He has only one day before he is supposed to report to the Combined Training Center on the other side of the country in Inverary. He's barely able to get to Lothien to gather his kit. Most of the equipment like the webbing and ammunition pouches he's barely touched in almost a year.
Despite being in service for nearly four years now, Fitz feels like a child compared to the men in the HLI. He quickly joins a platoon of grizzled veterans from the desert war who are quick to mistake him for a brand new recruit. Truthfully, it's been so long since he's done any proper soldiering, he feels as fresh as the new recruits that arrive in civilian clothes.
Many of the enlisted men are mostly lads from in and around Glasgow just like his old unit, but there are soldiers from Inverness and Aberdeen, and even a smattering of Englishmen. They're from tough working class neighborhoods, dock workers and steelworkers mainly. Fitz leaves out his Edinburgh education and work at the university lab when people ask about his background. He says nothing about his father the Brigadier General or about his posting in an Edinburgh flat for the last year.
These men have fought across the Western Desert. They've fought the German war machine first hand, not simply retreated the first time they came under fire. The training is rigorous and he feels woefully out of his element. It's been nearly a year since he's conducted a road march or even worn his helmet.
Though nobody makes mention of it, it's obvious what they're training for. There's rope climbing and cliff scaling, wire crossings and scramble nets. Everything is done on land at first, but he knows what's to come. He's seen the other units training. He tries not to let onto the other Jocks that he's not a very strong swimmer, even though he gets the idea that none of them are either. He's rubbish at climbing from the cargo net to the landing craft too. The thought of dropping into the freezing water, even when it's not in the ocean, but on a loch, is terrifying. Even more is the notion of being crushed like a fly between the boat and the landing craft. It's all much too real. The notion of where he's going and what he's training to do.
He writes her in his head. He tells her about the new unit, the combined arms training they're doing with the Navy and the RAF, the deep respect he has for these veteran soldiers who know next to nothing about him, the fear about where he is headed. He won't put it in a letter though. This is a new chapter of his life: a new unit, a new mission, a new Private Fitz. The two other fresh-faced privates in his section seem in awe that he'd actually fought in France. Fitz doesn't try to tell them retreat is a more accurate term than fight.
Her letters finally catch up with him after months of training. The large stack that arrives at mail call reminds him of when he'd halted writing her after his return from France. Then it had been his own uncertainty of the nature of her feelings that had halted his correspondence. This is different. This is certain. Oh. He can still hear the single word in his head. He hates that that's the last words they'll probably exchange, but he can't see a point in talking about things now. Not considering where he is headed.
When leave starts to get assigned they all know their departure is imminent. Most take a quick trip back to Glasgow to see family. Fitz stops to see his mother who is as brave and stoic as she's been his whole life. He tells her nothing about his brief imprisonment and questioning and leaves out most details about his training at the CTC. Nothing about training with landing craft or amphibious assaults.
"I still wish you'd taken the commission," she remarks wistfully as she presses down his collar to see him off at the station. "I'd worry less if you were the one making the decisions and giving the orders."
"We've got good officers, mum," he tries to assure. "I'll be alright."
"I know you will." She sniffles back the first hint of a tear Fitz thinks he's ever seen from her. "Are you going south?"
"South?" he remarks dumbly.
"I think the next train through here is Southbound."
"Why would I go south?"
"Well to see Jemma, of course." Just like that, the tears vanish from his mother's eyes, replaced now with the twinkle he's begun to detect whenever she asks about Jemma.
He doesn't know how to tell his mum about what had happened when he'd dared to admit his feelings for her, how he hasn't spoken to her for months.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not? She wrote you last time when you were off and away." The simple way she refers to his last venture into a theater off war, the fact that she doesn't say he's off to war to fight the Germans gives him strength. Strength for what he, who can't even raise his voice when threatened, is being asked to do.
He wrestles with so many excuses why not to see Jemma, but speaks none of them aloud. He's terrified by the reality that this might be the last time he sees his mum. The notion that he might never see Jemma again and that "Oh" might very well be the last thing she says to him pains him. His pride is the only thing keeping him from seeing her and, somehow, his mum seems to know it. When the southbound train arrives in the station, she hugs him tightly and sends him on his way.
He's not sure what he'll find in Bletchley, what he'll say to her, or even why he's "visiting. He just knows he can't leave for the continent without seeing her. He knows this won't be like 1940. This won't be a two week trip.
It's nearly a whole day of traveling on the southbound train. A passing goods train results in his missing a connection in Liverpool and in Birmingham another more permanent delay forces him to walk five kilometers to another rail station. He's not entirely sure how to navigate the village when he finally arrives, especially in the dark, but most people he encounters are happy to give directions to a soldier in uniform.
After three years of hearing about her billet, it's not difficult to pick out. There's the green trim around the windows and the stained glass around the door exactly like she described it. He doesn't know which shift she's working or whether she's inside sleeping. For all he knows, she doesn't even work here anymore. That's how long he's been out of contact with her.
"Can I help you?" A woman Fitz immediately recognizes from the thorough description in Jemma's letters as her landlady inquires.
"Does Jemma Simmons still stay here?" She hadn't said anything about changing residences, but then again their letters had been so formulaic with the cipher he doesn't know.
"Yes, she does."
"Is she at home?" he asks hopefully.
"I'm afraid not." The kindly woman looks closely at his battledress. "Are you the one she writes to all the time? Who went to rescue our boys at Dunkirk?"
"Afraid I didn't do much rescuing, ma'am,"
"It is you then." Her eyes twinkle and she swings the door open wide.
Fitz hesitantly accepts the invitation. She offers to put a kettle on while he waits. He's not sure why he's here or what he's even going to say to her after months of no communication. He'd rehearsed it countless times on the train, but somehow can't remember anything. The landlady is eager to talk with him. She offers to put a kettle on and tells him about her sons in the Royal Navy and her husband who served in the Great War. Under normal circumstances, Fitz would ask what battalion he served in and tell her about his father and his duty at the Somme. But he's so preoccupied with what he'll say to Jemma he hardly hears her.
She's heard quite a bit about him, his service in France, and his time with the Territorials. He's surprised at how much Jemma seems to have told her.
"She's quite taken with you," the landlady smiles warmly.
Fitz doesn't bother refuting the statement. He's not keen on reliving the moment on the train platform any more.
"Been worried something's happened. She was even talking about going north to see you. Oh, she'll be so pleased you're here." Again, Fitz doesn't dare tell the kindly woman he's here to say goodbye.
When the door finally opens he feels every muscle freeze. He's grateful for the landlady's presence, who speaks before he can. Fitz doesn't really hear anything she says. The whole journey south all he'd thought about was what to say to her, but seeing her in the doorway he still doesn't have any idea. There's nothing to explain his disappearance aside from his own pride and hurt feelings. As his eyes take in her appearance, her wrinkled dress and the tired curls of her hair after what he knows is a twelve hour shift, he knows immediately his feelings haven't abated despite what he'd tried to tell himself.
"What are you doing here?" He can hear the tremble in her voice.
"Not sure really," he admits honestly. "Just sort of...ended up here."
The landlady makes a few veiled remarks about places they can go to talk that aren't her home and not so subtly reminds Jemma about maintaining social propriety.
He can see the remarks make Jemma blush slightly, but once they step outside she drops any attempt at maintaining her composure. Her arms are around his neck before they even cross the threshold of the door.
"I've been so worried!" she exclaims, her arms still gripping him so tightly he can no long hear the "oh that has echoed about his head for months. "I thought th-that you - well, I thought - why - why didn't you tell me you were coming?" she stammers over words the way he usually does.
"I didn't really know I was." Unsure what to do with his hands during this hug, he breaks apart quickly. "I went to see my mum and just...sort of ended up here."
"I've been so worried!" she repeats. "Did you get any of my letters?"
"I did. I've just - I've been quite busy."
"Are you still in Edinburgh? I figured you must have moved and that's why the mail was delayed."
"I did move," he admits then takes in a steadying breath. "I changed units actually. I'm with the 51st Division now. Highland Light Infantry."
Her questions come faster than he can answer them. He continues with the words he'd rehearsed on the train.
"I don't have much time. I just - I thought I ought to see you before - "
"Before what?" She stops her string of questions with that one loud inquiry. He can hear the trepidation in her voice. All the things she'd just confessed she'd feared when his letters had stopped are now evident on her face.
"You know, before I'm off," he mutters vaguely.
"Off where?" she presses again, despite the fact that she looks very much like she knows the answer. He doesn't respond, but his silence is enough because her eyes quickly well with tears almost immediately. "How? Why?"
"I told you. I transferred units."
"Are you still working for Major Coulson?"
"No, I'm not. Not for a while now."
"But why?"
"My father." Fitz hopes the two words will suffice for an explanation.
"Your father what?"
"He...put in a transfer." Fitz leaves out the part where he's convinced himself the transfer is a punishment of sorts and a likely result of their secret correspondence.
"Did you try to stop it?"
"That's not how the Army works." He manages to smile at Jemma's naivete. "He's a General now."
"I don't understand. You were doing important work."
"Now I'm doing something more important," he repeats his father's words.
She looks at him strangely, like she knows the words aren't his own.
"But the designs you were working on, they were good! They were….incredible! Things like night optics and non-lethal weaponry can change everything -."
"Not without you," he admits. "I can't finish any of them without you. Without you there's no point and I can't - "
"Well, why did you stop writing?" she interrupts. "The cipher was working!"
"The cipher got caught," he finally reveals. "And they tried to charge me with treason."
"With treason?" she gasps. "Did you...did you tell them about me?" she stammers nervously and swallows. "About what I do?"
"No, that's how I ended up in the glasshouse."
"You were in jail?" Jemma nearly shrieks.
"Just for a few weeks." She looks horrified at how easily he dismisses the period of confinement.
"You were in jail?" she repeats again in disbelief. "For what?"
"
"Said I was communicating government secrets," he shrugs sheepishly, hands jammed into his pockets. "Apparently, they went much higher than Coulson."
"That's why you stopped writing?"
There's a long pause and Fitz wrestles with the myriad of things he wants to say to her. No, it's not the only reason he'd stopped writing. By the time that happened, his letters had already slowed to a formulaic trickle of technical details.
"I just don't think it's a good idea anymore." He chooses his words carefully.
"Why?"
"You know why," he mutters, casting his eyes down to the ground. Just like on the train platform in Edinburgh, he can't make himself look at her at the confession. Neither speak for over a minute and he gets to his feet uncomfortably. "Look, I just wanted to - I thought I owed you - I didn't want to...leave without - " he stammers over all the things he needs to say to her.
She seizes his hand before he can finish.
"Stay the night." He wonders if she hears the words the same way he does. "The next train north won't be through 'til morning. We can talk and - and find a Telegraph. Do a puzzle." She doesn't have to say it, he knows what she is insinuating. Three years ago that's exactly what they'd done in London before he'd left for France. "It'll be like when we first met."
In many ways it does feel like the spring of 1940 all over again. It's three years later, but here he is bound for a war again, the future is uncertain, and he certainly doesn't want the night to end.
There's not as many places to go in Bletchley as in London. He's quite sure they're walking in circles after the first hour. They make small talk at first, then speculate about where he'll go and what he'll do. He tells her all the details he didn't tell his mother, more details than he knows he probably should, but he's past the point of caring about operational security.
"I'm on a Beach Team. They call it a Brick. We go in first to ready the beach for the landing troops."
"You go in first?" She makes no attempt to hide the fear in her voice and he puts on his best bravado.
"Aye, first on the beach," he repeats the mantra they've drilled into his head at the CTC. "Rumor is we'll go somewhere in Africa first to train." He tries to continue talking even though she looks ill at the mere thought of him landing on a beach occupied by enemy troops. He tries to tell her it's primarily a logistics detail, about ensuring people and equipment move off the beach as quickly as possible, but he can see she looks unconvinced.
Eventually the walk takes them to the train station. He thinks about just how many walks like this they've had over the last few years. Too many to count. The only time their time together hasn't ended at the train station had been the first night they'd met.
Likely thinking the same thing, she collapses onto a bench with him and waits for the inevitable. Her head rests on his shoulder and she holds onto his arm tightly. Like he might float away if she loosened her grip.
They pass hours on the platform like that without saying a word. When the sun rises and the first train headed north pulls into the station, he sees her take a deep steadying breath.
"I'm tired of saying goodbye to you," she confesses.
"I know."
When she wraps her arms around him and pulls him into a hug, he tries to fight against the thought that this could be the last hug they ever share. He takes the time to do things he'd never done before when he hugged her. To remember the way her body feels pressed to his, to inhale the smell of rosewater that clung to her skin.
"You are my best friend in the world." The declaration, though heartfelt and honest, does little but remind Fitz what a terrible friend he'd been these last few months. "I hope you know that."
"I know," Fitz replies woodenly. Though said in earnest, her words seem little more than a reminder of her rejection on the last train platform they'd stood on.
"It means a great deal to me, our friendship."
"To me too," he admits. They still haven't broken apart from their hug and he expects now they're drawing attention to themselves. "And I know we never really got to talk about the things you said to me that day on the train platform. Back in Edinburgh - "
He detaches from her embrace at the mere mention of the morning forever etched into his memory.
Oh.
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Maybe there is." Her words are accompanied by the tiniest of smiles.
He looks to her incredulously, eyes unblinking, making sure he is hearing her correctly.
"What does that mean?"
"It means…. come back to me." The intimate words come out somewhere between an order and a request.
The tracks begin to rumble and Jemma sniffles back a tear.
"There's never enough time is there?"
He boards the train, wishing those weren't the last words they'd spoken.