A/N: Oh hey you. You're looking lovely. Thanks for stopping by to read this!

I know I said that Part III would be Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, but I'm not done with Christmas Day yet and I wanted to get this posted because…well, today is Christmas Eve.

Part IV (Christmas Day) will be coming to you tomorrow, but until then, please enjoy Part III.

Love you all so much for reading and sharing and reviewing and everything else. You're the light of my life.

Enjoy this little installment and have a very happy holiday!

Part III

December 24th, Christmas Eve

"Simmons?"

I'm aware of someone saying my name, but as the last bits of sleep hold on tight to my eyelids and cling tightly to my brain, I can't place the voice.

"Simmons, wake up."

Skye.

Of course. It'd be awfully disconcerting if it were anyone else, given our present situation.

"Jemma, are you awake?" The corners of my lips lift slightly upon hearing my name come from her lips.

"Mmmm," is all I can muster in the way of a response. I turn towards the door and open one eye to see Skye standing next to the bed, hands on her knees as she inspects me for signs of life.

She'd insisted that last night it was her turn to sleep on the couch, and after much protest, I relented.

And now the sun is up and streaming enthusiastically through the wind behind Skye. This immediately strikes me as odd. I'm a morning person in the strongest sense of the phrase. I rarely sleep through sunrise, and honestly can't remember the last time I woke up to sunshine in my room.

"What time is it?"

"Just after nine."

"Shit," I murmur groggily as I toss the blankets off of my legs. I honestly can't remember the last time I slept in. Either I'm catching up on some much-needed rest or that bed is just an unparalleled kind of comfortable.

"Come on, I made breakfast." I can hear the smirk in Skye's voice.

"Really? I thought you didn't cook."

"Yeah, still don't, so don't get your hopes up."

"Pizza? For Breakfast?"

"It's sausage," Skye defends, "which is, if I'm not mistaken, a breakfast food."

"Right," I nod slowly. "I mean, I can't fault the logic."

"Exactly. And it's snowing. Again. I figured a warm breakfast was in order."

I can't help but grin at that. Skye's kind of incredible, if a tad unconventional.

"You've got a point there," I acknowledge.

"Great," she beams. "Dig in."

And we do.

It occurs to me roughly three-quarters of the way through my 'breakfast pizza' that today is Christmas Eve and we've got nothing to do.

Normally, I'd be at home helping mom make dinner, my brother would be sleeping in and my dad would be reading the paper or poking around my grandfather's tool shed for something to tinker with through the afternoon until my mom called at him to 'get off your bum and pitch in for christ's sake.'

Today, though, there was nothing to do. We didn't even have anything planned for dinner. There was a better than good chance it would be the mushroom pizza I saw amongst the sausage and pepperoni. As there was only one mushroom pizza, I can only assume that it's the one Skye was saving for a special occasion. Either that or frozen mushroom pizzas were an usually big hit at the corner store this year.

"So," Skye blows on a second piece of pizza to cool it down, "I was thinking we should get out of the cabin. Take a walk or something. Cabin fever. RedRum. Etcetera."

I consider it for a moment, deciding that a walk sounds quite nice. But the second half of her statement is foreign to me.

"RedRum?"

Skye stops chewing and looks at me strangely. "You've never seen the Shining?"

"No?"

"I see. Well, probably for the best," she shrugs, "but considering you have an axe in the corner, I want to make sure we get you out in the fresh air a bit."

I'm not sure what the axe has to do with RedRum or cabin fever, but I agree. I can think of much worse ways to spend the afternoon of Christmas Eve than taking a walk in the snow with Skye.

"Simmons, I cannot believe you actually brought snowshoes."

"I told you," I respond matter-of-factly, "you never know what might come in handy. And I like to be prepared."

"So I'm gathering," Skye chuckles.

The moment we'd stepped outside the cabin, I'd known it was going to be a snowshoe kind of walk. The snow was at least eight inches deep, and while it's not exactly 'state of emergency' levels, high-stepping through it can be exhausting after half an hour or so.

Fortunately, I'd packed two sets of snowshoes (one new pair and my old 'backup' pair, just in case). In truth, I'm very excited to be using them.

"You just…walk? Like normal? Do you have to do anything?"

"Nope," I smirk. "Just walk like normal. Maybe a little more heel-to-toe so you don't catch it in the snow. But it's really quite easy, I promise."

Skye takes a tentative step forward, wincing as she braces for the worst.

Upon see that it's no different from walking without snowshoes, she takes another step. And then another.

"Hey Simmons," she calls back at me over her shoulder. "This is pretty cool. You really ought keep up."

I roll my eyes, all but grinning as I finish fastening my snowshoes. "Right, right. I'll do my best." With my snowshoes on, I stand and hurry after Skye, who's now skipping on the snow, humming what I think might be the tune to 'Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree'.

"Come on, Jems," she calls behind her. "We only have all bloody day!"

After about two miles or so, we slow a little bit to take advantage of a small clearing and a large, sloped boulder that's perfect for sitting.

"Snowshoes are the coolest."

"You like them?"

Skye nods emphatically.

"They're like magic."

"Well, actually it's just a matter of weight distribution."

Skye turns to me and grins. "Magic."

She looks at me with snow in her eyelashes and on her hat and in her hair, and I think that she must be right. Because even though I've only just met Skye a little over thirty-two and a half hours ago, I can't help nor explain the way my heart speeds up like a bicycle with no brakes careening down a steep hill when she talks or smiles or pours herself a cup of coffee.

Surely there's nothing to it. It's the holidays and there's no one else around, we were bound to bond at least a little bit. How could we not? Skye's kind and smart and sweet and generous and fascinating and…beautiful.

Damn.

Well, there's no denying it. She is beautiful.

"Earth to Simmons," Skye waves a gloved hand in front of my face. "You alright?"

When I turn to look at her, there's a small smile on her face and I can see her breath in the cold in the space between us.

Without any kind of permission from my brain, my eyes drift downward to her lips, covered in the Chapstick I'd let her borrow before we left the cottage. I feel myself swallow unconsciously as I try desperately to kick my stupid brain back into gear. I feel warm and cold and shivery and my heart is pounding and I'm thinking that this feeling bears an uncanny resemblance to the flu.

It's only when Skye reaches up to adjust her hat that I snap back to my senses. I stand up so quickly that I almost fall over, desperate for the snow-covered ground to open up and swallow me whole.

I can't bear to look at Skye, so instead I pretend to adjust something on my snowshoe.

"Simmons," Skye says, and I can see her stand up from the rock out of the corner of my eye. "You know what else I've never done?"

"Mmm?" I manage without turning towards her.

"Had a snowball fight."

I stand up and cast a curious glance at Skye just in time to be met directly in the chest with-you guessed it-a snowball.

Feeling my embarrassment fade (if only slightly), I duck to grab a handful of snow and shape it into a ball.

I scan the area nearby, searching for Skye, who's likely taken cover behind a tree.

"You picked one hell of a first competitor, Skye," I say cheekily. "I come from a long line of champion snowball throwers." I squint, trying to find a hint of Skye in the trees. "In fact," I continue, now confident that I've spotted a bit of her jacket, "my Uncle Eldis was knighted for his contribution to the sport of snowball-throwing in England."

I'm pulling my arm back in preparation for the throw when Skye steps out from behind the tree with her arms raised.

"Okay, okay. Maybe I'm in over my head. I surrender."

I grin, amused that she bought the lie about 'Uncle Eldis'.

As I lower my arm, Skye launches a snowball she'd been hiding up her sleeve at me so quickly that I scarcely have time to react. It hits me in the shoulder and before I can retaliate, she's running and diving behind another tree for cover.

I can't help but laugh. "Well-played, Skye. Well-played," I stoop to gather up more fresh snow for a new snowball. "But now, it's war."

We return to the cottage as the afternoon darkens and fades into evening. We'd become quite cold and wet and tired between the snowball fight and the hiking.

When we finally make it inside and flop onto the couch, exhausted, it occurs to me that we still don't have anything planned for Christmas Eve dinner. Or Christmas Night dinner, for that matter.

After a minute or two of resting on the couch and warming up, I stand resolutely and move into the kitchen to take stock of our ingredients and see what we might be able to come up with.

"Simmons, what are you doing?" Skye asks from the couch, where she's still sprawled contently.

"Trying to decide what we should make for Christmas Eve dinner."

"Oh?" This piques Skye's interest. "What's the verdict?"

"Well, we don't have much in the way of festive food, but I think we might be able to come up with something," I take out what I think we can use. "How do you feel about chopping onions?"

"Simmons, I can't even believe you managed to make this out of what we had."

I feel myself blush as I mash the potatoes. "It's nothing, really. Not much to it. Besides which, it isn't finished yet. For all you know, it might be garbage."

Michael Bublé's singing softly in the background through the small portable speaker that Skye brought in from her van. At first, I'd questioned the music choice; Skye didn't seem like your typical Bublé enthusiast. But she'd shushed me gently and said 'It's Christmas, and at Christmas time, you need Bublé.'

And so, it was Skye and Michael Bublé and I prepping dinner as best we could with what we'd managed to bring along.

Now, the chicken's nearly ready, as is the mushroom pizza, the mashed potatoes, and the 'stuffing', which is really just a mess of soggy bread, pasta, onions and peppers. I'm not confident that it's going to turn out exactly as we'd hoped.

"Nonsense," Skye says, practically reading my mind. She takes a few steps around the island in the center of the kitchen to stand next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. "It's going to be perfect." She smiles genuinely. Her entire face lights up and her eyes dance by the light of the fire.

She's standing so close that I don't have a prayer of coming up with something coherent to say in response, but she doesn't move. She just looks at me with an expression that I'm struggling to read. It's tender and sweet and warm and-

As if on cue, the timer I'd set for the pizza goes off, buzzing loudly and driving a large, invisible wedge between us.

I clear my throat awkwardly and run a self-conscious hand through my hair.

"Right," I say shakily. "Better get that."

"Jemma, that was incredible."

I smile, my head leaned back and resting against the cushions of the couch.

"It wasn't too bad, was it?"

"It was by far the most amazing Christmas Eve meal I've ever had. Ever."

I feel that now-familiar twinge of joy and sadness at such an admission. Sitting up, I face her and smile widely when I see that she's sprawled across the other end of the couch, her eyes closed and her mouth split into a grin: the very picture of contentment.

"Merry Christmas, Skye."

She opens her eyes, sits up, and smiles back at me.

For a brief moment, she seems as though she's considering something very carefully. Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks at me with uncertainty written across her features.

A split second later, her expression becomes resolute and she's scooting closer to me on the couch until her left hip comes in contact with my right and our shoulders are touching. Then, her hand finds its way to mine and before I even fully grasp what's happening, her fingers are laced between my own. Her wrist comes into contact with the heel of my palm and I swear that for a second I can feel her pulse racing.

She turns towards me and though I've felt mostly clueless thus far when it comes to reading Skye, I don't need any help interpreting the question she's asking me with her eyes.

'Is this okay?' she questions silently.

And then I can't help but grin so enthusiastically that I think my face might split right in half.

'Of course it is,' I answer with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, hoping she understands.

And she must, because she settles in and leans just the slightest bit closer.

"Merry Christmas, Jemma."

A/N: I know it wasn't Christmas Eve AND Christmas, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same. Part IV (Christmas Day) is coming your way tomorrow.

Until then, enjoy your family and friends and have a very happy holiday!