"skimmons and "I just really need to have you here right now.""

sort of a normal au? no shield, no inhumans. just two girls, falling in love and running out on it

disclaimed

...

Technically, Skye's drunk.

Technically, this is a drunk dial.

Technically, she and Jemma have been broken up for nearly three months and this shouldn't at all be happening right now, but Skye's heart hasn't stopped aching since that final fight, since the A-bomb that detonated between them.

She should have listened to Trip. And listened less to Grant. And she shouldn't have drunk what Bobbi recommended.

"Hey, J'mema," Skye mumbles, rolling onto her side. "I think I fucked this up."

The heater hums as it kicks on. Jemma used to hum back sarcastically. Maybe Skye should hang up?

She sighs. "I think it's like three am. I haven't slept in a few days, I guess." Oh god. She's tearing up. In her inebriated state, Skye can't really stop it.

"It's hard, Jem," she forces out. "I was dumb and thought that it wouldn't be but—." She sniffles.

"But it's really hard. And I—." Skye drags a tired hand down her face. She feels about a million years old. She feels small and weak and regretful. "I just really need to have you here right now. And always. This isn't a booty call. This is an I love you and I am realizing that you're my soulmate and that I fucked up majorly call."

Do voicemails have a limit? Skye's probably about to hit it. "I guess I'm just trying to say that I love you. And I want you to come home. Or I want to come home. We hadn't picked an apartment yet, had we? God—Jemma—."

Beeeeeeeep

Cool. Okay.

Skye drops the phone beside her on the bed, where Jemma's shoulder would be, if she were here. Skye can nearly picture her, rolling her eyes and telling Skye to get the Advil out before she goes to bed.

God, this is the saddest. She's the saddest. Jemma's probably sleeping fine. She rolls onto her back, tries to starfish out in the center of the bed before the guilt hits her and she returns to her side.

Day 98 without Jemma.

She'll get through it, right?

Pulling the covers over her shoulder, Skye closes her eyes and hopes.

/

Across town, Jemma stares down at her phone.

The message twists her heart, her mouth. Leaves a bitter taste behind.

Skye sounds tired. Sad. A little too much like how Jemma has been feeling since they imploded.

"And I—I just really need you here right now. And always."

Jemma drags her thumb back a few seconds. Listens again.

This can't be healthy. Pining gets you nowhere.

She stops the message; opens up Skye's contact, never deleted, and her smiling face makes Jemma feel an ache in her chest that she has no name for.

A drunk Skye is a tired Skye. She'll be asleep by now. Jemma drops the phone onto the pillow next to her (Skye's pillow, silly as it is to call it that—Skye hasn't slept on it in months). She'll call in the morning.