Title:

Pairing: Skye/Jemma Simmons

Rating: K+

Author's Note: As always, these characters aren't mine.

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You wake on the morning of your thirteenth birthday to find words scrawled across your collarbones.

You'd learned about the soulmate tattoos of course, listened to kids at school brag about theirs. Honestly, you've always found the whole concept to be just a little ridiculous. Even now as you trace the letters tattooed across your skin, you find this whole thing just a little absurd.

With a shake of your head, you pull on your t-shirt and run out the door to catch the bus.

…

…

At fifteen, the boy you are dating sees your tattoos for the first time. He stares at them for a minute in quiet amazement before pulling off his own shirt and pointing to the "Please go away" tattooed over his heart.

You laugh as you lean forward and kiss him because you are fifteen and everything is so blissfully easy.

…

…

At nineteen, you fall in love with a woman who dumps you through a text message they day she meets her soulmate. You eat a pint of ice cream and cry yourself to sleep that night. In the morning, you trace over your tattoo and pretend you're okay.

…

…

When you are 22, you find yourself in the middle of a warzone. Something has invaded New York and you are unlucky enough to be stranded out in the open.

You're running back toward your van when something pierces you through the stomach and then you are falling, falling, falling.

You wake up two days later in an unfamiliar bed.

"Don't try to move," an unfamiliar voice says, "I just finished stitching you up."

You don't move but your eyes shoot open and you just stare at the woman beside your bed. "What the fuck?"

"I'm sorry," the woman says quickly, pulling at her blue scrub top. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"What did you just say?"

The woman frowns. "I'm sorry?"

You shake your head. "Before that?"

"Don't try to move; I just finished stitching you up?"

You sigh, reaching up to pull at the gown. "Don't freak out, okay?" you say, pulling down the material to show her your tattoos. "I think we might be soulmates." You quirk your eyebrow at her and wait.

She read over the words on your collarbones and slowly starts to smile. Pulling up her shirt, she shows you the "What the fuck?" tattooed just above her hip.

You laugh until you literally feel like you're going to rip your stitches. "I'm really sorry about that."

She shakes her head, resting her hand on your shoulder. "I'm not."

Her skin is soft against yours and you think you finally understand why people are so excited to meet their soulmates. "I'm Skye."

She grins. "Jemma," she says. "Jemma Simmons."

…

…

For the third time in less than a minute, Jemma huffs. Looking up from your tablet, you grin at her and take the spoon from her hand. Her shirt is covered in some kind of green food that's absolutely going to stain and you're pretty sure she has pasta in her hair but she already looks close to tears so you decide not to comment on any of that.

Instead, you scoot your chair closer to your three-year-old and fill up the spoon with the green food (liquefied kale, you think). You make airplane noises and your kid take the food with no problem.

Jemma lets out a sigh of relief and finally begins to eat her own dinner.

Later that night, she curls up against you in bed and traces over the letters on your collarbones. "I love you," she whispers.

You grin, more in love with her than you ever expected to be. "Love you too."

You are 29 and you are happy.

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