A/N: Thanks for your patience. Sometimes my life gets in the way of writing, and unfortunately that's been true lately. I haven't forgotten this story - we're definitely still going forward.
Can't wait for the mid-season premiere March 3.
Enjoy!
A shadow fell across the table where Jemma was working on a series of difficult equations Fitz had emailed her. They both enjoyed puzzles and math, so once a week, one or the other would write up a series of equations, anagrams, and logic puzzles and fling it across cyberspace. When Fitz wasn't off changing the world, he and Jemma would sit together, drink tea, and solve these puzzles together – having a Fitz-written challenge made him seem a little bit closer.
Jemma looked up and adrenaline flooded her system. The lead in her mechanical pencil snapped.
Grant Ward was standing over her.
The only thing Jemma could think was, Thank God Skye isn't here yet. Thank God she's with Bobbi.
"May I?" Grant Ward asked, gesturing to the chair across from hers.
Jemma couldn't find the vocal strength to say "no," which he apparently took as acceptance. Smoothly, he slung himself into the chair and pulled it in, putting his hands on the table.
"I think it's time we had a conversation," he said.
Jemma's heart was clanging like a fire alarm and the room seemed to spin around her.
"Every time I try to get close to Skye, you keep getting in my way," Grant went on. "And now you've recruited an army to keep her away from me. That luscious blonde… a professor and an interpreter… and a guy who failed out of Garrett's program two years ago. I know it's a bit ludicrous to call it an army – after all, they needed only 300 men to defend Sparta."
He leaned back in his chair. "You realize, Jemma, that I always get what I want?"
Rage and fear met in Jemma's chest and bubbled up her throat. "Not this time," she said, surprised at how sharp and angry her voice sounded.
Grant raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he asked, as though Jemma had just told him she liked kittens. "It's adorable the way you're defending Skye. Just adorable. I don't want to be a stereotype, but I guess it's true – guys love to watch girls together."
Jemma was instantly repulsed.
Grant leaned forward. "I'm going to have what I want, Jemma," he whispered. "You and your ragtag band of pathetic losers can't stop me. Someday, someday soon, I'm going to find Skye when she's alone, and I'm going to make that deaf bitch scream."
He said this as calmly as if he'd suggested going to a matinee.
Jemma felt a boiling knot of rage pulse against her sternum. "You're never going to get to her," she said fiercely.
"Oh, Jemma," Grant said. "I told you – I always get what I want."
He stood up. "I'm glad we had this talk. Now, just in case you don't believe me, I've provided some evidence."
Grant reached into his pocket and took out a flash drive. He dropped it on the table. "Look at these in your own time. You'll see I'm right."
Jemma couldn't move.
Grant leaned down, so close that she could smell his cologne. It made her want to vomit. "And maybe later, when you two gorgeous girls are flapping your freakazoid hands, you'll realize I'm right. Talk to you later, Jemma Simmons."
Then he was gone, and Jemma lasted only a few seconds before she bolted from her chair, dashing towards the bathroom. She banged into an empty stall and dropped to her knees just in time. For a few long moments she retched and heaved, vomiting everything she'd eaten.
When she at last was empty, she sat back on her heels, the room still spinning around her. A persistent hum was filling the air; it took Jemma a moment to realize it was her phone, vibrating in her pants pocket.
Unsteadily getting to her feet, she pulled it out and read a text message from Bobbi: Change in plans. We won't be able to meet you at the library. Can you still meet us at Trip's house at seven?
Jemma knew she should be upset or at least curious about the change, but she was too tired to care. I'll be there, she texted back.
It was only five-thirty; she had a bit of time before the gathering at Trip's house would start. Everyone would be there – Skye's protectors, as Trip had started calling them – had decided to meet one night a week for dinner and general socialization. Even Mr. Coulson and Professor May would be in attendance. Mr. Coulson was obviously just there for the camaraderie and companionship; May was of the opinion that it would help all of the students with their sign language proficiency.
It was time to go back to her table, to pick up that flash drive, and see what kind of hell Grant Ward was about to unleash.
Just thinking about it made her nauseous all over again.
I told you, I'm fine, Skye signed, clearly irritated, looking up at Bobbi.
Bobbi wasn't buying it. You passed out.
I did not.
Bobbi rolled her eyes. You don't have to be brave around me, Skye. It's okay to admit when you need help.
I do need help, Skye replied. Help convincing you that I didn't pass out.
You had a seizure! Bobbi signed, her hands moving quickly.
Yes, and I'm fine now, Skye said. Her face softened, though, and she signed, They look worse than they are. I just feel a little woozy and sick for a bit, but otherwise they don't have any effect.
It didn't change the worried look in Bobbi's eyes. Do you have those often?
Skye shook her head. No. Maybe once or twice a year. They're a souvenir of the meningitis I had when I was a baby – when I went deaf.
She wiggled one of her hearing aids in her ear. I think I lost a battery, though.
Don't worry about it. Trip has tons of batteries, Bobbi said. He's got a thing for watches.
Everybody's got something, Skye said.
They had been only a few blocks from the small but comfortable house Trip shared with his grandmother, an eccentric woman of no small wealth who traveled often with a group of similarly-minded friends. Bobbi hauled Skye to her feet from the bench by the side of the path, and the two continued down the sidewalk towards Trip's home, blonde and brunette moving almost in synchronicity in the waning twilight.
Trip met them at the door, an easy-going smile on his face. "Welcome, welcome," he greeted them, using both sign language and his voice.
"We're here," Bobbi said practically.
"A little early," Trip observed.
"Skye had a seizure," Bobbi said, purposefully not using sign language.
"She what?" Trip's calm demeanor changed nearly immediately to one of concern.
I can tell you're talking about me, Skye interrupted. Yes, I had a seizure. It's over. Let's not talk about it anymore.
Trip and Bobbi exchanged a glance.
And please don't tell Jemma, Skye went on. She's got enough on her mind lately with school and work and trying to protect me from the hell-beast that is Grant Ward.
She looked from Trip to Bobbi. And if you tell her, I will deny all of it.
"Okay, okay," Trip said, using both methods of communication.
I need a hearing aid battery, Master Triplett, Skye said.
Your wish is my command, Trip said, and he led them into the house.
At seven o'clock the group was gathered in the living room, enjoying drinks and snacks. Mr. Coulson had loosened his tie; Professor May was smiling over her craft beer; and in the corner, Trip and Bobbi were doing some sort of dance, slowly bobbing and weaving their hips. The only one missing was Jemma.
Skye took it all in from the couch where she sat with her knees pulled up to her chest. Trip had found her a battery for her hearing aid, but her head was still ringing for some reason.
Suddenly everyone in the room looked towards the front hall; Skye realized the doorbell must have rung. Trip grinned and loped off to answer it. When he came back, followed by Jemma, he was no longer smiling.
Jemma wasn't smiling, either. She was as pale as Skye had ever seen her, fairly shaking.
Skye got to her feet. What's wrong? she signed.
Bad, was all Jemma signed. Bad, bad, bad.
She collapsed to the floor as though her knees had turned to water, and Skye was down next to her in an instant, using the voice she hated: "Jemma. Jemma."
Jemma looked up at her, tears in her eyes, and then up at the group gathered around her – Mr. Coulson and Professor May and Trip and Bobbi all looking so concerned. How could she tell them?
She couldn't. She couldn't find the words. She looked up into Skye's worried eyes, hearing Skye repeating her name over and over, and she realized that she had to tell them.
"Trip, bring me my backpack," Jemma got out, catching movement out of the corner of her eye as Mr. Coulson moved into a position to interpret for Skye. "I have something to show you."
A night that should have been filled with friendship and food was quickly turned into an evening of horrified silence. Jemma hated touching the flash drive, knowing that Grant Ward had been the one to give it to her; her hands shook as she pushed it into the port on her computer. A few clicks brought up the drive's contents – more than a hundred pictures.
Some were of Skye, walking through campus or getting dinner in the caf or picking books in the library or sitting in class. All of them had one thing in common: they were moments she was alone.
Some were of what was clearly a shrine created by the deranged Mr. Ward – the pictures of Skye up on a wall, with hateful and threatening messages scrawled over them in red ink. Some shots seemed to show a knife, stabbed into the wall. A series of photographs zeroed in on a calendar, with one date circled in bright red.
What does it all mean? Skye asked Mr. Coulson.
It means this Grant Ward is even sicker than we thought, Mr. Coulson replied.
"It means we're going to the cops," Professor May said, using her hands and her voice. "And it means we're going to get this creep."
She leaned in towards the computer and started talking to Mr. Coulson and Trip. Under the table, Skye reached for Jemma's hand and squeezed it tight, then started signing into her palm.
I wish I had been there.
Jemma turned slightly. Why? she asked, making her signs small.
Would have punched him.
Jemma squeezed Skye's hand. Next time, she signed. Next time we fight together.
Skye gave Jemma a small smile. Jemma had signed "save" instead of "fight," but the mixed meaning was almost even better.
We save each other, Skye replied. And she wished she felt more courageous about it all, wished she felt like she could actually do something.
Wished she wasn't so damn powerless.