A/N: Hey everybody! While I attempt to get my life back together (and update all of the long-termers I have here) I've been doing some writing over on tumblr that I thought should get posted over here too.
The prompt was: Skimmons: "We live in adjacent apartments and our bedrooms are on opposite sides of a very thin wall and one night I heard you crying and talked to you through the wall."
The title: "Stretto" means a joining together of two voices; "malagueña" is a Spanish dance in a gypsy style.
Enjoy!
"Fitz, I'm fine," Jemma forced herself to say. "It was just a bad day."
"I could come over with pizza and root beer and bad movies," her best friend offered. "You love pizza and root beer and bad movies."
"Last time you brought Chainsaw Death House 4 and Gone Girl."
"And they were both bad. For different reasons."
Jemma resisted the urge to bang her head against the wall. "Yes, but you never pick the right bad movies."
"So I'll bring the food, you look through your extensive collection of terrible films, and we'll watch… uhh… When Terry Met Molly – that lesbian rom-com."
"That is not a movie."
"Well, it should be," Fitz replied. "We're not good at movies, are we?"
"No. I'm sorry, Fitz," Jemma went on. "I just want to be alone."
Fitz hesitated. "Well, okay. If you're sure."
The sound of a blender tore through their conversation.
"Are you making margaritas?" Fitz asked curiously.
Jemma sighed. "No. It's the acoustics in this apartment – I can hear literally everything that goes on next door. Our apartments are laid out in perfect tandem – every room of mine shares a wall with the matching room of hers."
"Is this why you don't want me to bring food over? You've got a hot date with your neighbor?"
"I don't even know my neighbor. The only thing I have a hot date with is a bath and some wine."
"Okay," Fitz said gently. "Call me if you need anything."
"I will," Jemma promised.
"See you at work tomorrow."
"Until then."
Jemma hung up and the blender went off. Then she could hear her neighbor singing.
There were a few things she knew about her neighbor: Female. Employed (left at roughly the same time each day and returned at roughly the same time). Single (stayed home a lot of nights). Enjoyed computer games enough to yell at them. Ditto for reality competitions, cooking shows, and a wide variety of crime dramas on TV, with a heavy fondness for "Law and Order: SVU." Ran the blender frequently. Swore a lot in the kitchen. Took very short showers. Had a dog (barking came through even clearer than the blender).
And the singing – her neighbor had a voice like an angel.
Things Jemma didn't know about her neighbor: Her name. What she looked like.
The first could be rectified at any time, should they meet in the hallway or on the stairs or down by the mailboxes.
The second would never be anything but a mystery.
Jemma sighed and reached up, taking off the tinted glasses that protected her hyper-sensitive eyes from the light. She dropped them on the kitchen table and moved her long cane to the umbrella holder by the door, kicked off her shoes, and dumped her backpack on top of them.
Blindness was the cause of the majority of Jemma Simmons' problems, but they weren't truly her problems. They were everyone else's problems, and that was why they hurt her so badly.
Of course a blind scientist isn't worth a damn. Of course she'll always be seen as the charity case. Of course she's never going to be promoted. Why'd we give her a job anyway?
She knew that wasn't true. She loved her job. She loved her boss, Maria Hill, and the fact that she got to work with her best friend, Fitz. Maria never saw her as a liability or a charity case, and Jemma had plenty of supportive coworkers and peers.
But Jemma hadn't counted on Victoria Hand, president of the company, who had visited only hours before. Apparently no one had told Victoria Hand that their chief biochemist was blind. Apparently that was something Victoria Hand wasn't prepared for. Or happy about. And the things she'd said –
Jemma cut herself off, shaking her head.
It was definitely time for wine.
The phone rang as Skye shut off the blender. She stopped herself mid-song and moved to answer it. "Hi, Dad," she said, reading the caller ID.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"You know, Dad, you don't have to call me every night."
"I don't call you every night. Sometimes your mother calls."
"Is Mom at wine club? Sorry, I meant book club?"
Phil laughed at that. "Yes, she's down the street at Natasha's."
Skye smiled. "Well, good. She always comes home in a better mood."
"Six ladies drinking and bitching about romance novels. What could make her happier?"
"Something at the gun range?"
"We save that for our special date nights. Along with a few other things, of course."
Skye rolled her eyes. "And that's all I need to hear about that."
"You worried we're going to give you a sibling?"
"Thank God I know you're both too old for that."
"Never say never. Science is full of miracles these days, you know." Phil's voice softened at the last part.
Skye knew. "Is that why you're calling, Dad?"
"I can't just want to talk to my daughter?"
Skye waited.
"Yes, honey," Phil said. "Your mother and I are supportive of your decision to move out, but…"
"Dad, I'm twenty-three," Skye said. "It was definitely time."
"… you have three tubes implanted in your body and you vomit more than drunk frat guys," Phil went on.
"Not so much anymore," Skye said. "And that's why I have Arthur."
Hearing his name, the dog raised his head from his comfy bed in the corner.
"A dog that can dial the phone."
"Science isn't the only thing full of miracles these days, Dad," Skye said.
"No, it's not," Phil agreed. "Your mother agreeing to marry me was one. And you, sweetheart."
His tone was so wistful and sad that Skye couldn't stand it. "Hey, Dad, not to interrupt this compliment-fest, but I've got a hot date."
"Gordon Ramsay?"
"Gordon Ramsay," Skye agreed. "I need to see who he throws a skillet at tonight."
"Okay," Phil said, cheer returning to his voice. "Take care of yourself, and we'll see you on Sunday."
"We'll be there at four."
"I love you, Skye."
"Yeah, yeah."
"I love you, Skye," Phil repeated a little more sternly, but still with a hint of a smile in his tone.
"I love you, Dad."
Skye hung up and rolled her eyes in Arthur's direction. "Parents are weird, Arthur. Thank God you don't keep in touch with yours."
Arthur let out a short bark, as though agreeing.
Skye began singing again as she poured the contents of the blender into the waiting plastic bag. She filled the tubing running from the bottom of it, twined the tubing into the pump, twisted the tubing into her body, and hung the entire assembly on the waiting IV pole. That accomplished, she turned the pump on, whistled for Arthur, and rolled her dinner into the living room.
The water in her neighbor's bathroom was running as she sat down and searched for her evening dose of Gordon Ramsay torturing chefs. It was one of her guilty pleasures, something her parents never could understand. Arthur hopped up on the couch next to her.
"You don't eat," Phil would say in confusion.
"That's why it's perfect," Skye would always protest. "They don't cook like they should, and I don't eat like I should."
It wasn't exactly true. Nutrients still went into her body, just not through her mouth. Following the worst flu she'd ever had, an illness that required two weeks of hospitalization and massive medical intervention, Skye had been informed that her stomach had shut down. Permanently. Being twelve, she had no idea what that would mean.
Now, eleven years later, she knew exactly what it meant. Gastroparesis was the big fancy medical word for it, but for Skye it meant she had three surgically-created openings into her body: two feeding tubes, one that went into her stomach (for draining air and fluids) and one that went directly into her intestines (which, for some reason, were still fighting the good fight and absorbing stuff); and a central venous catheter that was threaded into her heart, which provided IV access for supplemental nutrition as needed.
Her life was radically different from most twenty-somethings', but she was proud of the progress she'd made. She'd moved out of her parents' house with her devoted service dog, successfully gotten a job at a bookstore (a New Age one, run by quite possibly the most charming elfin woman Skye had ever met), and she somehow managed to have a weekly-ish "date" with her best friend Trip.
Gordon Ramsay waved a spatula at a cowering young chef and Skye laughed. "Thought you could julienne instead of au gratin?" she asked the TV, shaking her head. "Oh, Martin, you unlucky son of a bitch. This might be the end for you."
Arthur barked in agreement.
Jemma found that once she was two glasses of wine into the evening, in the tub with lavender-scented bubbles forming a somewhat-protective cocoon around her, she couldn't keep herself from crying. The day's conversations with Victoria Hand were still running through her brain like traitorous snakes. The worst sentences weren't even the ones Victoria Hand had spoken to her, but the ones she'd heard as Maria moved around the lab with that horrid woman. It wasn't always a true stereotype that blind people had over-developed other senses, but Jemma's hearing was still pretty good. And on top of that, Victoria Hand was not a quiet woman.
"I realize that affirmative action is the trendy policy now, Maria, but I was hoping you'd hire an African-American scientist. Or a blond. God knows we don't have enough of them."
"I have hired people from many different demographic areas. You've already met Alphonso Mackenzie in the engineering department, and Barbara Morse up here in biochem. We're still negotiating to bring Dr. Banner over from the HULK Project so he can head up our genetics faculty, but it shouldn't be too long before he's here as well."
"But a blind scientist? Sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen."
"I have complete trust in Dr. Simmons."
"Of course you do, Maria. You trust everyone."
"Everyone here has earned my trust."
"Well, that's fine, I suppose. I guess I'll leave early and raise our disaster insurance."
"Ms. Hand, with all due respect, Dr. Fitz has caused more lab accidents than everyone else in the building combined, and you had nothing but praise for his work."
"She's never going to be promoted, Maria."
"That's between Dr. Simmons, her work, and myself."
"We'll see."
A snort, and then Victoria Hand and her clacking heels moved on.
The water around Jemma was cold, and she shook her head. Maybe she should have taken Fitz up on his offer of movies and food. At least that way she wouldn't be in the tub, alone, cold and more upset than she'd been recently.
She reached down and pulled the plug, letting the water drain from the tub. Time for warm pajamas, fuzzy socks, and a trashy Braille novel before bed.
And maybe more crying. She was never one to close herself off from possibilities. Even if they were terrible ones.
Gordon Ramsay forced Martin to leave the competition, Skye squealed with delight, Arthur barked because Skye was happy, and then it was time for bed.
Skye yawned as she brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas, unwinding herself from cords and wires in order to slip into her comfortably worn T-shirt and Captain America PJ pants. She rolled all of her equipment into her bedroom and hooked herself back into everything.
Arthur leapt up into his customary spot on her bed, the outside edge, and made himself into a happy fluffy ball.
"I love you, you know that?"
Arthur gave her a doggy sigh.
"Yeah, yeah," Skye said. She leaned over, turned out the light, and crawled into bed, curling towards the wall.
Once she had completely relaxed, though, she found that she wasn't tired at all. It was comforting to listen to Arthur's snuffling and the whir-drip of her pumps, but she was wide awake.
"Too much excitement with Gordon Ramsay," she muttered to Arthur.
The melody of the song she'd been singing before twined through her head, and yet she didn't have the desire to even sing. She was bored. She was restless. She was –
… she was hearing crying.
Sometimes she forgot that the two apartments at the top of the building were sandwiched together with one wall in the middle. She and her neighbor shared all of their walls, and consequently Skye could hear everything that went on – more so than most apartment dwellers.
The crying intensified and Skye's heart broke. She had to do something. "Hello?"
The crying abruptly stopped, so she repeated herself. "Hello?"
Jemma thought she was going crazy when she heard something through her tears: "Hello?"
She sucked in a deep breath and waited, trying to see if it would happen again.
Sure enough, a few seconds later: "Hello?"
The voice was coming from the other side of the wall. Jemma turned towards it. "Hello?"
"Hello, who are you?"
"Who are you?" Jemma was dumbfounded. This was one of the strangest conversations she'd had, and she was still unsure if it was a hallucination from her terrible day.
"I am nobody, are you nobody too?" The voice was fluid, full of light and laughter.
The singing voice.
"I'm Jemma," she replied.
"I'm Skye."
"And… you're real?"
"Really real."
"You're my neighbor?"
"As neighborish as a neighbor could be," the voice said. "Actually, that's not true. We're not very neighborly, are we?"
A small smile crossed Jemma's lips. "No, we're not."
"I don't know anything about you. Until now, I didn't even know you were British."
It was bizarre, this conversation. It was comforting. It was special, because there was no artifice. No one was being judged on their looks or their nervous tics, it was like talking to an ethereal therapist.
"I know a lot about you."
Skye laughed. "Oh, really?"
Jemma went hot. "Um, not because I'm a stalker. Or anything like that. It's just… I have very good hearing, and our apartments…"
"… share walls," Skye agreed. "I know. I'm just loud, huh?"
"Not loud," Jemma said, trying to figure out how to resuscitate the conversation. "Just… passionate."
Skye's voice had a smile in it when she responded. "I like that. Passionate."
"What's your dog's name?" Jemma asked.
"Arthur. Why were you crying?"
"Well. That's… uh…"
"Sorry, that was abrupt," Skye said. "I can ask a different question."
"No, that's fine," Jemma said. There was something about Skye's reassuring, confident, passionate voice that made her open up. "I… had a bad day at work. My boss's boss visited, and let's just say she's not the most complimentary woman."
"Ugh, supervisors always are," Skye said.
"It would almost be better if she'd said the rude things to me," Jemma continued. "Instead she said them to my boss, and I overheard them."
"Did your boss stick up for you?"
"Yes," Jemma said.
"Good," Skye said. "That means something."
"I like my boss," Jemma said. "She's… she's wonderful. Treats us all fairly, believes in all of us."
"That's the kind of boss you want," Skye said. "My boss is silly and charming, but she's got a spine of steel and she doesn't take crap from anyone. If you're on her good side, she'll fight for you to the end."
She twined her fingers in Arthur's fur and sighed happily, thinking of Kate, her boss. Kate loved Skye and Arthur, and Skye loved her boss and her job.
Jemma laughed. "I just realized we never mentioned what we do. I'm a biochemist."
"Wow," Skye said. "Sounds like a college thing."
"Oh, a lot of college," Jemma replied. "I have a doctorate."
"Wow. Smarty pants, huh?"
"I started at sixteen," Jemma said lamely.
"A real smarty pants!" Skye laughed.
"Well, what do you do?"
"I work at a bookstore," Skye answered. "A New Age bookstore. I deal with hippies and I sell crystals and incense and overpriced Buddha statues."
"Oh," Jemma said.
"I don't buy into all that stuff," Skye said.
"Mm-hmmm. Tell me, what is the market price for Buddha statues?" It was hard for Jemma to keep sarcasm out of her voice.
"Rich hippies pay a hundred and fifty dollars," Skye shot back.
"Good Lord," Jemma said. "I'm in the wrong line of work."
"Nah. You'd be wasting that fancy degree and stuff."
Jemma went quiet.
"Are you all right?" Skye asked softly.
"Just… tired," Jemma said.
"Me too, finally," Skye said.
"Um, thank you for talking to me," Jemma said.
"I couldn't just let you cry," Skye said.
"You actually could have."
"No," Skye answered. "I'm not that kind of girl."
"I'd like to know more about what kind of girl you are," Jemma said, going hot again as she realized that sounded extremely forward. "Um, I mean…"
Skye's voice was full of smiles again. "It's not the weirdest thing we've said through the wall."
"Right. Uh, what I meant was, perhaps we could have a date get to know each other better. Oh, Lord."
Skye laughed and it sounded like little bells. "A date that's not a date?"
"Sure. A meal. And a movie. Do you like those things?"
Skye went oddly quiet and for a moment Jemma thought she'd offended her invisible discussion partner. "Skye? Did I say something wrong?"
"What?" Skye replied hurriedly. "No, no. It's just… um… I'm very busy. Let me get back to you."
"All right," Jemma said, trying to keep things light, though her heart was breaking. What had she said?
Could she get anything right today?
Skye pressed her palms to her eyes. She hated conversations like these. Dates were always hard – people always wanted to eat, and there was such a culture around food that it was difficult to explain why she'd prefer to see a movie or walk through a garden.
But Jemma, her invisible neighbor with the beautiful British accent, was the nicest person Skye had talked to that day, and there was something sweet and gentle about her. Skye wanted to know more.
Tears flooded her eyes and she hurriedly wiped them away. A sob still escaped her chest, though, and Arthur brought his head up and whined at her.
She shook her head. "I'm not sick," she murmured to him. "Just…"
Then she realized Jemma's voice was coming through the wall, rising and falling in a measured cadence, and she turned back towards the wall to listen.
"… and the sea, the sea / suspended / aroma / chorus of rich, resonant salt / and meanwhile / we men / touch the water / struggling / and hoping / we touch the sea / hoping. / And the waves tell the firm coast / 'Everything will be fulfilled.'"
Skye went quiet, letting the words wash over her. "What was that?" she asked hesitantly, her voice raspy.
"Poetry," Jemma said. "A poem by Pablo Neruda. He's my favorite poet."
"It was gorgeous. Thank you."
Neither spoke for a few beats, and then Jemma said, "And thank you for our conversation. It really means a great deal to me."
Skye had to smile at that, though it caused more tears to stream down her face. "It means a lot to me too."
"What do you say we meet tomorrow morning and talk in person? Around eight-thirty? We could walk in the direction of the bus stop together."
That Skye could do. "Okay."
"Until the morning," Jemma said.
"Until the morning," Skye whispered, and she was surprised how easily sleep stole over her, those beautiful words flowing in her veins.
Skye was standing on the landing outside the apartments the next morning slightly before eight-thirty. She wore the bright purple backpack that contained her feeding pump, a bag of formula and supplements, the bag that vented her stomach, and the IV pump, hooked to still more nutrients; tubes and wires coiled out of the bag towards her body like an elderly woman wrapped up in some out-of-control knitting. Next to her, Arthur sat patiently, wearing his service dog vest and looking extremely smart.
"This was a bad idea," Skye whispered to Arthur. "What if she hates me? What if she…?"
Her second question was cut off as the second apartment's door opened and she caught sight of Jemma for the first time.
"Oh," Skye said, feeling like she'd been punched in the sternum.
"Good morning!" Jemma said cheerily. "Did you sleep well?"
Skye found that her mouth was hanging open. The woman before her was radiant – long brown hair, shiny and curly, wearing a smart blouse and slacks and a gorgeous smile. And the woman before her was unquestionably blind.
"Skye?"
"Uh, yes. I'm here," Skye managed to recover.
Jemma tilted her head and pulled the door shut behind her. She locked it with nimble fingers, then propped her white cane into her left elbow, sticking her right hand out for Skye to shake.
Skye hesitantly put her hand out and shook it.
"Oh, shit," Jemma said, but even though she was cursing, she sounded extremely proper. "I didn't tell you I was blind, did I?"
"No. It did not come up," Skye said, still stuttering over her words.
Jemma laughed, and all Skye wanted to do was hear more of that. "Silly me. I forgot we've only spoken through the wall. Well, I'm Jemma Simmons, and I'm blind. And I'd understand if you didn't want to go out to dinner with me."
Skye found the tension in her chest release somewhat. "Hi, Jemma Simmons. I'm Skye Coulson, and I don't want to go to dinner with you, but not for the reasons you're thinking."
Jemma looked quizzical.
"Um, may I… show you something? Is that the right terminology? Like, put your hand on something?"
Jemma's eyebrows raised and Skye blushed furiously. "I mean, not that. It's just… I need to explain… damn it, this is awful."
Jemma giggled. "I think we were less awkward when talking through a wall."
"Me too." Skye rolled her eyes.
"Please, show me anything you'd like," Jemma said. "Within all laws and standards of decency, of course."
Skye smiled and the tension eased further. With one hand she took Jemma's in hers – it was soft and delicate and she found she wanted to hold it for a very long time – and with her other she carefully pulled up her shirt, guiding those slim, tapered fingers to touch her tubes one, two, three.
"Oh," Jemma said, and Skye felt her heart drop to her toes. "I see."
"Yeah."
"No wonder you don't want to go to dinner."
"Yeah." Skye wanted to throw herself down the stairs.
"You're a robot."
"I am such a… wait, what?"
Jemma smiled. "You forget I have a doctorate in science, Skye. I've learned about all sorts of things, and feeding tubes are one of them."
"Oh," Skye breathed with relief.
"So you don't eat and I don't see."
"We're quite a pair," Skye agreed.
"So dinner's out," Jemma said. "How do you feel about long walks?"
"I love them."
"Okay, good," Jemma said. "Let's start with a short one. To the bus stop, perhaps?"
"That sounds nice." Skye let her shirt drop, but she kept Jemma's hand in hers. "How do you feel about jigsaw puzzles?"
"I'm actually fairly decent. Why?"
"Well, how do you feel about meeting my parents? We do jigsaw puzzles every Sunday."
"You move quickly for a robot, Skye," Jemma said, but she was smiling.
"Sure do," Skye replied. "Before you know it, we'll be sleeping on the same side of our wall."
She had to say, Jemma's laughter sounded even better in person.
The poem Jemma reads is "Ode to Hope" by Pablo Neruda.