After the Glasgow raid, he and Jemma share not just a mutual love of science in their letters, but a mutual hatred of this war and anger toward this enemy, who bomb mothers and shopkeepers, tenements and schools. She is angry for him. That steely resolve in her letters returns. The one that sounds like she wants to take on the Germans singlehanded.
The bombings of Glasgow and Clydebank cause the mood in A Company to shift as well. The war is personal in a way it wasn't before, not even when they were on the receiving end of German sniper fire. Because the Highlanders experience in France had been all too brief and chaotic. The Germans had pursued them, but they had all escaped unscathed. He'd never laid eyes on an actual German soldier. Somehow now, after helping his mum fortify their family home from German bombs, it all seems much closer. When word comes that they'll be joining with their sister battalions for a month-long mountain training exercise, most men are excited to get out of garrison and be real soldiers again.
Even Fitz looks forward to, at the very least, a change from the monotony of life in Comrie. Perhaps it is a week in the mountains outside Aberdeenshire, digging foxholes, hauling a rucksack and a rifle that give him the courage to initiate a weekend in her company. He looks at the date while writing Jemma and realizes it's been nearly a year since they met. A year of friendship developed from words on a page. He wants to ask her to meet him on the steps of the Royal Institution. They can do the crossword head-to-head and sit beside the statue of Jenner late into the night. But she can't get the time to come to Scotland and he can't make it all the way to London and back in a single day and he's starting to believe they'll never get a proper chance to see each other again unless he plucks up the courage to ask. It's fourteen hours to London, but only six to Sheffield by rail. So he asks if she plans to see her parents at all this month and, if so, he'll be there.
He leaves for South Yorkshire so early Saturday morning it's still Friday to most of his squadmates. But he doesn't have a 48-hour pass and he needs to be at final formation Sunday so he needs to make the most of every hour. He tries to remember the last time he saw her back in Cambridge. Somehow nine months have passed since then. Nine months of being bombed and preparing for an invasion that, thankfully, had yet to come. He runs his hand along his jaw, wondering if he looks any different. Despite the countless defensive fortifications he's helped prepare, he's probably no bigger than he was in November. The uniform still hangs on him, looking baggier than ever after months of constant wear. They'd just had an inspection so his hair is shorter on the sides and in the back than it had been in the fall, He fidgets with the map pocket on his left thigh, opening and closing it over and over, as he awaits his arrival in Sheffield.
He can see her through the window when he pulls into the station. She's sitting on a bench with her hands folded in her lap. Her hair looks longer and straighter than he remembers. He wonders how long she's been waiting for him. All he'd been able to tell her two weeks ago was that he would take the morning train. When she sees him through the window she offers a wave and a smile. When they embrace, the hug is warm and familiar. It doesn't take him by surprise the way it had the first time back in Cambridge.
"Good to see you" is all he can say and it feels like a huge understatement, but she just echoes the same.
She asks about his mum. He asks after her parents. They fall into step and begin walking. It feels strangely intimate being in her hometown, and not just because they will have lunch with her parents in a few hours time. It feels like showing him a part of her. She shows him the museum that suffered a direct hit back in December where she'd used to visit with her father. Then it's the ruined public library where she'd spent many of her weekends. They even walk to the grammar school she'd attended, a grand three-story building with three great cupolas. She tells him details about her time there, about silly school traditions and playing Rounders on the lawn. Mostly, she tells him how much she hated attending an all-girls school where science and maths had hardly been emphasized. She'd constantly been encouraged to pursue a different more feminine pursuit.
They've discussed this in letters, of course, about being frustrated with professors and wanting more from their education. It's different to talk about it in person though. He doesn't have to imagine her reaction or wait weeks for her reply. When he speaks to her about all the supervisors in his life - at school, at work, and the army - who have constantly told him to stop questioning everything and turn his brain off from time to time, she laughs. Though he hadn't intended the comment to be a humorous one, he's so pleased with the sound of it that he laughs too.
"I'm sure being so cerebral isn't exactly a positive trait in the Army," she chuckles.
"Not really," he laughs, but admits he's learned to conform to life in the Territorials. She scowls at the mere mention of the word conform. The look of disgust on her face is something he knows could never be conveyed in a letter. He wonders how many times she's been told to conform in her life and wants to apologize, even though he knows it's not his fault. Instead, he tries to convince her that learning not to ask questions isn't so bad. He keeps his head down and does what he's told. Life is simple, certainly less solitary than it was in the lab back in Glasgow. He admits to her then, what he knows she's probably already reasoned out from his letters. That his fellow soldiers, though he has little in common with them, are the closest he's ever come to having friends.
"Oh, I always had friends." He feels the briefest flash of embarrassment at her immediately reply to his pesronal revelation. "I just never found anyone terribly interesting. Not at University, not even now." Her face twists into a smile then as she looks to him. "Until I met you, of course. Private Fitz." She says the words with equal parts admiration and wonder like she's still figuring him out.
"That's me," is all he can mumble awkwardly in reply. He wants to tell her it's much the same with her. That he's never connected with anyone or opened himself up to someone as much as he has with her, even if it has been mostly through pen and paper for the last twelve months.
"I still don't see why you didn't…." Her voice trails off before she can say more, but he knows what she's going to say. Somehow nearly every letter and every conversation always comes back to this. They've been at war for well nearly two years now. Nobody questions why he's in uniform except for Jemma.
"I just wanted to do something different," he repeats the same simple response he feeds to her in his letters. He's never properly explained his motivation, mostly because he doesn't think he can really explain it. He's left enough hints about his father's disdain and insistence that Fitz couldn't possibly be a real line soldier and infantryman. He's also tried to tell her how an Engineer in the army doesn't really do much engineering. "Being a sapper's not really much different from what I'm doing now," he informs with a shrug and an attempt at a smile.
"But there's other jobs that someone with - there's other jobs that someone like you could do. Outside of the Army." There's more than a hint of frustration in her voice.
"Yeah, like what? Work at a wireless factory?" When he says the words there is a teasing tone to his voice, but she doesn't reply with the same joviality.
"You'd love it there, Fitz." Her simple reply is filled with an unexpected sadness that he wants to press her about, but doesn't. There are a million things he wants to say to her, things he's always wanted to put in a letter but can't figure out how to say. Instead he blurts out that the Army thinks she's a Fifth Columnist.
"What?" she laughs at the absurd comment.
He explains it's because of their conversation about the wirelesses. She laughs loudly and responds that she wondered why he hadn't responded to her theory about how to improve the reception time.
"That's why you never responded?" she asks. "I thought maybe you thought it was a terrible idea."
"No, it was a brilliant idea," he admits and then recounts how he'd been summoned by the executive officer and ordered to cease writing about sensitive material. He wants to tell her how the lieutenant thought they had a romantic agreement and see how absurd she finds it, but doesn't. "They just - they censor my mail now."
"So have you worked with the wireless any more?" she asks as she rises from the bench and they continue walking around the grounds of her school.
"Not much."
"Do you ever get to work on anything?"
"Anything?" Her vague inquiry puzzles him.
"Like weapons?"
"Weapons?" It's his turn to laugh now. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not my job," he admits simply. " I'm a - "
"I know, a rifleman," she finishes his sentence with a sigh.
"What?" He can sense an irritation in the way she says it.
"It just - it seems like a waste is all."
"A waste?"
"You're the most brilliant person I've ever met. And, believe me, I work with a lot of clever people." Fitz feels the tips of his ears redden at the compliment. "And you're - what? digging ditches and guarding postal stations?"
"We're at war," he shrugs simply. "I'm defending Scotland."
"You're wasting - "
"I'm wasting talent?" He raises his voice without even realizing it. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You're a clerk!" There is a clear challenge to his voice that is asking her to tell him he's wrong. Suddenly, it feels like the closest they've ever come to disagreeing. He's not sure how her simply inquiry about whether he gets to work on wirelesses has gotten them here. "You're the most brilliant person I've ever met." He turns the words she'd spoken about him around. "And you're what? A typist at a factory?"
"I'm serving the war effort," she states much calmer than him. Almost like she's rehearsed it.
"And I'm doing what exactly?" he challenges, pressing his hands to his uniform.
"Fitz, I'm not - I'm not saying what you're doing is - "
"You just said all I do is dig ditches!"
"That's all you ever say you do!" she laughs.
"I just told you that's because anything else I write won't be allowed through the censors!"
"I just think you could do more."
"Well, so could you," he challenges.
Neither speaks for a long time. The silence seems an odd way to end the argument, if that's even what to call it. Their shoulders sag, both seemingly admitting that the other is right. They're both serving the war effort, but somehow not doing enough.
They walk some more around Sheffield. The damage from the two raids back in December is more obvious in some places than others. He wishes the tense conversation would fade, but he can't shake it, even when he goes to her home.
She doesn't formally introduce him to her parents. All they say is "wonderful to finally meet you". The remark makes him wonder how much she has told them about the random Scottish soldier she'd met in London a year ago. They don't ask many questions. They already know he went to Edinburgh and that he and Jemma met outside the Royal Institution last May. They know he joined the Territorials before the war officially began and that he spent a few weeks in France. His mum asks about his father, but later he can overhear Jemma in the kitchen scolding her mum about how she'd specifically instructed them not to ask after his father. It's clear she's prepared her parents to meet him, and if they're confused about who he is to her they don't let onto that fact at the table.
They have tea and biscuits, which are really little more than flour and water. They're decorated with a bit of cinnamon and sugar too that must have been left from the previous week's ration. Not knowing how else to repay them for their hospitality, he offers to take a look at the Anderson shelter in the garden, the one he remembers Jemma reporting in her letters is always damp. Though they insist there is no need, he spends the better part of an hour out in the mud beneath the corrugated steel panels.
He feels like it's the least he can do to thank them for opening their home to him. They sit out in the garden while he works, talking to Jemma about her job and her coworkers and friends there. He's grateful Jemma can't see the scowl on his face that forms when she describes the clerical work she says she does. If they are lies she is telling, he's impressed at how convincing she's gotten. She does a much better job than that afternoon in Cambridge.
He can tell her parents are immensely proud of their only daughter. They're proud of her accomplishments and proud of her service, however menial. He thinks about his own mum's words, about people doing whatever they can to serve the war effort. Her parents don't ask questions or seem to have any reason to question whether she does anything else.
He tries not to eavesdrop later in the evening while he fetches his tunic to leave, but he can't help but overhear her speaking with her mother in hushed tones. She comments on how lovely and quiet Fitz is and how he must care for her if he took the train all the way down here to see her and meet her parents. Then she asks her daughter whether anything has changed with somebody named Milton.
Jemma spots Fitz around the corner before she can reply.
"I'd best be off." He motions for the door, thanking her mother and father profusely and trying not to get caught up on who Milton might be.
Her father shakes his hand and wishes him good luck. Her mother insists he take the rest of the biscuits back with him and, much like Jemma, tells him to stay safe. They both insist he visit again soon when he can.
Jemma takes her time walking him back to the station, but doesn't say much. Both clearly recall the uncomfortable conversation outside her school while they wait for his train and the silence between them isn't as natural as it usually is.
"I know you do more than dig ditches," she tells him suddenly.
I know you're not a typist, he wants to say. Instead he just apologizes, insisting he knows that the work she does is important too.
"I want to tell you." Her voice wavers and she wipes her eye with the heel of her hand. "More than anything." It's only when she sniffles and takes in a gulp of air that he realizes she's crying. "You know, it's easier to lie to my parents than to you."
Somehow it feels like the most intimate and telling thing either has said to the other. Unsure how to respond to the honest words and confirmation that his suspicions all year have been correct, he just mumbles something about how nice her parents were.
"Well, they've heard a lot about you," she offers a sad smile.
"I could tell." He tries to smile back. "I'm glad I came down."
"Is it going to be nine months before I see you again?" When she looks up at him he can see her eyes are still pooling with tears. He doesn't know now whether it's about lying to him or leaving him.
"Don't know," he shrugs helplessly. "We'll probably move again before summer's over."
"Maybe back south?" she reaches out to adjust the lapel of his uniform then, patting him on the chest. It's the first time she's touched him any way other than a hug and it sends a shiver through him. She leaves her hand there, over his heart, pressed against the buttons of his tunic.
"Probably not," he admits only because he knows they're not that lucky. The Scottish Command Line extends north to Aberdeen. If they're going anywhere they're probably going north.
"But you're not going...I mean, you're not…" she stammers over the mere thought, he knows, of him being sent into German occupied territory.
"I just go where they tell me." The helpless utterance doesn't seem to help stem the flow of tears. She gives a pitiable laugh as her hand flies to her face and she attempts to compose herself.
"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm so - "
"It's okay," he offers lamely in understanding.
While his mum hadn't cried when they'd said goodbye over holiday, she certainly hadn't been eager to send him off again. This war is going terribly for everybody but the Germans. The Afrika Korps is on the march to push the whole British Army out of Egypt, the Germans are in Greece and every morning's newspaper seems to report about another convoy of the Royal Navy that's been hit. The blitz still continues and nothing seems safe. Even Westminster Abbey had been hit this month.
Having never seen Jemma cry before, and unsure what's even the root cause of it, he's not sure what to do. He worries that wrapping his arms around her will only make her cry harder. As much as he wants to assure her he's not going anywhere, those are promises that are beyond his power to uphold. One of their sister battalions is being sent to North Africa in the next few months. The Glasgow Highlanders could easily be next.
Fortunately, she seems to compose herself. She reaches out to place her hand on his chest again and takes a few steadying breaths. This time he can't help himself from looking down at the sight of her hand resting over his heart.
"You'll be safe?" she asks, like always. Her voice is still shaky, but the tears have at least seemed to dry.
"Digging ditches in Comrie? I'll be fine." He tries for levity. "Maybe I'll get to London before the year is up," he says hopefully. His squaddies have been talking about a proper trip for months, but privilege leave seems to be drying up faster and faster lately.
"Or I'll get to Scotland," she offers a brave smile that, when combined with the mere thought of Jemma in Scotland, widens his own. He stumbles over what to say as he can hear his train approach, knowing their time together is dwindling down to seconds now. Both try to be positive in the face of terrifying uncertainty. "Take care," he tells her over the sound of the engine roaring into Sheffield station and then breaks his own word about not making promises because he doesn't know what else to say. "I'll see you soon."