A/N: Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews. Enjoy!

Skye tapped her fingers on her chin as she waited for her sister to show up on the computer screen. Somehow she'd made it home, only to find a note from Grant Ward on her door. It was on the desk in front of her, and for some reason she couldn't take her eyes away from the red letters.

At least, she assumed it was from Grant Ward. He was the only person she knew who would write "GO HOME DEAF BITCH" on a piece of paper and then tape said piece of paper to her door. Everyone else she'd met at Barnham didn't remember she existed… or was Jemma Simmons.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she jumped, pulling it from her pocket.

I'm over here.

Skye turned towards her computer and smiled. Hi Summer, she signed.

Summer and Skye shared several physical attributes – dark eyes, dark hair, angular features – and even more emotional and mental characteristics. They were disciplined, inquisitive, smart, and self-sufficient. Summer moved between spoken English and ASL as easily as any interpreter; Skye never had to worry about making herself understood when Summer was with her. Her sister was nearly telepathically linked to her – Summer understood everything, and Skye loved her for it.

You look upset, Summer signed.

Skye rolled her eyes and held up the note from Grant Ward.

What the hell is that? Summer demanded, her hands sharp and angry.

From a secret admirer, Skye replied. Carefully, she tried to explain about Grant Ward.

Summer cut her off as she was trying to make an excuse about how it wasn't that bad. If someone is harassing you, you need to go to your RA.

She's not interested, Skye answered, and it was true. Her RA, a spunky blond woman, was more interested in partying and hanging out with boys than in helping her residents. Plus, the RA made no attempts to understand Skye through written conversation, and the last time Skye had tried to use her voice, the RA had made a face like she'd just eaten something disgusting.

If someone is harassing you, you need to tell someone, Summer said, a little more firmly. Your interpreter. Or the police.

I don't think I need to get the police involved, Skye said, moving her hand into a "C" shape and tapping it against her chest for the word "police."

If he hurts you, I would never forgive myself.

I don't think he's that strong, Skye said. While Grant Ward scared her, mostly because he had a tendency to get up in her face and shout things she had no hope of understanding, she honestly felt that he was weak. Too weak to hit a girl, too weak to follow through on the threats he kept emailing and shouting at her.

It would kill me if anything happened to you.

I know, Skye replied.

Promise me you'll tell someone.

Now you sound like Mr. Coulson.

He's a very smart man. Summer smiled at Skye. I look forward to meeting him when I come up to visit you.

Skye gave her sister a half-smile.

Now, do you need anything? Summer asked. When are you due to have your hearing aids checked?

In two weeks.

Are you making any friends?

Oh, yeah, I've joined a gang. It's awesome.

Skye, Summer signed firmly, her face serious. Please tell me you've made a friend.

Skye thought of Jemma Simmons, three floors up, probably doing whatever it was British hearing girls did on their Wednesday nights, and she signed maybe to her sister.

How can you maybe make a friend?

I barely know her, Skye answered. But we're working on a project together, so that'll change.

Then why are you sitting here talking to me? Summer demanded, mischief glinting in her eyes. Go hang out.

I don't really know what that means. And we don't even speak the same language.

Summer leaned closer to the screen and smiled at Skye. Being friends means you speak the same language, she informed her sister.

I guess so, Skye signed.

Summer looked at something off-camera, then back at Skye. I have to go, she signed. It's time for class.

Summer taught dance classes out of the little house she and Skye shared. A studio had been built onto the back of the residence, and so for the majority of the day Summer could be found there, working with everyone from tiny girls in pink leotards to older men learning ballroom dancing. She loved it, and Skye loved watching Summer teach. Her sister was passionate and free when she danced, and though Skye had never heard the music, she knew Summer felt it through every corner of her soul. It was beautiful.

Have a good time, Skye signed. I'll talk to you later.

Next time we talk, I want to hear that you've done something about this Grant Ward, Summer signed, her face twisting with disgust as she finger-spelled the man's name. You're too precious to me to have someone like him ruining your life.

I love you, Summer.

I love you too, beautiful.

"Fitz!" Jemma squealed happily as her best friend appeared on the computer screen in front of her.

"Hi, Jemma" was his restrained response, but the smile on his face told her everything she needed to know. "It's good to see you."

"Oh, I wish you were here, Fitz. Oh, not that I'm not happy you're with Dr. Fellowes, working on neural stimulators, but if you were here it would mean that I could tell you …"

"Slow down, Jem," Fitz said, laughing. "I might not be right there next to you, but I am on the computer and you can tell me whatever you want."

He looked so good, so close, that Jemma wanted to reach through the screen and hug him.

"Oh, but first, tell me how your project's going," Jemma said. "I want to hear all about it."

"Are you sure? It's rather boring," Fitz said. "Just a lot of long days in labs, spent hunched over workbenches, making the most precise repairs to some of the tiniest machines I've ever worked on. You wouldn't believe how tiny the screwdrivers are! A monkey could barely hold them in his adorable little hands."

He held up his own hands as though trying to compare them to a monkey's. "What I'd give to have a monkey in the lab. It'd be perfect. He'd be a perfect little companion and…"

"I met a girl," Jemma blurted out.

His hands still in the air, his mind obviously still on the monkey companion, it took Fitz a moment to react. "You what? You met who?"

"A girl," Jemma repeated, and she blushed hotly.

Fitz dropped his hands. "Shut up," he said.

Jemma went even redder.

"Jemma My-Standards-Are-Too-High Simmons met a girl?!" Fitz grinned at her. "See, all it took was me leaving the country and..."

"Don't be daft," Jemma snapped at him.

"What's she like?" Fitz asked.

Jemma's cheeks were burning. She unconsciously twisted a strand of hair around her fingers. "She's… she's just lovely, Fitz."

On the screen, her best friend grabbed a large frozen beverage from somewhere behind his computer, and took a long drink of something bright blue. "Go on," he said once his mouth was mostly clear.

"She's beautiful… and funny… and smart…"

"So, just like you."

"Oh, stop it."

"What's her name?"

"Skye," Jemma said, loving the way the word sounded on her tongue. "Her name is Skye."

Fitz took another slug of his Slurpee. "Skye," he repeated.

Jemma loved it even when Fitz said it. "She's gorgeous, Fitz. And she lives in my dorm and we're working together on a project for class and she's deaf and –"

"Wait a minute. She's what?"

"Deaf," Jemma said.

Fitz put his Slurpee down. "Deaf?"

"Deaf."

"As in, when you can't hear?"

"Ten points for Gryffindor, Mr. Fitz."

"First of all, we all know I'd be in Ravenclaw," Fitz said. "And second – she's deaf? How on earth do you talk?"

"Well, we don't," Jemma said. "I mean, she doesn't. I mean, she does, sometimes, but usually she signs. And I talk."

"And she… what, reads your lips?"

"Sometimes," Jemma said.

Fitz looked confused.

"She has an interpreter," Jemma elaborated. "And I'm learning to sign."

Now Fitz looked skeptical.

"Oh, come on, Fitz. I already speak four languages. What's another?"

"But… sign language?"

"It's a language like any other."

Still, Fitz's expression didn't change.

"Fitz, she's just lovely," Jemma said softly. "She has… this spark in her eyes that makes me wonder what she thinks about. And when she smiles…"

She knew she was getting soft and dreamy, but she couldn't help it.

"If you like her, if you think so highly of her, then she must be someone special," Fitz said.

"She is."

Fitz took another long drink of his Slurpee. "Well, maybe… maybe when you see her again, you could ask her what the sign is for 'monkey.' I'd be interested to see it." He tapped his fingers on the Slurpee cup. "And also… whenever you get really good at the sign language, you can introduce her to me."

It was almost as good as Fitz saying, You like her, so I'll like her, and Jemma wanted to leap through the computer and kiss his silly Scottish face.

"Of course I will," she said, beaming.

"'Night, Jem."

"'Night, Fitz."

He held his hand up to the computer's camera and Jemma held hers up in the same way; their virtual hands appeared to touch, a cross-the-miles high-five that said more than words ever could.

"Miss you," Jemma said when Fitz pulled his hand back.

"Miss you, too," he said, and then he was gone.

Jemma closed her computer and snuggled back down into her bed, the book she'd gotten from Professor May propped up on her knees. Her lips moved slowly as her hands shaped and reshaped into the finger-spelled alphabet, over and over, until she could do it fluidly and flawlessly.

Then she closed the book, turned off the lights, and scampered back to bed. In the dark she lay smiling up at the ceiling, her hands spelling out words as though they were liquid, or silk, or something equally ephemeral.

J-E-M-M-A.

S-K-Y-E.

Good morning, Skye signed to Professor May. Somehow the Asian woman always looked flawless, as if she'd never stayed awake all night wondering about gorgeous British girls or horribly aggressive stalkers.

May smiled. Good morning, Skye. Where is Mr. Coulson?

Skye returned the smile. She'd always thought Professor May and Mr. Coulson had a thing for each other, that there was some sort of history between the two, because Mr. Coulson had a tendency to get goofy around the professor, his signs getting bouncier and his face getting redder as they conversed. But whatever it was, it was never spoken of; Mr. Coulson was with Audrey and Skye was pretty sure Professor May had a serious girlfriend who worked in the Dean's office – Maria something-or-other.

She realized Professor May was staring at her, and hurried to reply, He went to the bathroom. Presumably to fix his tie.

You could tell him he doesn't need to wear a tie, Professor May signed. Most interpreters don't.

It would be like telling a bird not to fly, Skye replied, her hand cresting through the air as she signed "fly."

Some birds don't fly, Professor May pointed out. Ostriches. Emus.

Penguins, Skye agreed, smiling.

The man is not a penguin, May signed. Have you seen him in a tux? He looks positively uncomfortable.

"Who looks uncomfortable?"

The professor turned and smiled at Phil Coulson as he entered her office. "No one," she said smoothly, using both sign and speech so that Skye could follow the conversation. "Have a seat, will you?"

When they were all seated, Mr. Coulson prodded Skye into explaining why they'd asked for a meeting with the professor, and hesitantly, Skye related the story of Grant Ward.

He keeps getting angrier, she signed, showing the professor some of the notes she'd come home to. And this doesn't even include the emails. I was going to print them out, but I figured, why waste the ink?

This looks serious, Professor May signed. Have you told anyone about this?

My sister. Mr. Coulson, Skye replied.

Have you gone to your RA?

Skye rolled her eyes and explained about her party-loving RA.

The police? May suggested.

What can they do about it? Skye asked. Tell him to stay away from me, probably. But he hasn't done anything yet – just sent me these notes. And tried to intimidate me physically.

That's enough to get him on harassment, Mr. Coulson interjected.

Skye sighed. I don't want to "get him," she signed. I want him to leave me alone.

May nodded. What do you want me to do? she asked Skye.

I need somewhere safe to go after our History class, Skye answered. He tends to get the most confrontational there, and Mr. Coulson can't stay with me because he has to go interpret for another student. I tried hiding in the bathroom but he just waited for me.

"We know you have class in the same building at the same time," Mr. Coulson put in, signing and speaking at the same time. "Could you meet Skye after her History class and walk her back here? I'd be able to meet up with her after that."

May nodded. "That should work out," she said, using both methods of communication as well. "I have a student I'm tutoring a few days a week, but if Skye's comfortable with her being here, I don't have a problem with it."

"Someone failing one of your classes already?" Mr. Coulson asked, grinning.

"More like, someone taking up a new hobby," May replied. A girl who really wants to learn to sign, she told Skye.

"It's a magical language," Mr. Coulson said.

Skye was so relieved that she hardly saw the last exchange between May and Coulson. Thank you, thank you, she signed quickly.

But we need to figure out what to do, long-term, about this boy, May signed. You are always welcome to come to me for protection, Skye, but I won't always be around, and I want this handled.

Okay, Skye signed hesitantly.

Promise me you'll talk to someone about this, May went on. Before he goes too far.

Okay, Skye repeated, and she wished she wasn't lying.

Friday during Jane Austen class, the professor gave the students an opportunity to break into their pairs and work on their projects. Jemma turned to look at Skye. The deaf girl looked tired and upset, and it nearly broke Jemma's heart.

What's… wrong? she signed hesitantly.

Skye shook her head and forced a smile. I'm fine, she wrote in Jemma's notebook.

It was a lie, but Jemma was conscious of the professor's eyes on them, and so she said nothing as she took out an outline she'd drawn up of the project requirements. Handing it to Skye, she watched as the interpreter crossed the room to take up position behind her.

The book Professor May had given her had been full of interesting history of the Deaf community, and had included a section on how to talk to a deaf person through an interpreter: Talk to the person, not to the interpreter. Make eye contact with the deaf person. Speak normally.

It was hard, though, since Jemma's heart nearly stopped every time she saw Skye. She wasn't sure what it was, but it was definitely distracting.

She realized Mr. Coulson had spoken, and hurriedly jerked her head up. "Sorry. What was that?"

Skye signed, and Mr. Coulson repeated, "I was thinking we could focus on issues that Jane Austen might choose to write about if she was writing today. How she would treat relationships, or what she would have to say on the ways people meet and get together."

Jemma nodded. "Jane Austen in the age of Internet dating."

"A perfect title."

"Can you show me… the sign for dating?" Jemma asked hesitantly.

Skye watched as Mr. Coulson signed the request, and her face lit up. She turned to Jemma, moving her hands into two "d" shapes. Gently she brought her fingers, the curved parts of the d's, together, tapping them a few times. "Dating," Skye said, and her voice sent a shiver up Jemma's spine, a good but hot shiver that put a smile on her face and made her hands shaky as she repeated the sign.

Dating.

Dating, Skye agreed.

Jemma beamed as though she'd won a prize. Thank you.

"You're picking up sign quite quickly," Mr. Coulson observed as Skye went back to scribbling on the outline.

"It's fascinating," Jemma said. "And… I really like it."

Skye passed the outline back to Jemma, and the Brit could see she'd made some changes to the suggested schedule, as well as adding her own schedule and email address.

In case you want to talk about our project, Skye wrote in Jemma's notebook. Or anything else.

Jemma went red and quickly tried to recover. "Excellent. Thank you. I will, um, get in touch with you. About the project, of course. Or maybe something else. But mostly the project."

And like an idiot, she fled the room.

It was after eleven and Jemma was in bed when she heard the knock at her door. It was a frantic knock, tap-tap-tap-TAP, and she sat straight up, throwing off her covers.

"Hang on, hang on," she mumbled as she flicked on the lamp and made her way to the door.

In her sleepy haze, she didn't even bother with the peephole, just flung the door open, revealing Skye standing in front of her door, shaking. The deaf girl's hands were flying and tears were streaming down her face.

"Skye?" Jemma couldn't think. Then she saw the blood on the girl's hands and arms, and felt sick. "What happened?"

But of course Skye wasn't looking at her, wasn't able to see her lips. Jemma had to grab Skye by the shoulders and then force her chin upwards before she was able to sign her question: What happened?

Still shaking, Skye tried to take a step into the room. Her knees went out and she found herself falling towards the floor in slow motion.

Jemma caught her, somehow, and they ended up on the blue fuzzy rug together, their backs against the door. Skye shook with sobs and Jemma held her, wishing in that moment she could overcome their language barrier, wishing she could figure out what had happened and whose ass she was going to have to kick to fix things.

As Skye's sobbing slowed, Jemma brought her hands up. You… fingerspell… what's wrong?

Skye's breathing picked up and she shook her head. No, no, no, no.

Please.

But Skye was gone again, her head down and away from Jemma's questions. So Jemma got to her feet, grabbing her first aid kit and a pad of paper and a pen before sitting down in front of Skye again. Jemma wrote, Whenever you're ready to tell me about it, I'll be here. Until then, I'm going to clean you up and give you some bandages.

She slid the notebook into Skye's lap and waited a few moments. Then she rolled up Skye's sleeves, softly gasping at the mess of scrapes and cuts that came into view. The wounds all looked raw, and fresh; some were still studded with what looked like bits of gravel or glass.

Jemma swallowed hard and then put her head down, going to work. With tweezers she removed the little bits of stone and glass. When she'd finished, she got a warm washcloth from the bathroom and carefully washed the cuts and patted them dry. She gently applied antibiotic cream and a series of gauze dressings over that.

By then, Skye had written two sentences in the notebook.

I can't talk about it. Can I stay here tonight?

Jemma nodded. Of course you can stay here, she wrote. You're my friend.

But as soon as the lights were off and Skye was curled up on the fuzzy rug with a pillow and an extra blanket, she started shaking again. She didn't know what she was doing in Jemma's room. She wasn't even sure why she'd gone to Jemma for help.

Because there wasn't anyone else, her brain reminded her.

She'd wanted to call Summer, to call Mr. Coulson or Professor May or the cops – anyone, anyone who could help her. It was as though her brain had forgotten she was deaf, because she all she wanted to do was talk. Her hands were shaking too much to sign coherently, and she found that she was getting dizzy.

All she'd wanted was a bubble tea, from the place just off campus. It was a ten-minute walk from her dorm, and even though it was October, it was still a nice night.

Or it had been.

Then she'd seen Grant Ward, standing on the corner as though he was waiting for her. She'd tried to turn, to go another way, but he was so big and tall and fast that he was on her in an instant.

In the dark it was impossible to read lips, but she could feel the vibrations of him yelling. Then all she could feel was his hands on her body, shoving her. She remembered stumbling, falling, dropping her bubble tea. There had been a short tumble down a low incline near the library and a series of horrifying moments in which Skye had been almost positive she was going to die.

But he just stood there, watching her. He'd said one more thing she couldn't understand, and then he was gone, leaving her on the ground, shaking and bleeding and cold.

When she was sure he was gone, she pulled herself up and ran.

And now she lay on Jemma's floor, sobbing and shaking.

Skye felt a warm hand on her back, and then Jemma was on the floor next to her, wrapping her arms around her, pressing her head against Skye's as though they could communicate telepathically.

And as they rocked and Skye sobbed, she felt Jemma's hands in hers, spelling out a message one letter at a time. At any other time Skye would have been irritated by the amount of time it took for the message to get across, but as Jemma repeated the message over and over, Skye only felt calmer, more connected.

You are okay, Jemma spelled. You are my friend. Things will be okay.

On the fuzzy blue rug, with Jemma's hands in hers, Skye could almost relax, almost pretend she wasn't terrified. And as the Brit continued to spell her message, Skye seized one sentence in particular and let it slow her heart rate, until she almost felt like she could sleep, like she wouldn't fall apart, at least for now.

You are my friend.

A/N: Okay, folks, if you made it this far, here's a question. This story can go in one of two different directions. Let me know if you'd like to eventually see

a) something extremely dark or

b) something that is less dark.

I have options for both, and I'm excited to hear what you would prefer.