It comes from nothing, fading heavily, weighed down but undeniably giving way to the sound of a door slowly creaking open, gently prodded in the quiet night, pausing at the complaints of the hinges but persisting in short, stammered starts. Open, and then closed once more, and the faint light that he hadn't noticed, peering in through the opening and shedding light on the sparse contents of his room, is gone, plunging the room back into uncertainty, as he blinks away the last vestiges of sleep, eyes wide and searching for any radiance to guide their path.

"Hello?" His croaky voice splinters the silence, "Who is it?"

Her quiet breathing catches and silence falls in it's thick curtains, tenuous in the shadow of his whispered words. And then there's barely enough time or clarity to catch her particular shade of hair as it darts out the door, the stream of light casting a momentary illumination against the wall, searing the distorted outline of the doorway onto his drowsy retinas, until the residual tendrils of sleep capture him once more.

This time, he's awake before the door is half open, eyes snapping open silently in the dark, barely daring to move.

The footsteps are unmistakably hers. She's always moved quietly, deft at navigating perils and precious items simultaneously, but now her toes spread anxiously across the floor, testing as they touch the surface, sliding slowly forward as she reminds herself of what is normal, what is good. He's learnt the new sounds of her movements as well as he knew the old, tracing her steps across from the door to the cabinet. Edging closer, she is circling as cautiously as he is slowly rising, propped up on his splayed hands, finally capturing her form in the shades of inky blacks, distinguished in moving limbs, hair and clothing following suit, but he doesn't say anything, his every breath discernibly loud in the dead night's air.

She comes to a halt beside his bed; he's turned his head to where he best imagines her face might be, although by now his eyes have adjusted to the waking dim and he can make out the curve of her cheek, the darting eyes and flutter of lashes as she bends down towards him. The scent of her fills his lungs. He doesn't mean to drink it in so deeply, but everything about her is more precious with each time she is almost taken away. He can't imagine how he could cope if it happened again- but he has to, he must know that there's always a chance. If they can cross the universe and alien portals to be brought back together, what is there left that could possibly tear them apart?

As he watches, she moves in closer, impossibly slow and controlled in the movement, folding in over him his heart almost shuddering to a halt as her soft breathing sound against his cheek, warm and almost tangibly sweet. Her gaze is steady and his chest are full, as she crosses the short distance still remaining and pressed her lips against his, hard and earnest. He imagines that he should have been shocked, or confused, or paused; but instead he's kissing her back, one hand curling around her neck to pull her closer as her knees give way onto the mattress and her fingers find their way to his back and to his curls.

They fall messily back onto the mattress, the weight of her reassuring across his lower abdomen, her hair falling over his face, pinpricks on his skin as his lips give way to her. She's no longer silent, in all but words, with soft noises of appreciation as his hand moves to her hips, a low moan as she deepens the kiss, leaning forward until every inch of their skin is pressed together. It's too warm, too much contact, overwhelming and if there was ever any chance he wouldn't succumb to her, it was lost somewhere between the moment when her lips leave his and move to his neck, anxious fingers tugging at the hem of his t-shirt until it's teased up and off his shoulders, hers following moments after. Their skin sears together as her lips fall back to his, the sheets forgotten underneath them, the pillow lost in the direction of the floor as he rolls over, bringing her with him, pausing for a moment to grin down at the dark pools of her eyes, glinting in the dark, and swollen lips beneath him. At this point, he can't think about what's happening, or why its happening (why now), but more than that- he doesn't want to. He doesn't want anything but this.

And apparently she does too. Her hands are greedy, nails catching against his bare flesh, claiming every edge they find, fingers digging into him, anchoring him to her movements. Fluidly flowing around him, she is more than he has ever seen, she is everywhere, she is everything. Arms wind around his neck and her lips are wet and warm along his neck. He can barely keep up, his hand clinging to her desperately as she pressed into him, one leg anchored around his thigh, rolling her hips up against his in a way that's so completely unlike her, wanton and sexual, but is still precisely what she has always been- quick to learn, mischievous, experimental, demanding.

"Jemma.." Her names steals from between his lips in an absent whisper, pouring out with a heavy exhale - but then her hands still and she falls flat back onto the bed with a sharp intake of breath. His heartbeat shudders across the sudden silence, In the darkness and cold confusion, she slips from beneath him, his limbs twisting as they attempt to somehow ensnare her fleeting form, hardly wholehearted in their actions, leaving him on his stomach and her out the door.

In the newfound emptiness of his room, his sweat is cold against his skin as it pools in the small of his back. With a low groan, he buries his face into the forgiving cotton of the surviving pillow, smothering the sound before it can emerge properly. And its not because he can still smell her, can still taste her with a tentative swipe of his tongue against his humming lower lip, warm and familiar. It's not because of his heated erection, pressing down heavy into the mattress. It's not even because he's always wondered what their first kiss would be like, imagined how he could possibly make it special enough for her, for them and everything they are.

It takes her three nights to come back.

He holds out until she's found her way to his side, the warmth of her drawing him closer with every brush of their skin.

"Don't go." He says, helplessly desperate, without any cause left to care that he is.

She does.

And if he doesn't say anything of her visits at the desk they share in the lab, facing her at every meal, when pass each other alone in the corridors; it's surely down to his giving her space to heal and recover, not because he's still not entirely certain that he hasn't conjured the entire thing from his imagination.

Stranger things have happened.

"What do you think we should do about it?"

The space between them is valleys and ridges, but at least this time she is staying by his side.

"Let's just watch the sunset."

It seems the safest response; given everything.

They don't have a chance to rest and catch up on the sleepless night, but that is hardly the first of many and the world is turning to shit. Sometimes it's hard to imagine what she was thinking when they pulled her out of the lab for a field interview- why she insisted on bringing him along or she wouldn't go - if she had any concept of how far they would be flung from their cosy life at the academy. Not that he blames her.

He leaves his door unlocked at night now, and slightly ajar.

It seems like the least intimidating way to tell her that his room, his bed, his heart, are all hers for the taken; given everything.