disclaimed
...
So, Skye knows that she works weird fucking hours, okay. She's not denying that. And she knows that weird fucking hours means you come home to some weird things. However, since she and Miles broke up there's been less and less weird things to come home to; a welcome change ever since she came home at three am to find a naked hippie sitting on her antique rug, drinking her beer. But—
weird things.
She's found people passed out drunk against her door and had to shove them to the side and get in the door before they woke and started to yell. She once met a troubadour, attempting to seduce his estranged lover but having the wrong address in mind. Lots of weird shit, right?
So when she walks in one night, two seventeen on a Wednesday morning, she's startled by the cat that's sitting on the back of her couch, meowing as soon as the door is open. But not scared out of her mind. The upside to weird shit, she figures. But, still—
she does not own a cat. She has never owned a cat. Why the hell is there a cat in her apartment? "Hi, kitty?"
The cat meows.
It's two in the morning.
Skye meows back. Because what the hell, right?
"Um." A lot of thoughts race through her head, at that moment. A sampling; has she been adopted by this cat? Is this her spirit animal? Is this the beginning of her Potteresque journey of self-discovery? What do cats eat, anyway?
That's when she notices the collar. "Oh, so you're a runaway kitty," she says, to no one in particular. Maybe she's talking to the cat. It is two am.
She drops her bag at the door, toeing off her boots and padding towards the cat. Can cats sense fear? The cat eyes her suspiciously, and Skye raises her hands. She's surrendering to a cat. What the fuck?
"Okay, kitty, I'm just going to look at your tag here and—."
So she's expecting a fight. It's not every day that a cat appears in her apartment. This could be a Hulk Cat. Who knows?
The cat rubs its head against her hand, baring its neck to her trustingly. "Leopold," Skye reads. That's a weird fucking name for a cat. There's a phone number listed below the name, and—"Jemma Simmons."
Fun.
She gets to call Jemma Simmons at two am and tell her that she has her cat. That doesn't sound too kidnappy, does it?
Leopold decides he's done with this shit, and jumps down, skittering into her kitchen, meowing loudly. Skye starts to follow, but returns to her bag first. Phone. A phone would probably help to call the owner, yeah?
She dials as she walks. Leopold is on her counter, sniffing at the pizza she must've let out. Is pepperoni dangerous for cats? She tugs it away from him, kicking open the cabinet and dumping it.
She presses her phone between her shoulder and her ear and rummages around her pantry for tuna. She has to have bought tuna. There was a storm warning last month—is she really this unprepared for natural disaster? She's going to starve in the apocalypse.
There's no tuna, but there is canned chicken, which'll have to do.
"Hullo?"
"Jesus f—," she squeaks, jumping. She manages to hold onto the can, but the phone tumbles to the ground. It'd been so long since she dialed, she'd forgotten that she was calling anyone. She picks it up mid-rant.
"—two am; I have classes tomorrow morning! This is utterly—."
British. Leopold's owner is British.
She mouths typical at the cat as he cleans himself. "Is this Jemma Simmons?" she interrupts.
"Yes." Jemma Simmons sounds pissed as fuck.
"I have your cat. Leopold?"
"What? That's impossible, he's right—oh." There's rustling; some static. She must be getting up. Leopold meows. "He—how do you have my cat?"
Oh, god, she must think that Skye is some sort of catnapper. Or stalker. Jesus fuck. "I'm not really sure? I just got home, and he was on my couch."
Jemma Simmons groans, "He must've gone off the balcony. Fiddlesticks." Skye has to literally restrain herself. She takes the phone away from her ear for a moment to gasp. Who says fiddlesticks?
"Could I meet you somewhere? To collect him?"
"Oh, um—I could just bring him home? It's really no problem."
"Oh, that's so kind." Jemma Simmons (Skye finds the full name appropriate, considering the accent, the Fiddlesticks, and the fact that her cat is named Leopold) rattles off her address, and, as Skye begins to say, "Okay, Leopold'll be home soon," she realizes that Jemma Simmons lives down the hall.
"I'm 5C," she blurts out. "I'll be right over."
Jemma Simmons continues to speak, but Skye is more worried about wrangling the cat. Leopold, it turns out, is a ragdoll. He's purring like crazy. And he's warm. So warm. Skye thinks she may be lonelier than she thought. Should she get a cat? She should get a cat.
On her way out, she sort of forgets shoes, but the hallway is carpeted and not terrible, so what the hell, she's up on her immunizations. 5H's door swings open just as she approaches and—
fuck. Jemma Simmons is cute. Frickity—
"Leopold!" Jemma Simmons whispers angrily, glaring at the cat. "Why did you escape?"
Goddamn—
her accent is even cute. Skye is—
she's not at a loss for words, per se, but just a bit startled by the ridiculous amount of attraction she is feeling for her British neighbor that, until tonight, she did not know existed. How did she not know that Jemma Simmons existed?
Leopold meows.
Right. Cat. Owner.
Skye holds him out abruptly, having only enough sense to remember that you're supposed to support cats' legs when you hold them? Right?
"Leo's a sweet cat," she stutters. Jesus christ—stuttering? Really?
Get it together, Skye.
"Anyway—," this is going on for too long. Jemma Simmons takes the cat. She looks—
not cute, Skye. Not. Cute.
"I'm so sorry for this, really," Jemma Simmons apologizes, eyes remarkably kind for someone that just woke up three minutes ago. "He's usually a great cat, you know, no trouble—."
"It was no problem, just a little scare—."
"Really though, thank you so much for returning him, ah—?"
Oh. She's asking for her name. She's asking for your name, stupid.
"Oh, um—I'm Skye."
Jemma Simmons offers her hand. "Jemma," she states, smiling. Skye shakes Jemma Simmons's hand. This is—she's too tired for this.
"I should probably, ah, sleep," Skye jerks her thumb down the hall.
"Right. Um, thanks, again."
This is awkward. Terrible. Skye thinks she mutters goodnight as she turns on her heel and rushes down the hall. She doesn't hear the door close until she's nearly back to her apartment.
Grinning, she slips inside the door.
...
She buys some tuna. Not because—
she doesn't want that cat to return. But if he does, she should be at least a little prepared.
...
Leopold greets her at the door this time.
"Shi—fuck," Skye shrieks, unnerved by the sensation of something soft and warm winding around her ankles. "Leo!" Leopold meows at her, tilts his head to the side. "Do you want food?"
"Meow."
"Does your mommy not feed you?"
"Meow meow."
It's three am. Shit. This isn't—
she shouldn't have had that shot of tequila that Trip offered her at the end of her shift. Or the second one. It's obviously making her communicate with the cat that seems to have adopted her as a second owner.
Heaving a sigh, Skye drops her shit on the couch, because she's going to have to deal with this, right? That's the nice, neighborly thing to do? Maybe if she—
"I bought tuna," she says.
"Meow."
"Cool."
Leopold winds around her ankles and trots into her kitchen, jumping up onto her counter. It's like he fucking owns the place. Jemma Simmons is going to have an early wakeup call again, and Skye is only half sorry for her. The other half of her is growing giddy at the thought of seeing her—
which is dumb, very dumb, stop it, you dummy.
Skye doesn't have any clean dishes, currently, but she has paper towels, so she drains the tuna as good as she can get it and dishes out some food for the cat that grows ever more impatient. Leopold wolfs it down and reaches out to paw at her arm, meowing impertinently.
"More?"
"Meow."
Might as well. She dumps the rest of the can onto the towel. She should save Jemma Simmons's number. She should. Her phone is in her back pocket (against work policy, shhh), so it's very easy to get a look at Leopold's tag and dial.
"Mmph." Jemma Simmons does not sound very awake.
"Jemma Si—." Skye falters. It would sound really weird to call the girl by her full name, outside of her own mind. "It's Skye? Leopold found his way into my apartment again."
"What?"
"Your cat?"
"No, yes, sorry—Fitz, shut up—I'm so sorry about this, I have to leave the balcony open for the litter box and—."
"I'll just bring him back again?"
There is a yelp in the background—a distinctly Scottish, very male yelp. Shit—"Yeah, that would be fantastic! Thank you so much, Skye, really."
"It's no problem."
She's straight. And if not straight, then relationshipped. She's not—
she wasn't expecting anything of this. Her life is not a romantic comedy, but—
goddamn, she's going to feel guilty for the giddiness she's feeling, isn't she?
After hanging up, Leo all but jumps into her arms, ready to return to his home. Skye pets him, padding out into the hallway. 5D, 5E, 5F… Jemma Simmons opens the door before she even gets there. She must've been waiting at the peephole. Before she even speaks—
"Is this your cat girl?" A curly haired man—boy, really, he's like twelve—appears behind Jemma Simmons, peering over her shoulder, eyeing Skye in interest.
Jemma Simmons gasps, "Fitz!"
"What?"
U wot, m8? Fuck, no, get it together Skye.
"She's a girl, with your cat, it's a logical conclusion—."
"Just, shh." Jemma Simmons reaches back to cover his mouth, and Skye is utterly screwed. But she can't—
she smiles when Jemma Simmons looks at her, because, hello, a cute British girl, straight or not, taken or otherwise, is still a cute British girl, smiling in an exasperated kind of way right at Skye.
"I fed him a little tuna," Skye states, handing over the ball of fluff as nicely as she can. "Technically a whole can. He was kind of demanding."
The guy—Fitz, grins and mumbles something that sounds like, "That's my boy." Leopold is probably their tester baby. Shit.
"Oh," Jemma Simmons exclaims, "thank you! That's so kind of you."
"No problem." Apparently nothing is a problem. She starts to back away. "Have a nice night," Skye says, summoning any leftover pleasantness left in her.
Jemma Simmons doesn't hear her, but then again, Skye is acting a bit like a petulant child and speaking very, very quietly. Jemma Simmons is too busy with her tester baby and her Scottish man-boy, anyway.
...
Skye resigns herself to it, that night, in her blanket burrito because she may have forgotten to call the super about the heat (she is an adult okay, she is, really—just a forgetful one). Jemma Simmons is not meant for her, and that's super fine, because she's only ever met the girl twice, in the middle of the night, to return her cat. They're neighbors. They'll be good neighbors.
(She tries very hard not to think of Jemma Simmons's face.)
(She fails. Epically.)
...
Jemma Simmons has started saying hi to her in the halls, which is sweet. Sometimes they bump into each other by the mailboxes, and Skye's still wondering how she didn't know Jemma Simmons existed until three weeks ago. They've—
Skye thinks they might be friends? Bonded over an errant cat and all.
So, it's been three weeks, some bit of friendship formed, and Skye has saved Jemma Simmons's number into her phone, and she's not hoping that Leo will find his way into her apartment, but it's a good excuse to talk to Jemma Simmons, especially when they seem to exist on extremely different schedules.
Skye once stumbled out to accept a package at eight in the morning once, and Jemma Simmons was on her way out, looking for too awake. Skye had half-heartedly rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, smiling blearily at her as she scrawled her name on the clipboard, missing the signature line by a good three inches. The UPS guy smiled at Skye knowingly and winked conspiratorially, and he seemed just a bit too happy without knowing the situation, so Skye grabbed her package and retreated. But—
okay, so she isn't coming back from work tonight. She had the night off so the obvious thing to do was barhop with Grant and Trip, right? That's the natural thing to do.
And so they were all a bit trashed—Grant was the only one clear headed enough to dial a cab, and he also was clear enough to insist on walking Skye to the elevator, but she's kind of glad he didn't insist on coming up and seeing her to the door, because she opens it to find Leo sprawled out in her doorway, and she sort of shrieks.
Just a little, but it was enough of an overreaction that she would have been completely embarrassed if Grant had been there to witness it. Especially since he would have probably said something along the lines of, "Silly Skye, it is just a small fluffy creature! Small fluffy creatures are my specialty, as I am a fluffy creature whisperer."
She realizes that she is narrating this imaginary conversation out loud in a ridiculous low voice with the door open to the hallway, and hastily closes it, stepping over the cat carefully. Which is a lot to ask of her in her inebriated state, really. As it is, she almost falls, stumbling over her own feet.
Leo meows. Skye meows back.
"Meow?"
"Meow meow."
"Meow."
"Meow." She starts giggling.
"C'mon Leo," she slurs. "Time to get you home. Wouldn't want your mom gettin' worried." Jemma Simmons is too pretty to get worried. Too pretty. She may have programmed Jemma Simmons into her speed dial. Totally accidental, she swears.
Okay, it wasn't, but it was logical, since Jemma Simmons's cat has a weird affinity for Skye's home.
"Jemma Simmons!" she greets. "Your cat broke into my house again."
"Oh, Skye, goodness, I'm so sorry—."
"S'fine. He's chill. He's just chillin'," she starts to sing. Fuck, why is she singing? "Toooootally chill. I am also chill," she adds, "in case you were worry. Wooly. Woooolied. Worried. In case you were worried."
"Ehm. Skye? Are you okay?"
Her tongue is a little fuzzy. "M'fine. Your voice is very pretty, Jemma Simmons. Also your face."
"Oh, well, thank—?"
"I'm going to bring Leopold over, m'kay?"
"Oh, okay—."
She drops her phone without hanging up. "C'mon Leooopold. Back to Kansas."
Leo follows her, which is good, because Skye isn't really sure if she could safely transport the fluffy creature home. "Jeeeemmmaaaa Simmons," Skye warbles, kind of quietly. She thinks she's being quiet, anyway.
The door opens. Jemma Simmons looks tired and worried. No, no. Too pretty to worry. Skye stumbles a little and leans against the wall to steady herself.
"Your fluffball," she's definitely slurring, "scared the bejeesus out of me. And I do not lose my bejeesus easily." Leo meows, winding between their ankles. "Yeah, yeah, good job, hairball."
Jemma Simmons says something, but Skye hears it in a removed sort of way. Something about her wellbeing maybe?
"Are you a doctor?"
"Yes, in a technical sense, but I don't pract—."
"Doctor Simmons," Skye intones, puffing out her chest.
"Skye." Jemma Simmons's voice is very gentle, sweet. "How much have you had to drink?" One tequila, two tequila, whiskey, shot. In short—
"Noooo idea. Lost track. S'my only night off this week." Skye feels very sleepy, very warm. "M'fine."
"Surprisingly," Jemma Simmons breathes, "I don't believe that." She reaches for Skye as she stumbles against the wall. "I'll walk you home, yeah?" Very sleepy. Very warm. She doesn't bother to answer, just nods—
Skye thinks that she nods, anyway. She may have just rolled her neck.
Jemma Simmons ushers Leo into the apartment and puts the door on the latch, and keeps her arm around Skye's waist, supporting her. Her hands are small, and cool. Skye might be in love.
Fuuuuuuuuuck.
"Where are you keys?" Jemma Simmons asks quietly. Skye reaches into her pocket. Other pocket. Back pocket. Other back pocket. Bra.
"Jesus fuck."
They stop.
"You forgot your keys, didn't you?" Jemma Simmons doesn't seem annoyed or exasperated, just mildly amused. Skye nods again. "You're going to stay over at my apartment. Okay? Okay. Come along."
Skye feels like spaghetti. Legs weak, arms spaghetti. She starts to laugh.
"Right, yes, everything is hilarious."
"Doctor Simmons," Skye giggles, "you should know better than to invite strange girls to sleepover. I could be a—." She stumbles over murderer. Too many r's for an inebriated mouth to handle. "I could be a serial killer," she finishes, a bit lamely.
"Can you even stand on your own?" Jemma Simmons moves like she's going to let Skye do just that—
"No! No, s'okay, not a serial killer, please do not make me stand on my own."
"So I thought."
...
Skye wakes up to the smell of pancakes and a bottle of Advil next to her.
"You threw yourself onto my couch and declared yourself the Trash Lord." Jemma Simmons sets a glass of water on the coffee table. "I decided to not be offended."
"I—."
"You also wrapped yourself in the throw and tried to fit your name and burrito into a title—which failed. Personally, my favorite was the Skurrito, though you settled on a Skye burrito with a side of swag. Later, you attempted to corral Leopold, stating that he was the only person that really understood you. I think you finally fell asleep around four?" She glances at a clock hanging on the wall behind Skye. "Yes," she confirms. "Four."
"Oh my god," Skye groans. "I am so, so sorry."
"It was sort of adorable, actually" Jemma Simmons says quietly, wrinkling her nose slightly. There is a beat of silence, broken only by Skye's fumbling with the Advil cap. Jemma Simmons takes pity on her and opens it.
"I made pancakes. I wasn't sure what type you'd like, so there's banana, blueberry, chocolate chip, and plain," Jemma Simmons says, pouring out two pills into Skye's palm.
Skye kind of wants to cry. Had she made it back to her apartment, she would have spent the evening quietly crying over Pacific Rim and her own self-pity; would've slept until two, just in time to drag herself to the shower and then into a cab for work. No pancakes. No Advil helper. No Leopold, who chooses that moment to jump onto Skye's lap, purring intensely.
Fucking hairball.
Between downing the pills that Jemma Simmons offers her and glaring out the window in the general direction of the sun, Skye thinks she might be falling in love.
Jemma Simmons calls the locksmith, but Skye doesn't end up in her apartment until the afternoon.
...
Over breakfast, they'd figured out their days off match up. They start getting coffee or lunch or a movie. Jemma Simmons becomes Jemma. Her contact gains a picture. Skye feels a little helpless; flails a little.
But only a little.
...
"Meow."
Leopold's presence in her apartment is no longer terrifying, though Skye's still wondering where the hell he's getting in from. So. Mildly terrifying. But! She doesn't jump this time. Progress. Progress is being made.
"Hey, hairball."
"Meow."
"I'm out of tuna." It's not a lie. She made some tuna salad yesterday afternoon, but she doesn't think mayonnaise is good for cats, and isn't keen on finding out one way or another. No way is she killing Jemma's cat. Nope, nope, nada.
She does, however, have some deli meat, maybe.
Leo trots along at her heels happily, brushing up against her ankles every once in a while on her way to the kitchen. Skye has some ham. Cats like ham, right? Leo seems agreeable with anything. She finishes up the package on him before she calls Jemma.
"Hullo?"
"Your cat is here again. I'm coming over."
"I'll unlock the door."
Leo doesn't even need to be carried anymore—he follows Skye wherever she goes anyway.
"Jemma?" Skye calls into the apartment.
"Don't yell." Jemma's voice is coming from a lump of blankets on the floor.
"Are you—?"
"I think I have the flu. I also could not get up from the floor."
"How did you unlock the door?"
Jemma's voice is very small. "I may have crawled." Leo meows twice, worried, circling his owner's blanket fortress.
"I have the next couple of days off," Skye declares. "I'll take care of you."
Jemma pokes her head out indignantly. "Skye, while that is very sweet, I am highly contagious and—."
"You can't talk me out of this."
"The medicine cabinet is the third one there," Jemma sniffles, pointing.
Skye starts for the kitchen, but doubles back to manhandle Jemma onto the couch. "Don't roll," she instructs, shaking a finger.
"I don't think I can," Jemma groans, fidgeting in her bundle. "I think I might be dying?"
"You're too pretty to die."
"Not currently."
Skye levels a glare in the direction that she thinks Jemma's face might be, since she's returned to her fortress. Frickin' adorable. Get it together, Skye.
"Fitz completely abandoned me. Illness terrifies him." Oh, Fitz. Skye had almost forgotten about Fitz. Haha. Hah. Ha.
"Terrible boyfriend," Skye mumbles, hiding her head in the cabinet.
"Oh, yes, he would be but—we're not—Fitz and I aren't together."
Oh.
Um.
"There's three different boxes of medications here."
"Could you get the severe cold and flu one, please?"
"I think I can definitely do that."
Jemma mutters the periodic table—or what Skye assumes is the periodic table because, hey, high school drop out here—while Skye makes the Theraflu. In all honesty, Skye hates that shit. She'd much rather suffer through a terrible cold than choke down the lemony flavored crap that drug stores call medicine. But she's not about to tell that to the obviously miserable Jemma.
She grabs the mug at the front of the cabinet, because that would probably be the favorited one, right?
Right. Okay.
Jemma emerges from her bundle just as she rounds the corner of the kitchen—their apartments, while wildly different in appearance (Skye likes to call hers 'organized chaos', while Jemma's is simply organized) have very similar floor plans. She feels both completely at home and completely out of place.
There are fresh flowers on the dining table, bright curtains on the windows. Everything is dusted—like, who the hell actually dusts their apartment? Skye thought that that was less a rule and more of a guideline for adulthood.
Granted, she had been living in a van for the last three years, until she'd gotten 5C, so maybe her domestic instincts are lacking. Whatever.
Jemma accepts the mug with a grateful smile and a croak. "So, are you seeing anyone?"
Skye almost thinks she's misheard her. Because. Um. Anyway—
"No, not. Um. Not currently. My last boyfriend—."
This is not the time. Nope. Back away from that shit like it's nuclear. Luckily, Jemma is not the type to pry. Godbless. But.
She is single. And thinks Skye's adorable? Goddammit. Skye might die. But first—
"Oh, I am dying," Jemma moans, reaching her hands out of her blanket burrito to massage her temples. "And before you say it—," there is no way she knows what Skye is about to say—"the only pretty one in this apartment is you."
Well. Okay. Um. Um. Shit, what are words? She should make words. A sound. Any sound.
"Do you want soup or something?" she asks finally, haltingly. Jemma murmurs something around the mug, but her voice is hoarse and Skye thinks that maybe she doesn't want to be heard. Okay, whatever. Skye moves past the soup question; she figures that if Jemma wants something else, she can vocalize it.
She joins her on the couch, shoving Leopold over a bit to make room for her ass. "I've got six episodes of The Voice recorded." Jemma's retreated back into her burrito, but Skye can see the tip of her nose just a bit, a little bit of her forehead. She sounds miserable, which makes Skye kind of miserable, because Jemma's really sweet, you know? And pretty.
Goddammit.
"Uh—okay. I'll just—?"
At some point in their friendship, Skye ate lunch on Jemma's couch, and the girl had explained the collection of remotes to her, but—while Skye is wildly good with computers and other technical nonsense—Jemma Simmons's remote control system is fucking insane.
God help her.
...
It's half past six by the time Skye falls asleep. Jemma dropped off around four, but coughed and sneezed and puked a bit in between, enough to keep Skye on alert. She's not—
she has a pretty iron stomach, okay, and vomit doesn't gross her out or anything, but it's just hard? Like really hard to see someone you actually care about sick and miserable. And Skye realized around five, after braiding Jemma's hair so that it would stay out of her face the next time she had to hurl, that she really, really, really cared about her. Gay or not, interested or not, Skye enjoyed being around Jemma Simmons and her furry little tester baby. But, so—
sleep.
They had been on the couch for the longest time, until Jemma started getting super drowsy; Skye had helped her shuffle to the bedroom and lie down, Leopold following closely, meowing loudly. Jemma didn't so much ask for Skye to stay, as groan, grab her wrist, and jerk her head to the opposite side of the bed.
"Fine, but I swear to god if you get me sick—."
"I'll try not to vomit on you. Again." Three forty five had been a dark time. Anyway—
she passes out around six thirty. When she wakes up, blinking fast, Jemma's managed to claw her way out of her blanket shell, and is currently snoring against Skye's collarbone. Arm thrown across her chest. Leg tucked between Skye's. It's an impressive starfish impersonation.
She should probably move her. Maybe. But she's very warm and not drooling, and Skye sometimes misses physical contact? She's not sure the last time someone hugged her. Maybe Coulson, when she explained that he hadn't deleted the internet by accidentally deleting the icon off his desktop. But that had been weeks ago.
Jesus christ, her life is sad. She has like two friends.
Three counting Jemma. Four and a half if you count Coulson and May, but Coulson was pretty much her father, and May was—
not mother. But maternal-type figure thingy? So.
Three friends and one and a half parental figures.
God, okay.
Twisting her neck, Skye sees that it's only eight fifty. She's off until Thursday, and it's not like Jemma's in any state to try and get to work.
Sleep. Cuddling. Good. Okay.
...
They stay that way until noon, when Jemma finally jerks awake and turns a shade of red that Skye wasn't entirely sure existed within the human spectrum. She rolls away quickly, leaving Skye cold and a little sad.
More than a little sad. The cuddling was nice.
"I'm so sorry," Jemma mumbles, still bright red and hiding her face in her hands. "I usually sleep with a pillow. And cling."
Skye reaches out to rub her shoulder. "Jem, it's fine."
She gets a little less red. Peeks out from between her fingers. "Really?"
"Totally. We're friends, yeah?" Jemma hesitates before nodding—only a little but Skye catches it and feels a little sick; like, they are friends, right? Right?
But then Jemma grins at her and, wow, okay, it's like looking into the sun.
Skye makes toast and eggs, and helps Jemma shuffle out to the living room. She catches Jemma staring at her one time, and Jemma ducks her head, looking like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
But that means nothing, right? Like, she's still hopped up on flu medicine. It means nothing. Friends. They are friends.
But the hesitation thingy? That might—
hah. No. Even if she is into girls, she is smart and pretty and sweet and wholly undamaged and miles out of Skye's league. Millions of miles. Possibly light years. Skye's not entirely sure what a light year is, nor would she ever really want to know, but Grant tried to explain it to her once and all she got from it was that it is a very, very large measure of distance. She's pretty sure that Jemma cares about what light years are. Fucking—
"Skye? Are you alright?"
"Huh?"
Jemma sniffles. "You were making this face." She makes the face. Oh, christ. Skye's a little more than embarrassed by the fact that that monstrosity crossed her features, which, she's been told by many a drunk, are shtunning.
Shtunning.
"Um—yeah. I'm good. Just thinking."
Jemma leans over, bumps her shoulder. "'bout what?"
"Light years." She waits a minute, glances at Jemma out of the corner of her eye, because, like, sun. "What—."
No.
Stop.
You, my friend, are about to go down a weirdly emotional road and Jemma is still pretty sick. No, no. No.
"What?"
"S'nothing." Jemma looks completely unconvinced by her half-hearted answer. "You're still gross," Skye elaborates, backtracking immediately, "I mean—not gross—."
"Skye," Jemma breathes. "What were you going to say? I'm not so sick that I can't listen to you." Okay. So—
she picks an alternate route. "What actually is a light year?"
"Well, astrophysics isn't really my forte, but…"
...
Skye thinks that Jemma might be flirting with her. They've been—
it's been kind of weird since Jemma was sick? There's a lot of smiling and blushing. But it's also really hard to tell because she's pretty sure that Jemma Simmons is just a bunny that wandered out of the woods and found a sweater set, so Skye's not sure if it's flirting or just showing affection—like, friend affection or, like, survival or something (Skye's not really sure what bunnies are like, to be honest, outside of fluffy and adorable). But she thinks it's flirting? She's pretty sure it's flirting.
It was easier to tell with Miles. He just—stated it? Looked her in the eye and said it. So much simpler. Granted—everything else after that was so many layers of complicated that Skye really tries her hardest not to think about it. But—
Jemma.
Skye does not want to be that person that fucks this all up. Because, yeah, she would definitely like to kiss Jemma Simmons's face all day, every day, but if they're meant to be friends, they're meant to be friends. She's definitely not about to mess one of the few good things in her life up.
So, they exist in this weird place, where Skye's about sixty percent sure that Jemma is into her, thirty percent sure that she's gonna fuck up somehow and drive her away, and ten percent sure that she's making this all up in her head.
She's totally not completely thinking about this when she walks in her door.
"Meow."
"Fucking—hell, Leo."
Leopold headbutts her ankle, lifting up on his hind legs to paw at her hand. He's come to view her as a walking-talking-food dispensary, and Skye's only a little offended.
"Hey, bud. I'm pretty sure your mom feeds you. Like, one hundred percent sure." Leo meows in disagreement; paws at her hand again. "Fine," Skye groans. "I've got turkey."
Why is she still talking to the cat, really? She must be certifiable.
She's just opening her fridge when her ass starts to vibrate. Okay—
her phone is the one that's vibrating, okay? And it's in her back pocket, so, by extension, her ass vibrates. Whatever. It's nearly one am. Trip's about the only person that would still be up—Grant goes to sleep immediately after getting home, Coulson reserves phone calls for emergencies and dinner invitations, Skye's pretty sure it would be a cold day in hell for Melinda May to do anything more than text her, and Jemma—
no. No thinking about Jemma.
"Antoine," Skye greets, knowing it'll piss him off a little. Pissed off Trip is hilarious. Skye needs a little hilarious right now.
"Oh, Skye—!" comes a very British, very not Trip voice.
"Oh, hi? Jemma?" She stares at Leopold for a second. "I was literally just about to call you."
"What? Oh, is Leopold—?"
"Yeah, he's on my counter right now."
"Oh, goodness, I didn't even notice he was gone." She sounds flustered. Breathless.
"Are you okay, Jem?"
"Oh, yes, I'm—I think I'm fine. I was just calling to say—actually, ehm, since Leopold's going to have to come home anyway, I'll just. I'll just say it when you get here. If that's okay?"
Jesus, she's talking really fast. Skye's a little worried. Maybe more than a little worried. "Okay," she answers slowly. "I'll be over in five."
Can't forget to appease the beast. Leo's meowing grows a bit frantic, increasing in volume every time that Skye moves.
"Okay!" Jemma shouts. In a smaller voice, she adds, "I'll unlock the door."
The line goes dead before Skye can say anything else, which unsettles her more than anything else. It's very—
unpolite. Impolite?
It's very not like Jemma.
Leo reaches out a paw to tap at her elbow. Food. Right. He seems happy when she dumps what's left of her gourmet Safeway deli hand roasted turkey. Little pig. "Hurry up," she mumbles, scratching behind Leo's ears.
"Meow."
Great. Thanks, cat.
Skye leaves her shoes by the door, strips off her sweater and dumps it on the couch. She'll just be passing out when she gets back anyway, so yolo, right? And it's Jemma—
doesn't matter anyway. She's seen her in worse. Like covered in her own hangover puke. Skye pauses to shudder, halfway into the hallway. Tank tops are fine.
Leo trots ahead; Skye saunters behind. The doors gives way just as Skye reaches out to grasp the handle and—
Jemma looks wild. Literally. Wild eyed and messy haired. What the fuck—
"Skye!"
"Jemm—?"
What happens next happens very quickly. Jemma's hands are small and warm, coming up to cup Skye's face as she closes the gap between them. She can feel the heat radiating off her body.
Haha.
Ha.
She's fucked.
She's also sort of leaning in, without necessarily meaning to, because Jemma is magnetic—
all soft and warm and nice-smelling. Jemma is magnetic and Skye is weak. So weak. Not even ashamed of it, anymore. And then—
and then Jemma's lips are very soft on Skye's own. Soft and unyielding, and their kiss is a little frantic. Skye tries to believe that it's mostly Jemma.
She brings her own hands to Jemma's waist, one on her hip to tug her towards her, pressing their bodies together. She—
fuck.
Fuck.
Jemma twists one hand up in Skye's hair, and Skye darts out her tongue to swipe experimentally along Jemma's full lower lip and she moans, christ almighty, and—
Leo meows loudly, startling them, before disappearing into the apartment again.
Fucking hairball.
Jemma pulls away. Skye's only a little embarrassed by the keening noise she makes at the lack of contact. It's warranted, okay? Jemma's very soft and warm and she felt so good pressed up against Skye and—
"Was that okay?" Jemma asks, hesitant and blushing, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. When she doesn't respond, Jemma rushes into the next sentence, looking sick. "I'm sorry, I just—you don't feel the same. I'm so sorry. It's late and I've been up for more than twenty four hours—."
She could say something. She should say something. But—
Jemma is wearing a tie, already half undone. Skye has literally fantasized about doing something like this before. She reaches out, tugs Jemma in by the tie.
"Jemma Simmons," she breathes, pecking her lips once, twice, nuzzling her ear and nipping. Jemma squeaks. "I feel exactly the same way."
...
Lydia is only slightly annoyed at her family.
Maybe a tiny bit more than just annoyed, but Lucy keeps stealing her clothes and Mama keeps repeating the phrase inside voice whenever they talk and Mum left the screen door open. Which allowed Elphie to escape into the night.
Well, really it's just the afternoon.
But, whatever.
Mum had been super, super upset when Lydia had told her what happened, and had kept apologizing, even after Lydia walked out of the lab saying that it was fine, fine, don't worry about it Mummy.
There wasn't much to do about it, really. Elphaba would probably come back, but Lydia would feel better if she at least tried to find her. So—
off she goes, into the sticky, hot August afternoon.
Their street is really quiet—they moved to this neighborhood when Lydia was six and Lucy was four; her moms told her that they moved because they needed the space, but Lydia's ninety percent sure that they moved because the guy two floors up totally got murdered.
Anyway, their street is nice, and there's a lot of kids that live her. Lydia's best friend literally lives across the street. It's ridiculously awesome.
So, she's walking along, sweat making her tank stick to her body, flip flops flip-flopping, when all of a sudden the actual hottest boy to ever walk the earth appears. Holding Elphaba. Crap—
Lydia has never envied her pet before, but she's also never seen biceps that big. Firsts for all things.
"Hey," he calls—god, even his voice is gorgeous. "You wouldn't happen to live in 512, would you?" She thinks that she detects a slight drawl.
"Um—yeah, actually. That's my cat." Elphaba meows lazily. A car goes past, slows down just a little near them. They must be a sight.
"Oh," pretty boy says, prettily. "Good! Your kitty here managed to wander into my house while we were out. I was gonna call, but I figured cause y'all were on the same street, I might as well just walk this pretty lady over."
God, Lydia wishes she was that cat. Pretty boy sets Elphie on the ground and offers his hand.
"I'm Kyle Henrie. My family just moved in."
Lydia shakes his—his hand literally engulfs her own, hot damn—and glances down the street in the direction that he indicated. "You're 524?"
Those used to be the Kims. Lydia hated the Kims. Godbless Mr. Kim for getting a new job. Kyle nods. They're still holding—
shaking hands.
"Oh, um—I'm Lydia. Simmons. Lydia Simmons. 512. But, um—I guess you knew that."
Heh.
She's making an idiot out of herself. She drops his hand and Kyle laughs, though, so, alright, not so bad.
"Anyway," Lydia finally says, after they stand in a slightly awkward silence, "I should get back. My moms are probably starting to notice I left." She starts to leave, Elphaba winding lazily around her ankles, tail flicking her calves, about to call a goodbye and a thank you over her shoulder when—
"Um. Lydia? This may be—I don't want to seem too forward or anythin', but I was wondering if I could, um, call you? Sometime, maybe?"
This might be a dream.
"Uh—um, sure. You got a pen?" He produces a Sharpie from god-knows-where and grins.
Frick.
She's done for.
...
Her moms are in the living room when Lydia finally skips in, Elphie on her heels. Mama looks up at the sound of the door slamming shut, but before she can say anything, Lydia bursts out.
"There is the cutest boy living down the street and he asked for my number." So she sounds a little smug. She wants to make sure her punk little sister can hear her from her cave.
Mum asks, "And he helped you find Elphaba?"
Lydia grins, skipping over and throwing herself across her mothers' laps. "Noooo. Elphaba found him. She broke into his house, and he was coming to return her, which is, like, the cutest, right—why are you guys laughing?"
Her mothers are literally shaking with mirth.
Shaking.
"What do you know? Is he gay? Can you, like, sense it?" She might be a little shrill right now, but this is the future father of her children we're talking about. No reason to not be cautious.
"Love," Mum finally gasps out, clutching Mama's hand. "Have we ever told you the story of how we met?"
...
fin