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Double-Booked, Part IV (Holiday Skimmons, Christmas Day Edition)

A/N: Here it is! Skimmons Christmas Day! If you only read one chapter of this story, this is probably the one to read.

And yes, I know I'm the worst. I promised this on the actual Christmas and I failed you because I'm a grade A ninnymuggins. And I'm super duper sorry.

It happened because I had to write beyond this part to reconcile some THINGS that are happening later and I didn't want to publish and then change my mind and rewrite and have it not make any sense. I know, excuses.

BUT, here it is. It's also very long/full of Skimmons.

And my good gravy I really hope you like it.

If you do, drop me a line, inbox me, leave some feedback or comments or reviews or reblogs or whatever because I love hearing from you. You've all been so dang kind and it is the best thing in the world. I love you all to pieces and bits.

Enough chit chat. Enjoy! <3

Oh, and if you want to find it on AO3, you can do that HERE . For FF.net, head HERE

----

Part IV

December 25th, Christmas Day

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.

Until then, lovelies <3

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