familiar anxious anvil-on-my-chest that so frequently turns up when I'm at work makes its first appearance since the afternoon when I drove beyond the city limits. I struggle to speak from underneath that weight. 

"I'm so afraid that after all of this work and progress, we'll fall short of the breakthrough we're working towards because we don't have enough money or a compelling enough case to entice pharmaceutical companies to manufacture our miracle drug." 

I know all of this probably means nothing to Skye--I understand that the inner-workings and the bizarre politicking of medical research is foreign to most people, so I halt that particular train of thought, steering back toward something a little more easily understood. "And I can't even tell my best friend what's going on because he's busy being loved up all the damn time. Even if I could tell Fitz what's going with work, how overwhelmed I am at the lab, I can't tell him what's actually wrong."

I take a deep breath, knowing that the real reason why I'd planned to spend Christmas alone in the woods is about to come tumbling out of my mouth. 

And tumble it does.

"Even a genius-level IQ can't help you figure out how to be happy. Or how to be yourself when it feels like maybe you've been pretending to be someone else your whole life, even around the person who's supposed to know you the best, your 'best friend'," I take a deep breath and continue. 

"I don't know how to tell him--or anyone else, for that matter--that I'm gay. That I won't have the future they've all planned out for me. They always thought that I'd graduate early, with honors--which I did--and then get a Master's Degree--have two of those--and then maybe even a Ph.D--three of those. But the white picket fence and the husband and the kids and the family sport utility vehicles…its just not in the cards for me. I'm afraid they'll all be so disappointed."

"Do you want those things?"

"No. Maybe. Some of them."

"Jemma, look at me."

I do.

"You can have it. All of it, if you want. Except the husband. I mean, you could if you wanted to. You could probably have literally anyone you wanted, but that is, like, 100% not the point," She blushes so deeply that I can see the tint in her cheeks even in the dark. "What I mean is that just because you're gay doesn't mean you can have the kids or the white picket fence or whatever else," she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "You've got the world on a string, Jemma Simmons. You can have anything you want."

The way she looks at me then is so completely different from the way that anybody has ever looked at me before that I have to wonder if anyone in the entire history of my existence on this planet has ever really actually seen me before her.

"I hate to see you unhappy," she says, quietly. "Besides which, your parents know."

I can feel my eyes widen as she says that. "No, they don't. No way."

"They do," she nods.

"How do you know?"

Skye smirks, "You're just like your mom. And you're both about as difficult to read as children's book." She takes my hand in hers. "Trust me, Jem."

Her eyes move back and forth ever so slightly, searching mine for some kind of understanding. In a few seconds, her expression has gone from confident and reassuring to nervous and questioning. 

Those eyes are asking the same question they were asking earlier, and this time, I'm unspeakably grateful that there are no timers or boiling kettles around, because I'm not about to miss it again.   

In an instant, my hands are on her face, my fingers in her hair and my lips on hers, gentle but assured. I feel suddenly as though I've been waiting forever to do this and have only just worked up the nerve.

Just as doubt is creeping in, I feel her hands on my hips, pulling me closer to her. Her lips move slowly, completely in sync with mine and it's as if time stops entirely. There's no dwindling fire, there's no work, there's no pressure, just Skye, holding me close to her, kissing me like it's the only thing she's thought about doing for days.

And then, clearly deciding that I'm still simply too far away, Skye pulls me swiftly onto her lap, circling her arms around me and tracing wide, slow circles on my back. 

My senses are filled with Skye: the scent of her shampoo, her soft hair beneath my fingers, the feeling of being so close to her. 

When she pulls back for air, she leans her forehead against mine and opens her eyes, looking directly into mine.

"Jemma Simmons," she says quietly, "you have no idea how badly I've wanted to do that."

I can feel myself blush and send out a quick, silent thanks that it's dark in here. 

"I think I have an idea," I respond just as quietly, laughing a little nervously, then stifling a yawn.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," Skye apologizes hastily, "I came in here and woke you up--"

"No, no don't apologize, I'm sorry. It was me who dumped all of my problems on you and then sort of, er, pounced on you."

"Jemma, if you ever apologize for kissing me again, you best prepare to spend an entire afternoon doing nothing else."

"Hmm," I smirk, trying to feign thoughtfulness, "somehow, that doesn't sound so bad. I'll keep that in mind."

Skye rolls her eyes, "Cute, Simmons. Very cute." Her tone is sarcastic, but the look on her face tells me that she does, in fact, think it's cute.

I'm about to say as much when Skye shivers and I realise for the first time in minutes just how cold it is outside of the quilt.

"Come on," I say quietly, moving reluctantly from Skye's lap and returning to my side of the bed, "under the covers where it's warm."

Skye does so immediately, pulling the covers up and over her face and settling into the pillow. "Mmmm much better," she says. Or at least, that's what I think she says, considering I can't hear her all that well with the blanket covering her mouth.

A few moments pass before she emerges from under the blankets, "This bed is legendary," she says, spreading her legs out and stretching her back a bit. "I mean, I think it's probably like fifty years old but it is honestly the most comfortable bed  in the state, possibly in all of human history." 

Though my first instinct would be to assume that her standards for comfort are not particularly high, given that she lives in a van, I have to admit that I've never encountered a more comfortable bed. She just might be right. And to think, she almost never experienced it. If I'd let her walk out the door and get back in her van three days ago, we wouldn't be here. I'd be alone, drowning in paperwork and loneliness, enjoying this massive and most comfortable bed alone. 

I can't say I really understand why, exactly, Skye stayed. 

"Why are you here?" I ask, echoing her question from earlier, but meaning something different.

She seems to know this and turns over on her side to face me, her head propped up on her hand against the pillow.

"Because you are," she answers simply. I think I can actually feel my heart swelling so much that it's going to burst any second. "And also because Neal fucked up," she grins.

I laugh at that. "Charming."

She nods. 

"Now," she says, yawning and covering it up with her other hand, "are really going to sleep all the way over there?"

With the way she's looking at me, I don't think I have a choice.

I move closer to Skye, settling into the space between her arm and her body, laying my head on her chest as she puts her arm around my shoulders.

"Goodnight, Skye," I say, suddenly feeling quite tired. 

My eyes are drifting closed and I can feel sleep about to wash over me entirely when I hear Skye's voice once more.

"'Night, Jemma."

-------

December 26th, 6 days before New Year's Day

When morning comes, I wake to find Skye in my arms, her back to me and her body flush against mine as my arm rests lazily on her hip and my hand flat across her stomach, holding her close. 

She's still asleep as the sun rises quietly and steadily lightens the room around us. Unable to resist, I press a gentle kiss to the space where her shoulder meets her neck. 

"Mmm," Skye hums, and I can practically hear the smile on her face. "You sure know how to wake a girl up, Jemma Simmons."

I grin, taking that as a good sign, and press my lips to the patch of skin just below her ear. Then, before I get too carried away, I withdraw my hand and slide away from her until I can roll out of the bed.

"Nooooo," Skye groans, dragging out the last syllable. "Where are you going?"

Shaking my head and smirking, I pull on a pair of thick socks, "To make tea," I answer simply.

She groans again, clearly not impressed.

"And coffee," I add.

"Ah, Jemma: Light of my life," she responds, changing her tune.

"That's what I thought," I grin. "Come out whenever you're ready."

With that, I lean back across the bed, press a final kiss to her cheek and move out into the kitchen to start the kettle.

Less than a minute later, as I'm filling the kettle with water from the sink, I feel hands circling my hips from behind and a chin coming to rest on my shoulder.

"Morning, gorgeous," she whispers, her voice a cheesy, fake southern drawl that, for some reason is kind of doing it for me. She kisses me on the cheek, then moves to one of the cupboards to retrieve the tea and coffee. As she does, I look out the window over the sink, and something odd catches my eye. It takes me a minute to realise what it is, but when I do, it's all I can do to keep from laughing. 

"Skye," I call over my shoulder, "Any idea why there are a dozen or so pieces of firewood strewn in front of the door?" I have a feeling I know exactly why, but Skye's response confirms it.

Skye comes over to the window to look out, but shrugs innocently. "No idea," she says. "Must've been elves."

---

A/N: Aw, yay! You made it! Well done. 

So, next time we'll pick up here, where we left off, the day after Christmas.

It won't be too long. Promise.

The house is silent now, save for the odd 'pop' and 'crackle' from the from the fireplace. Through the trees outside the window I can see the sky beginning to lighten steadily. 

I've always been a morning person, which is why I find myself on the couch in my glasses and a large wool jumper, reading over the guidelines for the grant again before the sun's even fully risen.

I'd slept on the couch last night, after a bit of a debate with Skye. She tried to insist on taking the couch. I think she really thought she might win, too. But a lifetime with my mother, the queen of insistence, trained me well for a battle of wills and I won out relatively easily in the end:

"Skye, I don't want to hear another word about it. I'm taking the couch. That's it. I insist."

"Jemma Simmons, you are not sleeping on the couch. Not when you've let me stay here and fed me dinner and showed me the stars for Christ's sake. I'm sleeping on the couch."

"You're not."

"Oh, but I am."

I huffed in frustration. "Skye, please. I'll be incredibly unhappy if you make me sleep in that bed."

Knowing there was no real response to that, Skye narrowed her eyes at me. "Fine."

I felt triumphant, though my prize is a night on a couch rather than a proper bed. 

"Good. It's settled," I'd said, and set about making my bed on the couch.

Skye, like a normal person, is probably still asleep in the other room.

As if on cue, I hear footsteps from the room behind me.

"You're up early," I say by way of greeting.

"You're thinking so hard it woke me up."

"My apologies. I've had complaints about the 'whirring' sound before, believe it or not."

Skye smirks and heads straight for the coffee.

"I thought that stuff was garbage?" I remark, raising an eyebrow at her over the top rim of my glasses.

"It is garbage. But if I don't have coffee, I will turn into garbage."

"Interesting," I nod, turning back to the papers in my hands. "That sounds like a serious affliction. You may want to get that checked out by a doctor."

Skye chuckles as she scoops the coffee into a filter. "I'll take that under consideration." She turns around on her heel. "Wait, you're a doctor right?"

I mean to answer immediately, but my mouth and brain stop communicating entirely when I look up again and see Skye leaning casually against the counter in a too-large white t-shirt and a pair of square plastic glasses. Her hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves and sits a little disheveled on top of her head. 

"Simmons?" She smirks.

I shake my head and chastise myself silently. "Hmmmm?"

Skye ducks her head and laughs. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Sorry I interrupted you. Read away."

Looking down at the papers in my hand, I decide that reading more of them this morning is pretty much the opposite of what I want to do. Placing them back inside my bag, I get up from the couch and move into the kitchen to get the bread out of the cupboard.

"Toast?" I ask.

Skye nods, "Thanks. Driving back on an empty stomach would be pretty brutal."

Right. I'd almost forgotten that she was leaving.

"Where will you go?" I ask, try to sound nonchalant. 

"Home."

"Which is where?"

Skye hesitates. When I look at her questioningly, she points to the van slowly, clearly embarrassed.

"Skye, no." I must admit that of all the things that I would've assumed Skye to be given her appearance and our interactions thus far (however limited), someone who lives in van would not be one of those things.

"Jemma, seriously, it's all good. I've spent every other Christmas since I was sixteen in that van. It'll be great. Home sweet home." Her voice is bright, but she won't look at me. Her eyes are focused intently on the ground.

"Skye," I put down the toast and take a step closer, ducking slightly to catch her eye until she looks at me. "Please. Stay. I want you here. If that's not too weird." It might be a little weird. We only met yesterday. Afternoon. "Or even if it is, really."

She doesn't answer immediately, but turns to look out the window at her van. 

"No one should have to spend Christmas alone," I add as a last attempt.

Skye looks up, her expression thoughtful.

I think that possibly I'm more nervous than I've ever been, standing in front of her under her scrutinous gaze.

After approximately one whole eternity, her mouth breaks into a small smile. 

"The roads are still pretty bad. And I don't know if I could live with myself, leaving you alone on Christmas."

I can feel my shoulders relax as I laugh. "Brilliant," I grin. "Now about that breakfast…"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm following you into a heavily wooded area by myself in the snow with no cell reception or any neighbors while you're wielding an axe. It's like I've learned nothing from every horror movie ever."

Skye is following close behind me as we make our way into the trees behind the cottage. 

"You can wield the axe if it'll make you feel better," I turn around, offering it to her.

Her smirk tells me that even though I'm quite sure she wasn't actually nervous, she does, in fact, want to carry the axe.

"All yours," I say as I hand it over.

She seems unduly impressed by it and proceeds to hoist it up, resting the middle of the hilt on her shoulder as she holds the handle.

"It's heavy," she observes, nodding appreciatively. 

We go a ways further in silence, Skye marveling every so often as a large clump of snow falls from the high-up branches of the surrounding trees with a satisfying 'thud' on the fresh flakes that cover the ground.

After a few minutes, I see what I'm looking for in the form of a large tree that's fallen on the forest floor. Judging from the damage to the trunk, I'd guess that it was damaged by an animal, then brought down by a relatively recent storm.

"This is the one," I say, stopping.

"Yeah?" Skye looks at it doubtfully.

I nod. "Yeah."

"It's already on the ground."

"Exactly," I nod enthusiastically. "See, it would be very irresponsible of us to just come into the woods and cut down a perfectly healthy tree. This one's fallen due to its age and a particularly rough bit of weather. It's still green, though, and if we take a bit of it for decoration, we won't be leaving too large a footprint in the forest."

I move to the top of the fallen tree and inspect it, trying to decide where to make my cut.

"Have you done this before?" She asks, sounding a little nervous.

I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "Every year," I answer, holding my hand out for the axe. "Simmons family tradition." 

Skye hands me the axe and, with a few sharp swings, I liberate the very top of the tree--a 4ft tall section that's dense with needles.

"Impressive," Skye nods appreciatively as she grabs ahold of the tree at the top to help me lift and carry it back to the cottage. 

"Simmons?" She asks from behind me as we start making our way back through the snow.

"Mmm?"

"How are we going to set this thing up?"

You know, I actually hadn't thought about that.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tree is propped in the corner of the main room, close enough to the fire to be pleasantly illuminated by it, but not so close that we risk setting ablaze.

We don't have a stand or anything remotely stand-like to hold up the tree, but ultimately decided that propping it in the corner would do just fine. And so, we'd sat on the couch and as we ate dinner (nothing special and certainly not very different from last night's, but nevertheless highly complimented by Skye), we remarked several times that it was a very good tree, even if we didn't have lights or ornaments or anything to make it stand up straight.

 Now the dinner dishes have been washed and dried and returned to their appropriate cupboards and we've returned to the couch, lapsing into silence as we focus an undue amount of attention on the fire.

As someone who has plenty of difficulty holding conversations with people she knows quite well, I'm finding it nearly impossible to find the right thing to say to Skye. I'm still trying to come to terms with the fact that she's lived in a van for the better part of twelve years. 

That's a long time to stay in one apartment, let alone one vehicle. 

I would expect that anyone who had lived in a van for that long might be somewhat maladjusted. I would expect that they'd lack things like social skills and proper hygiene and discernible curves and bones and muscles. 

Skye, however, is rather well-adjusted. She's quite fit, picks up on social cues that I've struggled with my entire life, and seems to have a relatively firm grasp on the goings-on of the world. And it must be said that she's certainly a more talented conversationalist than I.

"So, Simmons, where are you from?"

Case and point. A relatively obvious conversation starter, and one that I probably shouldn't have struggled to supply.

"Sheffield. Well, near Sheffield. Very small. You probably haven't heard of it."

"I'm relatively confident that I couldn't point to Sheffield on a map if my life depended on it, so I'd say yeah, you're probably right," she laughs. "What brought you to the United States?"

"School," I shift slightly on the couch, pulling my feet underneath me. "I wanted to study medicine and when Stanford offered me a scholarship…" I trail off, searching for the right way to explain why I left my friends and my family and my home behind, but only manage to come up with, "Well, you don't say 'no' to Stanford. Besides which, my best friend--Fitz--was selected for Stanford's engineering program. It seemed an obvious choice."

"I see. And after school? What brought you to Portland?"

"Work," I say simply. " Fitz was offered a job at PacTech. And, because we'd scarcely been apart since the first science class we took together in primary school, I found a lab here that was willing to give me a shot and let me prove that I'd be ready to run my own lab and conduct my own research within five years." I duck my head and push a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "It only took three. Which is wonderful. I'm furthering the work that I did on my thesis and it's great. I couldn't ask for more, really."

As soon as the words leave my lips, I can feel their bitter aftertaste in my mouth. 

It's true that professionally, I couldn't be happier. I have everything they tell you to hope for in a career in medical research. And my career's really just beginning. I'm incredibly lucky.

But no matter how well the lab's doing or how well the research is going, it doesn't change the fact that at the end of the day, I come home to a dark apartment, leftovers, and reruns. Up until relatively recently, I was over at Fitz's place for take-out and television on a regular basis. Now, though, Fitz was seeing someone and while I was happy for him (if a little irked that he wouldn't tell me who he was seeing), he was spending all of his time with her, which left me with nothing to do most evenings.

"Earth to Jemma," I hear Skye say.

I look up to see Skye smirking and watching me closely.

"You alright?" she asks. "You disappeared for a minute."

"Fine," I plaster on a smile and nod. "Just fine." I shake off the fog of self-pity and re-focus my attention on Skye, who's busy wrapping one of the blankets around her shoulders and settling back into the cushions.

"What about you? Were you born in Portland?

"Nope," Skye shakes her head. "Born in Boston. Shipped off to Albuquerque at thirteen, then Sacramento at fifteen. Got emancipated at sixteen, bought a van and drove until I felt like stopping. Which wasn't all that far, because I ended up in Portland. Been living here in the van ever since."

When she says it like that, I'm quite taken aback.

"How do you do it?" I ask.

"Do what?"

"Live in a van. How are you so…"

"Clean?" she smirks.

I nod and feel my cheeks warming. 

"I get that a lot," she laughs. "Pretty simple, really. I joined a gym. Work out early in the mornings, shower and get dressed at the gym, go to work, get take-out, go to sleep in the van and do it all over again."

Fascinating.

"What about brushing your teeth?"

Skye looks taken aback, then laughs heartily. "That's an incredibly specific question, Jemma Simmons. Should've expected no less from a no-doubt very detail-oriented scientist," she nudges my knee with hers and I try really hard to keep my focus on what she's saying. "I use the locker room at the gym. 24-hour unlimited access. Probably not really what they'd intended the membership might be used for, but the staff know me. It works out very well, actually."

"Unlimited access gym membership," I nod. "Isn't that really…expensive?"

I cringe at how tactless such a question is once it's out of my mouth.

"Sorry," I back peddle, "I didn't mean--"

"It's totally fine, Simmons," Skye smiles kindly. "And yeah, it is. But it's not as expensive as rent."

She has a very good point there.

"You see," she continues, "a lot of people confuse living in a van with being homeless. I'm not homeless. I have a job. Or jobs. I do consulting and freelance work, but it's steady and quite lucrative, if we're being honest. It's not that I couldn't afford an apartment," she adjusts the blanket so that it covers her feet, "it's that I don't want one."

I wish I could say that I understand, but I'm afraid I don't. Theoretically, I get it. Paying rent is no fun. But I can't imagine that the savings really outweigh the challenges of living in a van. For over ten years.

"You don't get it," she smirks, watching me closely.

Though I don't want to be impolite, I have to admit that I don't, in fact, 'get it'. 

"Not really, no."

"Commitment issues, I guess," she shrugs. "I don't like being tied down. I get panicky when I hear words like 'lease' and 'credit check' and 'utilities'," she says the words laboriously, as if to illustrate her point. "I have everything I need in the van. I built a little electrical set-up, hacked my way into some wi-fi, even managed to get a few monitors mounted on the side panels. Never have to worry about making rent or paying on time."

When she says it like that, it makes perfect sense, actually. A bit odd, sure. Definitely not for everyone. But she hardly seems worse off for it. It's about the most massively interesting thing I've heard from another human in a very long time.

"So," I ask, "you wanted to rent the cabin to…?"

"Spread out a little, I guess. I don't mind the van, but sometime's it's nice to stay someplace where there's a couch and a bed and a coffee maker." She looks around the room, seemingly appreciating its size compared to her home on four wheels. "The fireplace and the company make for nice bonuses, though," she winks. 

I can feel myself blushing as I turn my attention toward my hands, which are clasped in my lap. 

"Not to mention the tree," Skye continues. Her voice is amused and I get the distinct impression that she's acutely aware of the effect she has on me. "My first Christmas tree," she looks at the tree in the corner and sighs wistfully for comedic effect.

I'd probably laugh if I wasn't absolutely shocked to hell.

I know she didn't exactly have a blissful childhood, but this admission still comes as a surprise. My family's had a real tree every year since my older brother was born. Before I was even old enough to walk, we went to a Christmas tree farm and cut our own tree and decorated it with hundreds upon hundreds of lights and handmade ornaments. I can scarcely imagine one Christmas without a tree, let alone a lifetime of them. I'm suddenly quite happy that we went to the trouble of getting the tree, but equally sad that it isn't much. It's only a little over four feet and we don't have any lights or ornaments. Not even a popcorn string or candy canes.

"Simmons, I can hear you being sad from over here," Skye sits up and scoots a bit closer to me, bumping my shoulder with hers. "Listen, it's great just not spending Christmas alone this year. It's the best gift I've had in…well, ever." She tosses part of another blanket over our laps and adjusts the one around her shoulders slightly. "So thank you, Jemma."

I don't know quite what to say to that, but I manage to smile and nod. 

"Good. Now," she switches gears, leaning back into the couch and yawning a bit, "tell me about your family. Spare no detail. What would you be doing with them if you were home?"

And so, I do. I tell her about my brother and my mum and dad. I tell her about our tree and my nan's shortbread and my grandpa's on-going battle with a fox that keeps eating vegetables from his garden. I tell her about our house and our dog and the way my dad sings Christmas carols when he's had just a little too much brandy. 

She listens intently and with amusement, nodding and laughing, asking questions here and there. In that moment, with her next to me and the fire crackling steadily and our goofy little tree propped up in the corner, I'm so very glad that I'm not alone this Christmas. 

This is my first Christmas alone.

Normally, Christmas is my favorite time of year. I love the colours, the lights, the music, the snow, the trees, the shops, the food. I love all of it.

But this year, I'm spending Christmas by myself for the first time in life. And somehow, it doesn't feel much like Christmas at all.

Eleven months out of the year, I love my job. Truly, I do. I have my own lab, I'm working on research that I'm passionate about and getting paid quite handsomely to do it. I can't complain. I have so much and there are so very many people who have so little by comparison. I'm very lucky, and I feel a bit ashamed for feeling sorry for myself during the holidays whilst some people--some children, even--won't have a warm place to sleep or presents to open. There are too many kids who already know that Santa isn't real and are probably beginning to believe that hope isn't very real either. 

Christmas is a difficult time, and the fact that I have to spend it alone doesn't even register as a minor blip on the radar of misfortune and holiday tragedy. And really, that's why I did what I did. 

You see, we're in the midst of a major breakthrough at the lab and honestly, I can't leave the research for two and half weeks to join my parents for Christmas in the UK. 

They're going down to Cornwall to spend the holidays with my nan, as they do every year. And usually, I would be right there with them, taking some much needed time off from a job that is as stressful as it is rewarding. 

This year, though, I can't leave. There's too much to do at the lab and I'm working on finishing a grant proposal that's due the first week of January. Leaving the country would only be a distraction and my team really needs the equipment that the money from this grant could purchase. 

So, instead, I donated the money I'd set aside for a plane ticket to the nearest women and children's shelter.

Before I had a chance to change my mind, I gave the money away and used my Christmas bonus to book a little rental cottage about eighty miles from the city, in the mountains. From what I could tell from the website, the cottage is secluded and quiet; nothing around but trees and rocks for miles and miles. It's the perfect place to unwind, knock out a killer grant proposal, and enjoy a quiet holiday.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

After struggling a bit with the lockbox to liberate the key to the cottage, I unlock the front door and drop my duffel, box of relevant lab documents, and three bags of groceries unceremoniously on the floor inside the door.

I'm glad I didn't arrive any later; the light snowfall has given way to big, wet, heavy flakes that are quickly coating the trees and the road and my windshield.

Relieved to be inside and out of the cold, I shrug off my coat, and get to work unloading the groceries into the cupboards and the fridge in the small kitchen. 

The cottage is nearly perfect. While it's certainly not luxe, it's homey and charming: there's a fireplace in the far corner of the main room, the couch is clean but well-loved and equipped with several knit blankets and what looks like a handmade quilt, and the bedroom contains the most divine-looking queen-sized bed I've ever seen.

Best of all, when I stand still, it's completely silent.

Or at least, it was the first time I did it.

I frown as I hear the sound of snow crunching beneath tires and the dull purr of an engine outside. 

There isn't another house around for miles. No one should have any reasons to come up the long driveway from the main road.

And yet, as I look out the window by the door, there's a large, blue, dented van pulling up behind my aging station wagon. 

My confusion turns to fear as I remember exactly where I am: eighty miles form the nearest police station or hospital and certainly out of earshot of any neighbors. Without a second thought, I wrench open a drawer near the sink and root around hurriedly before pulling out the largest piece of cutlery: a hunting knife with an eight-and-a-half inch blade. 

Immediately, I feel a little ridiculous. I've never really wielded a weapon in my entire life. If push came to shove, I'm not even sure I could use it if I need to. 

I can feel my palm beginning to sweat around the hilt of the blade as I watch the van, waiting it's driver to figure out that he's come to the wrong place and leave.

After what feels like an hour, the driver-side door opens and closes with a clumsy metallic 'clank'. I can't see anyone from my vantage point, but a moment later, a figure emerges from behind the van.

Wearing large snow boots, tattered jeans, and a much too-large black coat is a girl, probably about my age. Her head's covered with a worn wool cap and she blows warm air into her gloveless hands as she makes her way towards the cottage with a smallish hiking pack on her back.

Curious but no longer feeling threatened, I tug on my own boots and quickly step outside. I squint against the bright white of the falling snow and pull my sweater tighter around me.

"Um, hey there," the girl says, shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat as she continues in my direction. "You're not Neal by any chance, are you?" she asks doubtfully. 

"No," I shake my head. "He's not around. He went to Panama for the holidays," I explain, repeating what Neal had sent to me in the e-mail in which he confirmed my stay here. "Can I help you with something?"

The girl looks puzzled. "Right. I remember him saying something about that." She reaches into her back pocket and withdraws a piece of folded paper. "I have a reservation at the cottage. Are you a friend of Neal's?"

"Um, no. Not exactly. I've, er, also got a reservation here. For the week."

The girl stops short at that. "Really? This is number 4, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Well," she nods, "Fuck."

"Indeed," I agree with a nervous laugh. "Why don't you, um, come inside? It's freezing out here. We can figure it out where it's warm."

She nods again and follows me inside the cottage.

"Here, let me take your bag," I offer once we're inside. 

Though she looks a little hesitant at first, she shrugs off the bag and hands it to me. "Thanks," she says as she slips out of the boots and coat and hat. She runs a hand through her hair, trying to fix the places where it's been flattened by her cap. 

When she turns to look at me, it's relatively easy to tell that even with the flattened hair and the slightly suspicious gaze and the tattered jeans, she's gorgeous.

I was going to offer he tea or coffee or something warm, but the words die in my throat as she stoops to untie her boots and her hair--still covered in a few snowflakes--forms a curtain around her face. 

Once free from her winter gear, she takes a few steps into the cottage and offers her hand. 

"I'm Skye."

I take her hand and respond, "Jemma Simmons."

Skye nods, but doesn't supply a last name. She does, however notice the knife that I'd forgotten I was carrying.

"Is this about to get very Deliverance?" She nods towards the knife.

"Deliverance?"

"Yeah. The movie. Deliverance. Haven't you seen it?"

I shake my head, "Can't say that I have." 

"Probably for the best." She looks around the main room. "Nice place, isn't it?"

"Very," I agree. I'm not totally sure what else to say. 

"Nice as it is," Skye begins, saving me the trouble of thinking of something to fill up the silence, "it appears that we've been double-booked, Jemma Simmons." Skye pulls the folded paper out of her pocket once more and hands it to me.

I open it and take a look. It's her booking confirmation from Neal: 12/22-1/2, Cottage #4. Same as mine. 

"It appears we have indeed," I nod, handing the paper back to her and reaching for my cell phone. "I'll just give Neal a call. I'm sure he can sort this out."

As soon as I've dialed the number, though, I remember that he's in Panama. 

Neal still has a flip phone, so even if he could swap the SIM card or switch to a roaming network, I'm confident that he wouldn't bother.

Sure enough, it goes straight to voicemail.

"Or…not," I sigh and hang up. 

"It's no problem," Skye says quickly. "I'll call Neal when he gets back and shake him down for an extra few nights another time. If I can trouble you for a cup of the coffee that I know Neal keeps around for the ride back down, I'll be out of your way so you enjoy the holidays."

I'm a little taken aback by the offer--truthfully, I hadn't expected her to give up her claim to the cottage so easily. Even if she was just planning to spend the holidays by herself in a cottage, I've no doubt ruined those plans now. And so, without much thought at all, I hear myself saying:

"No, absolutely not."

Maybe it's because the spirit of Christmas has jumped out and grabbed hold of me or maybe (more likely) it's because I really don't want to spend Christmas alone, but I'm not about to let her get back in that van and drive back down the mountain. 

"The weather's turning to shit," I explain, "and besides which, your reservation's just as valid as mine. Who's to say I shouldn't be the one to leave?"

"You were here first."

"Only by five minutes."

"Do you want to leave?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, then it's settled," Skye begins tugging on her boots, "I'll leave you to it. I don't mind. Really."

I debate for a moment whether or not to stop her once more. Surely I don't want to make her uncomfortable by insisting that she stay. She's a stranger, after all. It would probably be weird. 

I glance out the window once more and see that there's a full-tilt snowstorm on now. The flakes are so dense that I can hardly see the cars in the drive, which is only sixty or so feet from the window. To make matters worse, night is falling and it's bound to be dark within the hour.

"Stay."

"What?"

"Stay," I repeat, though I know she heard me clearly the first time.

"Jemma, honestly, I don't mind at all. You're all set up here. It's no problem."

"It's snowing. It's not going to stop anytime soon, and it's getting dark. You're not about to drive down that road. The plows won't come this far up the highway until morning at the earliest. Just stay tonight. Until the weather clears up."

Skye turns to look out the window for herself, as though she thinks perhaps I made up the snow. 

Upon seeing that I did no such thing, she blows out a sigh. 

"You're right. The tires on the van are shot to hell as it is. I've been putting off getting new ones. Stupid."

My shoulders relax as I let go of a bit of tension that I hadn't realised I was holding.

"Excellent. Now how about that coffee?"

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"This coffee is garbage."

I look up from my cup to see Skye swirling the coffee in her mug with an expression that's equal parts disgust and amusement. She's not wrong, certainly. When I took a sip of the coffee just moments before, I'd thought the same. But, given that I almost never drink coffee, I thought that perhaps it was just me.

"I'm sorry," I apologize quickly. "I don't make coffee much. More of a tea person, I guess."

Skye looks up at me and smirks. "How very stereotypical of you, Jemma Simmons."

I can feel my cheeks warming when as she says my full name. 

"And it's definitely not your fault. It's Neal's. The coffee's old. And beyond that, it's Maxwell House. We were doomed from the start, I'd say."

I chuckle and nod, but truthfully I'm not exactly sure what Maxwell House is.

"So, Simmons, what brings you up to a cottage in the middle of nowhere for the holidays? Why aren't you with family?"

Taking a sip of coffee that I really don't want, I consider my answer. When I think about the actual reason, it seems a little pathetic. Like it's not something I want to admit out loud. 

But, unfortunately, I've never been any good at lying, so the truth will have to do.

"I came up here to work," I answer quietly, a little embarrassed. "I have a grant proposal that's due the first week of January. It's a huge grant and my team needs it. I thought a little peace and quiet might help whilst everyone's away for the holidays. Give me a chance to focus, you know?"

Skye nods, but narrows her eyes slightly like she's looking for something.

"Right. Now the real reason."

"What?"

"What's the real reason?"

"That is the real reason."

"Maybe. I don't think so, though. Who are you avoiding?"

"No one."

"Sure. So you don't have anyone who'll be missing you this Christmas? No one who asked you to spend the holidays with them?"

My parents did ask. Several times. They offered plane tickets. They offered to come here. I'd even had a few invitations from work. And then there was Fitz. But none of it felt quite right. I just wanted to be alone. I couldn't say exactly why.

When I don't have an immediate answer, Skye pushes a little more.

"No one? No…boyfriend?"

I snort and shake my head firmly, "Not bloody likely."

"I see. Friends? Family?"

"They asked, I suppose. But leaving the country for Christmas with my family wasn't exactly in the cards this year. There's a lot going on at work. And I don't think they'd much enjoy a Christmas here, in my tiny apartment in the city. A few friends asked, but they're not really the kind of friends you say yes to. They were just asking to be polite, I think."

I shut up after that, feeling uncomfortable having talked about myself far more than I'm accustomed to.

"What about you? No family Christmas for you?"

"Don't think I didn't notice that you didn't answer the question, Simmons. I'll let it slide, but don't think I won't ask again," she smirks at me. "As for me, no family to spend Christmas with. I finished a job in town, collected my check and decided to treat myself to a cozy Christmas for one."

"No family?"

"Not that I know of. Foster kid."

I try to hide my surprise and suddenly feel quite badly for asking. "Sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"Don't be. Not at all, Jemma Simmons. It's who I am. I stopped feeling badly about it a long time ago." 

Not knowing what else to say, I nod lamely and clumsily steer away from that particular topic of conversation. 

"So, um, you said you finished a job in town. What do you do?"

Skye shrugs, "Computer stuff, mostly. You? You said work's crazy right now--what's 'work' for you?"

I shrug, mirroring Skye's response. "Science stuff, mostly."

She laughs at that. "I see. Like chemistry stuff or Manhattan Project-y stuff."

"Neither," I chuckle, "I work in medical research. Specifically, I'm working on highly experimental and theoretical research for the treatment of MS. Multiple Sclerosis."

I would elaborate, but I've learned that anything I say after the 'short explanation' is usually difficult for anyone not in the medical research community to follow.

Skye nods and takes another sip of coffee, almost grimacing. Her eyes are focused out the window and a little distant.

"That bad?"

"What?" Skye asks, turning back to me, her expression one of confusion.

"The coffee. You look miserable. If you'd rather, I've got plenty of tea."

"Oh, uh, no, that's okay," she waves my offer away. "You hungry? I'm just going to go get some stuff from the van. I'll be right back."

And before I can say another word, Skye's got her boots and coat on and is out the door, trudging toward the van in the snow.

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"So, we've got two bags of rice, three boxes of spaghetti, a dozen peppers, nine potatoes, twelve tomatoes, four onions, three pounds of chicken, 2 heads of garlic, a bottle of olive oil, 450 grams of butter, fourteen bananas, a quart of yoghurt, two boxes of granola, two loaves of bread, one jar of blueberry jam and you're…stunning contribution: twelve frozen pizzas."

"Right-o. One for each day and an extra for luck," Skye winks.

"Fascinating. May I just ask how on earth are you still alive, eating like this?"

"I don't, usually," Skye shrugs, "I eat take out most of the time. Not real big on cooking."

"I see. Well, I think we've got plenty of food."

"Uh, yeah, I think so. You're pretty prepared."

I nod, "Big on worst-case scenarios, me."

"As evidenced by the fact that you also brought bear spray, an axe, a case of road flares, and roughly fourteen--what do you call them? Jumpers?"

"Hey, you never know what might come in handy," I defend. "Besides which, that's just the stuff that's inside. You should see the stuff that's still in the station wagon." 

I open the cupboard by the cooker and take out the fry pan and a sauce pan and set to work.

"Can't wait," she smirks. "Tell me what I can do to help. I'm useless at cooking, but I can chop things with relative competence."

"Oh, that would be brilliant. If you could julienne one of the peppers, I think we'll be in business."

I run the water to boil for the pasta, but when I turn back around, Skye is looking at me like I've told her to sacrifice a goat.

"Julienne?" she asks. "Sorry, Simmons. I'm a long way from Top Chef."

I try to hide my smirk, but fail miserably. "No, no. My fault. That was a bit obtuse. Here," I take the knife from her gently and demonstrate with a few slices. "Just strips, see?" I hand her back the knife.

"You learn something new everyday," she chuckles, then goes to work finishing the pepper.

As the water's coming to a boil, Skye speaks up again.

"Hey, Jemma?"

"Mmm?"

"I don't suppose in all of your survivalist training you looked up how to start a fire on the Internet? It's getting a bit dark in here."

I looked up and sure enough, she was right. In a matter of minutes, it had darkened considerably outside and the cottage, for all its rustic charm, was equipped with candles and fireplaces instead of electric lights.

"Of course I did. Shall we light the fireplace?"

"I certainly wouldn't be opposed. It's getting a little chilly. You wouldn't happen to have any flint or magnesium or whatever on hand, would you?"

"Well, yes. But for the purposes of lighting a fireplace indoors, I recommend the tried-and-true matches method."

Skye laughs, suddenly embarrassed for not coming to the obvious conclusion in the first place. "Right. Matches. What would I do without you, Jemma Simmons?"

"Freeze to death in the dark, it would seem."

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The fire's roaring, the food's ready, and the cottage is steadily warming up. 

"Simmons, this is amazing."

Skye sits on the couch next to the armchair where I'm seated and closes her eyes dramatically as she chews. 

"Seriously. Possibly some of the best food I've ever had."

"Skye, it's just pasta and some peppers and garlic."

I'm flattered, but more than anything, I feel a bit sad. I get the impression that Skye's never really had meal prepared for her. At least, not a meal that didn't come out of a box or a bag or frozen plastic tray. 

"Doesn't matter. It's incredible."

"Thank you, Skye. That's very kind of you."

She grins at me, then continues to eat with the enthusiasm of someone coming off of a three day juice cleanse.

When she's finished, she sets her plate on the coffee table and settles contently into the couch cushions. I follow suit and sit back in the chair. I nearly start to nod off when Skye says my name.

"Simmons?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you. For the food. And for letting me stay here tonight. It's really…Well, you didn't have to. I appreciate it."

When I open my eyes, I can't stop the smile that's tugging at the corners of my mouth. Skye is sprawled on the couch and yawning. 

"Happy to have you, Skye. I'm glad you stayed. The weather really is quite bad."

We both look out the window, but see nothing. There are no lights around for miles. It's profoundly dark here. 

I get up from the chair and move to open the door a crack to see if it's still snowing.

Immediately, cold air blows inside, but I can see that the snow's let up for the time being. Looking up, there's an apparent break in the clouds as well.

I shut the door again and kneel to open my duffel. When I find the jumper I'm looking for I toss it over the couch, where it lands on Skye's lap. 

"Come on, Skye. There's something you need to see."

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"Simmons, it is literally freezing out here."

"I know, Skye. That's what makes it snow and not rain."

"Smart-ass."

"Not my fault you use 'literally' a bit liberally."

Before she can respond, Skye trips in the snow and falls silently, save for her very eloquent exclamation of "Fuck!"

I turn around and find her on her knees elbow-deep in fresh white powder. 

With a few large steps I'm by her side, helping her up and brushing off her jacket. 

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. Just clumsy. Very glad that you had those extra gloves, though."

"A-ha. A fan of the preparedness now, are we?"

"Oh, I've been a fan since the matches vs. flint incident."

"Right. Glad you're seeing the light."

"Was that a pun? Because it is, like, the freaky kind of dark out here."

"That's kind of the point." I zip my coat up a little higher. "Look up," I say, pointing. 

She does and a moment later, I hear her breathe out a soft "whoa".

"This far from the city, the light pollution isn't quite so bad. And really, winter's the best time to see the really stars in the Northern Hemisphere. We're facing the outer arms of the Milky Way, so what we're seeing are some truly deep-space stars. Ones far beyond our galaxy. In the summer, we're facing the center of the Milky Way and, while there are more stars visible to the naked eye during that time, they're smaller. Not to mention the interference of galactic dust towards the center of our galaxy."

"Is that a constellation?"

Skye points vaguely in the direction of her 1 o'clock.

I look up in that direction.

"The sort of zig-zag line of brighter stars?"

"Yeah."

"That's Cassiopeia."

"Huh. What's it supposed to be? A snake?"

I smile at that. It certainly looks like it should be a snake. "Believe it or not, it's Queen Cassiopeia sitting on her throne."

Skye looks at me in mild disbelief and amusement. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"I'll be damned. That's a cautionary tale for opium right there."

"It is indeed," I laugh. 

"What about that one?" She points a little lower and to her left. 

"Hmmm. Part of Taurus. See how the two bright stars at your 10 o'clock are relatively close together?"

"I think so."

"And there's a bright cluster in the middle?"

"Um…possibly? Oh wait, no. Yeah, I see them now."

"Then a line of stars below the cluster?"

"Er, no. Not at all."

I step closer to her to get a better look from her vantage point. 

"Just there," I say, pointing over her shoulder and tracing the line with my gloved finger.

"Oh yeah. I think I see them. It kind of looks like a 'Y' with a tail."

"Exactly!" I say excitedly, possibly letting a little bit too much of my true nerd nature show.

"And that's Taurus? The bull?"

"I'm afraid so."

Skye looks at me and smiles. "The Greeks were fucking crazy."

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