A/N: I wrote this in a torrent of emotion during the overnight part of my 24-hour on-call day. It was a long week, a difficult week, and I'm really looking forward to a few things: the special place I'm going today (not TAHITI), where this story is going (may have finally figured out how to wrap everything up at the very end), and what you'll all think of this chapter (reviews make me so happy).
Also, a virtual cookie to anyone who finds all of the somewhat-cleverly hidden references to the show in this chapter!
Enjoy!
"Hi, Fitz," Jemma said, and she waved at her very best friend across all the miles.
"You're looking happy," Fitz replied, and he grinned.
Jemma had to admit, she was happy. It had been a week since Skye had been released from the hospital, and they had both settled back into their respective school routines. Their Jane Austen project was coming along well, thanks to Jemma's knowledge of the texts and Skye's intense research on modern dating trends. They'd had dinner several times with Bobbi and Trip, once including Hunter, and a couple of times they had been joined by Professor May and Mr. Coulson.
"Jemma, head in the clouds," Fitz said. "Tell me what you're so moony about."
"Oh, everything," Jemma said. "Things are really, really good here."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," Fitz said. "Are you counting the days until my triumphant return?"
"It's circled on my calendar," Jemma answered, and she did look over at her calendar, where Fitz's December return date had been carefully marked in blue. Another date caught her eye, though, and she leaned back from the computer, frowning. It was the date that had been circled on Grant Ward's psychopathic calendar, one of the many images from his sickening flash drive "gift," and it was getting closer.
"What's wrong?"
Jemma jumped and looked back at Fitz. "Nothing," she said.
"I know that look. That's a Jemma upset face," Fitz said. "Now, I know I might be in France, but I'm armed with a beret and a baguette and I'd charge into a Revolution for you. A French Revolution. I hear they have cake."
Jemma had to laugh at that. "Oh, Fitz. You bought a beret?"
"When in Paris, mademoiselle," Fitz replied. "It's plaid, though."
"Only you. Are you picking up any French?"
"Not as fast as you're picking up sign language," Fitz said. "I know enough to get a croissant and find the men's loo, but otherwise it's a lot of pointing and Scottish charades."
Jemma rolled her eyes. "What are Scottish charades?"
"Well, they're just like regular charades, only with a lot more highland hips."
"Now you're just putting me on," Jemma said.
"No, I'd never do that," Fitz said. "It's all in the hips. It's how we conquered our bold and brash land, took on the English, and managed to take up the unicorn as our national animal."
He stood and backed up from the webcam, putting his hands on his hips and looking off into the distance, obviously attempting to look noble and refined. Instead he looked like a mannequin from an outdoors section of a department store, and Jemma collapsed in laughter.
Pretending fake offense, Fitz sat down. "That's the last time I show you my highland hips, wee lassie."
"You know it's not," Jemma said.
Fitz smiled. "Hey, Jems?"
"Yeah?"
"Maybe next time we do this… uh…"
"Fitz, I'm not showing you my highland hips. I don't have any. I'm too British for that."
"No, that's not what I was going to say." Fitz went a bright red color. "Um, I was wondering, could you have Skye come and meet me?"
"Oh, Fitz." Jemma was instantly touched. "Of course I could. What a sweet thing to suggest."
"You talk so much about her, and I know she's very special to you. I just want to let her know what will happen if she breaks your heart."
"Oh, step off, you loon," Jemma said, waving her hand at the computer. "You wouldn't hurt a fly. Or a monkey. Or anything, for that matter."
"Well, of course I wouldn't hurt a monkey," Fitz said. "He wouldn't be able to fight back with his adorable little hands."
He grinned. "And I won't hurt her if she breaks your heart."
"No?"
"Nah, I'll just show her my highland hips."
Maria Hill knocked softly on the door of the office at the end of the hall and stuck her head in. "You coming to bed?"
Melinda May looked up at her. "Yeah, in a bit. I'm just finishing up some email."
"All right." Maria studied her partner for a moment. "Anything I can help with?"
"No, not at the moment."
Maria padded in and sat down in the armchair in the corner. Over time she'd realized that she could share the same space as Melinda when she was working, as long as she didn't sit directly in her line of sight or attempt to start conversations. It was a plan that worked more times than not and often Melinda would start a conversation on her own, given enough time.
The room was filled with soft lights and Melinda's typing, and Maria felt herself growing drowsy. Then Melinda spoke. "I've been thinking a lot about…"
Maria brought her head up, still not looking in Melinda's direction, waiting for the other woman to finish her thought.
"… about Skye. And about how things went so badly last time. I don't want to get hurt again like that."
Again Maria let the silence fill the room.
"But she's important to me," Melinda went on. "Skye is. And the things her friends are willing to do for her, the lengths they're willing to go for her… it's really something. And it's different from last time."
Finally Maria turned her head. "It's nothing like last time," she said.
Melinda tilted her head.
"The fact that Skye has that support… that's the difference. Nobody's going to give up on this girl."
"And she hasn't lost faith in herself," Melinda agreed. "She's just so… determined. Everything she's achieved she's fought for, often without help or support. I think asking for help is difficult for her, and it's why Grant Ward was able to get so close to her and harass her for so long before I found out about it. But Skye desperately wants to figure out who she is."
"Just like every other college student," Maria said with a smile.
"I don't just mean like a college student," Melinda said. "There's something in her that's fighting for the right to take down this jerk by herself, and realizing it might not be possible. She wants to know who she is, who she can trust, but in the end, I think it will come down to just her and this Ward asshole, and I can't do a thing to stop it."
"Language," Maria cautioned, but her expression was comforting.
Melinda closed her laptop and leaned forward, putting her elbows on her desk and her head in her hands. "Promise me it won't be like last time," she whispered.
"It won't be like last time," Maria said, and she stood up.
"She's always on my mind."
"I know."
"It's the one thing I wish I could go back and redo."
"But we don't get that chance," Maria said, gently taking Melinda's hands in hers. "And for what it's worth, what you went through with Katia is giving you the experience and the insight to help you fight for Skye."
"Wish it wasn't that way," Melinda said. "Wish I didn't have that knowledge, or all those memories."
"We can't take back the past," Maria said. "All we can do is fight for the future."
Melinda looked up. "Why are you so good at this comforting thing?"
Maria smiled. "Are you forgetting that I work at a think tank surrounded by some of the smartest men and women in the world – who also happen to be some of the most neurotic and socially awkward people on the planet? Comforting is ninety percent of my day job, and the other ten percent is breaking up fights over whiteboard markers."
She tugged on Melinda's hands. "Come on. Come to bed. Put the past down, even if it's just for now."
Skye sighed. She wasn't getting anywhere in her research on John Garrett. According to his students, both present and former, he was a hard-working man dedicated to his studies and the instruction and betterment of his students. He was apparently a great guy to work for, treated his TAs with the utmost respect, and had inspired leagues of good-looking white men to take up his various causes. At one time or another, both for the college and in private sessions, he had taught courses in self-defense, metal working, human physiology, higher-level mathematics, hydroponics, and most recently, at a local bookstore that seemed to cater exclusively to wacky Republicans, a three-night class on something referred to as "the potentiality of intelligent alien life."
John Garrett was a nut job, but Skye couldn't prove it. Just like she couldn't prove Grant Ward was a crazed stalker. She could prove he had a valid driver's license, had never been arrested but had paid six parking tickets in the past year, was registered to vote but showed no alliance to a particular party, and, both interestingly and chillingly, had taken out a permit to buy a firearm in the last six months. Grant Ward's family background was astonishingly upper class – his father was a well-respected dentist and city councilman; his mother volunteered for numerous causes, including a children's cancer charity and the city's light opera guild committee; one brother was a lawyer and the other (apparently the "hippie" of the bunch) was a celebrated artist living in Seattle and making a great deal of money on his metal sculptures. On the surface, just like Garrett, they all looked clean.
But nobody could stand up to Skye's computer scrutiny. Not for long, anyway.
As she was about to click out of her browser and head to bed, an article on the local news site she had open caught her eye. "Cellist Leads Orchestra with Confidence and Grace," the headline proclaimed, and underneath was a picture of Audrey, smiling as she stood onstage holding her cello. Apparently the orchestra had suffered the recent loss of a beloved conductor, and in his memory Audrey was raising money for a scholarship in his name through benefit concerts.
Skye smiled, thinking that Mr. Coulson had been in the audience, probably wearing his very best penguin suit and a bow tie. She liked considering her professors and other "grownups" at the college in their private lives – so different from their everyday faces.
She pulled open another window and began searching for more on Mr. Coulson. He had to have more to his life than interpreting and cellists. Soon she discovered that he had once owned a boat – sold to some guy named Nicholas Fury, which couldn't have been a real person's name – and that he was a licensed pilot; he played bass in a band made up of college instructors and staff, called The Blue Books (appearing regularly on Saturday nights at Goonie's Bar); and he had won the Barnham College Distinguished Service for Students with Disabilities award four years in a row. She also found out that he loved to collect old lunchboxes – though he'd probably call them "vintage" – and that he bought a lot of ties on EBay.
It was fun to imagine Mr. Coulson in a snug little house with Audrey and her cello, practicing his bass while surrounded by award plaques and lunchboxes, and Skye allowed herself to giggle just a little.
She closed that window and opened another, typing in Professor May's name instead.
She was expecting to find similar meaningless factoids, perhaps that Professor May was a local ping-pong champion or had once held a benefit for disabled horses or something.
What appeared on the screen instead took Skye's breath away.
"Barnham Professor Questioned in Death of Student."
"Death of Barnham Student Ruled Suicide."
"Barnham Professor: 'I had no idea the situation was so dire.'"
"Professor involved in student death to take sabbatical."
Skye leaned in towards the computer, drawn by the sensationalist headlines. She couldn't stop herself; she read on.
"Professor Melinda May, distinguished lecturer in American Sign Language interpreting and Deaf culture at Barnham College, was questioned Tuesday following the death of Katia Wroczlawski, 20. Wroczlawski was found dead outside her dormitory on the campus of Barnham College. Her cause of death is unknown. May had been Wroczlawski's advisor and a close confidant of the student, a spokesperson for the college's department of student services reported.
"Wroczlawski was a deaf student studying physics and mathematics."
Skye's head was pounding. Professor May had caused a girl to die? That wasn't the professor she knew. True, she didn't know much about Professor May, but the experiences they'd shared since she'd come to Barnham had been real and fulfilling. Seeing Professor May's name attached to the death of a deaf student broke Skye's heart.
The next few articles filled in more details. Katia had apparently been depressed and was referred to the Barnham College Counseling Department for an intake session, to which she had never shown up, claiming that a lack of interpreter would make the session useless. Classmates and Katia's RA informed the press that Katia had been harassed by a young man on campus, though none of them knew who he was or what his connection to Katia was. As far as they knew, Katia had few friends and had told no one about the harassment.
Katia's death was ruled a suicide; the medical examiner determined that she had jumped from the roof of her dorm. Her mother Eva caused a sensational stir when she showed up on campus and demanded that Melinda May be fired for her actions. Eva claimed that Professor May had known her daughter was being stalked and harassed and had done nothing.
In the end Professor May wasn't fired, just sent "on sabbatical." She'd returned a year later, and nothing showed up in the press after that.
Skye leaned back from her computer. It was all too similar. Too many coincidences. Things were falling into place, and not in a way she liked.
Was she the next Katia Wroczlawski?
Frantic door-pounding shook Jemma from a sound sleep, and shortly thereafter she realized it was accompanied by Skye's slurry deaf voice, far too loud: "Jemma! Jemma!"
Jemma blinked as she flicked on the lights. It was three in the morning, but she had a sinking feeling that Skye wasn't there to cuddle. After all, the deaf girl was using her voice, and loudly.
She opened the door. What? she signed, only a bit testily.
Skye shoved her way into the room, carrying her computer and signing frantically with her other hand. Jemma caught fragments of phrases, but not enough to clue her in; she stared confusedly as Skye jabbered away in both sign and vocal speech, everything caught up together and making absolutely no sense.
Jemma took the computer from Skye, put her hands on Skye's shoulders, and forced Skye to look at her. When she had Skye's attention, she signed Slow down. I can't understand you.
Skye let out a frustrated noise and began signing again.
Wait, wait, what? Professor May…. What? Jemma waved her hands. "I can't understand you," she groaned.
Skye let out the same frustrated noise, only louder and more irritated, and flipped open her computer, shoving it at Jemma.
Jemma sat down at her desk chair, watching as Skye began to pace her room, the deaf girl picking at her hearing aids with one hand, the other one still flying around her head in a conversation too fast for Jemma's brain to follow. Then she looked down at the computer screen.
"Oh," she breathed. The articles were heartbreaking and confusing and far too short to give any sort of real answers. But she could see why they were upsetting to Skye.
Jemma carefully set the computer aside and moved to Skye, who was still frantic, her face pale and grave, her hands now making no attempt at signing anything but instead clutched into angry fists.
Can we talk? Jemma asked.
Skye had tears in her eyes. Scared, she signed to Jemma.
No need, Jemma replied.
Professor May watched that girl die.
The computer didn't say that. It said she knew the student.
Who was deaf. And being harassed. And stalked. And now she's dead! Skye both signed and spoke the last word, the syllable clogging her throat.
I don't think Professor May had anything to do with that, Jemma signed.
It could have been me. It could be me.
It's not you, Jemma protested.
How do you know? Skye was clearly close to losing it, pressing her hands against her forehead as she paced in a tight circle.
Jemma reached out and put her hands on Skye's shoulders again. Because you have me.
The fight sagged out of Skye's body and she went to the floor. Jemma grabbed her and they ended up on the rug together, Jemma wrapping her arms around Skye.
Skye sobbed, rocking back and forth, clinging to Jemma's hands.
"Shh, shh," Jemma whispered, though she knew it was mostly a gesture to make herself feel better, as Skye couldn't hear it.
Eventually Jemma felt Skye's heartbeat slow, and the rocking steadied out into a slow, gentle sway. Skye reached up and touched Jemma's face, and Jemma leaned in and kissed her cheek. It'll be okay, Jemma signed. We can ask Professor May about it.
I don't think it's the kind of thing she really wants to talk about, Skye signed.
Sometimes people have to talk about hard things, Jemma said.
Sometimes people have secrets they'll do anything to keep, Skye replied, and she closed her eyes, signaling that, at least for now, the conversation was over.