somewhere warm (where you once fit in)
Grant is alone in the bed when he wakes the day after his stepsister's wedding. He turns off the alarm he'd set the night before to rouse him for his early flight, makes his way out to the kitchen to turn on the pot of coffee before hitting the shower. He's short on sleep – they got home late and a few mere hours have passed since – but he's still surprised he didn't hear her come to bed or get back out. Surprised, that is, until he sees her next to the window, her pale shoulders aglow from the glare of the streetlight, still in the bridesmaid's gown she'd worn the night before.
"You didn't come to bed, baby." He wraps his arms around her and drops a kiss to a bare shoulder. The skin is chilled against his lips.
"No," she says, her voice sounding like she's far off, but not in the dreamy tones he's used to her sometimes taking when she's idling on some problem. She doesn't lean back into him, either. Her gaze stays fixed on the window as her fingers caress bouquet of namesake blooms Daisy had aimed in her direction last night.
He gives her an absent squeeze, makes his way over to the coffee maker. She's already filled the brew packet and put the water in, so all he has to do is turn it on. By the time he's out of the shower, shaved and dressed, it's ready to go.
Jemma hasn't moved.
"So," he teases a little as he pours himself a to-go cup. "Am I going to come back from my six-week assignment to find you've cured one or two new illnesses?"
For a moment he thinks it is a trick of the light that her spine stiffens at the words, but then she's turning around, an unreadable expression on her face, which is unlike her. Jemma wears her heart on her sleeve, every microscopic emotion plain. Not now. Even her eyes are blank. She draws a shuddering breath, then pads over to lay the flowers on the island.
"When you come back," she says evenly but for catch almost too small for him to hear it, "I won't be here."
"What?" He swears when the jerk of his hand causes him to splash hot coffee on his hand. Jemma hands him a tea towel, her countenance unchanged.
"I heard what you told Daisy. After she threw the bouquet to me."
"Jemma," he begins uneasily, but she cuts him off.
"That she shouldn't be giving me ideas, about proposing. About a future."
"Look, just because I'm not leaping to marry you doesn't mean…" He doesn't even know how to finish. "I don't know what you want from me."
"Four years. Four years together and it was as though the thought of making a life with me disgusted you." Her lips trembles and she looks down. "But no matter. I'll not waste your time – or mine – any longer."
"Jemma," he says patiently. "You're just emotional. It's understandable, what with the wedding and everything leading up to it. Get some sleep. You'll feel better, and we can talk about this when I get back."
She smiles at him sadly, shakes her head a little. She's a little stiff in his arms when he presses a kiss to her temple and the corner of her mouth, but he's confident there's no anger there when she tells him to stay safe like she always does when he grabs his bag and is out the door.
His key turns easily in the lock when he comes home. He digs his phone out of his bag to charge and catches sight of the envelope taped to the back of the door, his name printed in her elegant script.
Grant-
I'm not sure what time your plane arrives in and if you'll have time or energy to run to the market, so I've left some healthy meals in the freezer that should last a few days. I've left my keys with Daisy now that she and Lincoln have returned from their honeymoon, and have done my best to keep you from having to explain anything. The enclosed cheque covers my share of expenses for the next three months, to give you time to find a roommate if you choose. If I've left anything behind, you can donate or dispose of it as you will. Try to take care of yourself.
All best,
Jemma
He scans the home, like this is some elaborate prank she and Daisy have cooked up. Everything seems to be in place at first glance, but then little pieces creep in. The crooked afghan she spent months learning to crochet is gone from the sofa. Some of the pictures in the frames on the wall have been replaced, generic landscapes where portraits used to hang. A trip to the bedroom finds a perfectly-made bed and all her clothes gone from the closet. She's left shampoo and conditioner and the fluffiest bath towels, but he suspects that has more to do with her caring nature than evidence she's planning to return.
His breath feels tight in his chest as he shoves the charge cord in his phone to get enough battery to dial her number, curses when his attempts to call her get a not-in-service message. The lab number goes straight to voicemail, directs him to others as she is no longer with the company. Desperate, he finally calls Daisy.
"I'm sorry," she says, not unsympathetically. "You're my brother and I love you, but she deserves better."
"Daisy," he pleads, a little desperate. "C'mon."
"You know, when she was giving me the key to your place, she was so… sad and broken, but still trying to make it sound like it was somehow her fault."
Something like shame bubbles in his chest.
"I can fix this," he says. "Just give me her number, I'll call her, we can work it out."
"Grant," Daisy says slowly. "I don't have her number."
"What?"
His heart stutters and he doesn't understand it. Jemma and Daisy are close. She must have Jemma's number, and if she'll just give it to him, he can sweet talk her back and everything will return to normal.
"She didn't want to put me in a position where I'd have to choose my loyalties," Daisy sighs, sad. "I have her email address, the same one you do, but that's all."
The email won't do, he knows, not when she can delete without even reading. The silence stretches out. Daisy hesitates, and for a moment he thinks she's going to tell him want he wants to hear after all, but then she's sighing again. "Grant. You should probably know… she left the country."
He hangs up the phone, something indescribable burning in his ribcage. It's when he's setting his phone down that he sees it.
There, it's dropped petals wilted and crumbling to dust on the island, sits the bouquet she'd caught weeks before.