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“Jemma.”
Jemma looked over her shoulder, before stopping in her tracks and turning around. “Enoch,” she responded, smiling in a friendly manner.
The Chronicom held out his hand, revealing a small jump drive. “You have received a new voice log.”
Jemma couldn’t stop her lips from pulling wide. Aside from short live audio transmissions during missions, her contact with Fitz had been deliberately restricted to only occasional voice recordings. She took the device from Enoch, her fingers absentmindedly playing with it as she stared at it, her mind briefly recounting Fitz’s last message and her own reply. She looked up, exhaling sharply. “Were you able to decipher it?”
Enoch stood in his usual way, his arms crossed behind his back, his head ticked minimally to the side, his eyebrows raised. “I was unsuccessful, yet again. The code that you and Fitz have developed is rather impressive.”
One corner of Jemma’s lips ticked up proudly. “As long as you can’t decipher it, the other Chronicoms wouldn’t be able to either.”
“That is a logical conclusion.” Enoch bobbed his head. “However, I must reiterate the concerns I voiced when you and Fitz devised your plan. Should the Chronicom hunters get a hold of either one of you—”
“—they would put us in their mind prison and learn the method behind our code,” Jemma concluded. “We are aware, Enoch, which is why our messages are entirely private in nature.”
Enoch wrinkled his forehead slightly. “In that case, your level of secrecy and encryption seems overly cautious. Even if my fellow Chronicoms should intercept one of your messages, what use would they have for private—”
“They’ve proven that any piece of information could become a weakness in their hands,” Jemma countered. “We can’t be too careful. Plus,” she couldn’t help but smirk, “where would be the fun in that? Our current method requires research on both our ends. On the one hand it’s an enjoyable challenge. On the other hand,” she sighed deeply, “it’s a way to keep ourselves occupied. Stop our minds from—” She paused, not wishing to make her mood heavier than it already was most of the time. Instead she tried to refocus. “‘What ifs’ won’t help us. Excessive worrying won’t help us. This allows us to keep busy while still communicating with each other.”
“In that case,” the Chronicom replied, “I hope you will enjoy deciphering Fitz’s message, and that one day, when all of this is over, the two of you will be able to reveal your—how does Daisy Johnson put it—’wack-o encryption tactics’ to me.”
Jemma chuckled. “We’d be happy to.”
Jemma sat down at her desk. She undid her intricate updo, placing the hairpins into a small ceramic bowl next to a picture of Fitz. Her fingers traced his jawline, a sad smile flashing across her face. She loosened her hair further, looking to the side to view herself in the mirror on the wall. She knew he wouldn’t see her. Voice messages were all they’d agreed on. Still, it had become a ritual to receive his messages, to decipher them, and looking good was a part of it. She always pictured him deciphering her own messages, so in case Fitz did the same, she wanted to make sure his imagination would be matched by reality. She exhaled sharply, before plugging the jump drive into her laptop. She launched the transcription program before opening the voice log file, watching the audio file frequencies flicker up in front of her, the only visual representation of Fitz she had that wasn’t an outdated photograph, an old video, or what her mind conjured up.
After a brief moment of static, Fitz’s voice echoed through her room, and as usual, the gentle sound of his Scottish brogue brought tears to her eyes.
“Jemma,” he said softly—their names being some of the only words they allowed themselves to say without any encryption, “vv0183792—01-13-37—”
Jemma glanced at the transcription program, ensuring it transcribed his message accurately, her mind already beginning to think about decoding his message.
vv indicated a movie or TV show, two letters over from tt , which always preceded movie designations on IMDb. The designation number was altered as well, the final digit raised by two. Only the minute indicator of the time stamp was altered—raised by two. Had it been a TV show, the episode number would have been raised by two as well—but not the series number. Two—like the two of them—the most important number—them—together—always. They had discussed at length whether they should alternate by how many letters or digits to modify the IMDb, Worldcat, or music library entries, but in the end they decided to keep it simple. Chronicoms wouldn’t expect a simple encryption, and the fact that their entire messages were composed of movie and book quotes that were themselves disguised by IMDb and library catalogue entries, time stamps and page numbers—it seemed sufficient. The fact that Enoch had not yet been able to decipher their encoding system seemed to prove their point.
Jemma listened as Fitz read his message. She could tell that despite the fact that he was reading out numbers, he still tried to put emotions behind his secret words, which was why she would always listen to his message one last time once she had completely deciphered his voice logs, once she knew what words the numbers represented, to hear the message like he intended it to be heard, being read in his voice to her and only her. She’d listen to it, try to absorb the sound of each letter, each gentle rolling r, before destroying the message—as they’d agreed upon.
To an outsider, it might seem ridiculous, listening to every word, every syllable, when there didn’t seem to be meaning behind those numbers, but to her it meant the world. It was all they had left, and when all that is left is listening to the love of your life doing the equivalent of reading a telephone book, then that’s what you’ll do, that’s what’ll become the most favorite part of your days, a rare ray of sunshine in a world that otherwise had become complicated and empty in many regards.
“—vv0436994—07-07—37-04.” She recognized those numbers, knew what they represented: the end of his message, a valediction he’d started using a few messages ago (and she was only slightly jealous that he’d come up with it instead of her). There was a short pause in the message before Fitz concluded with his name, the single word laced with a sad longing. “Fitz.”
She switched over to the transcription program and organized the long list of numbers by the individual entries, before opening up the various databases to begin looking them up.
“A Knight’s Tale?” she muttered aloud when she’d found the first entry. She scoffed in amusement. One day when they were reunited, she would have to tease him just a little for the various random and often cheesily romantic movies he seemingly had watched on his quest to find suitable quotes for their messages. Then again, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
Once she’d gained access to the movie, she skipped straight to the time stamp in Fitz’s message. This was what she usually did, though sometimes she ended up watching those same movies later on and taking comfort in the fact that at some point, Fitz had seen those same scenes, listened to those same lines—maybe not with her, but nonetheless somewhere, sometime.
She watched as someone with a quill wrote a letter, before the camera panned to a woman reading it aloud, her tone laced with emotion.
I miss you like the sun misses the flower . Like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Instead of beauty to direct its light to, the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has banished me to.
Jemma’s lips quivered as tears shot to her eyes. Their messages were often quite similar in content: reiterations of how they missed each other, how they loved each other.
I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you . I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.
How one day they’d be reunited and get to live the life they’d dreamed of.
Now, even more than I had earlier when I'd first glimpsed it, I longed to be transported into that quiet little landscape, to walk up the path, to take a key from my pocket and open the cottage door , to sit down by the fireplace, to wrap my arms around myself, and to stay there forever and ever.
Sometimes, Fitz tried to inquire about their friends, their family, using the unique code they’d come up with (and his usual touch of humor) to modify their chosen quotes: people’s initials with the letters two steps removed. He did it rarely, though. It was risky, as they tried to provide as little detail as possible, in case a message got intercepted and deciphered by the Chronicoms.
Does [Deke] [still] take pride in being an insufferable know-it-all ?
Their messages were always similar, and yet, no matter the words Fitz chose, it always flooded her with emotions. Still, though the task of deciphering his voice logs was emotionally draining, it was also uplifting—and it always seemed to leave her more uplifted than drained.
And then there was his valediction that summarized it all so well.
It was only one sentence of one of their favorite Doctor Who scenes, and yet for Jemma, it was clear as day that Fitz was really referring to the entire scene. It wasn’t just that they were doing it together—no matter how apart they were physically. It was that though they—like Amy and Rory—would do anything to save the other, together they could save the future, together they could save the world.
It was a sacrifice to be apart, to not communicate except for those short snippets, those scrambled voice logs, but they knew it would all be worth it in the end, and their marriage was stronger for it.
Jemma read through the entire message, wiping away the stray tears that snaked down her cheeks. Then she played the voice log one more time, pretending that instead of numbers and letters, Fitz was saying those words to her. Her finger hovered over the delete button. As always, it took all her willpower to press it, erase his voice again as if a part of her heart vanished until his next message would restore it.
It pained her that it had to be this way, but the alternative was even more unbearable.
Jemma sighed, before opening up her movie library, searching for A Knight’s Tale . Maybe tonight would be a movie night. A little extra research for her next message to him.
Fitz glanced at the photo of Jemma on his desk, a sad smile flashing across his face. He combed through his hair with his fingers, trying to tame his curls, before plugging the jump drive Hunter had given him into his laptop. He knew Jemma couldn’t see him. Still, it had become a ritual to receive her messages, to decipher them, and looking good was a part of it. He always pictured her deciphering his own messages, so in case Jemma did the same, he wanted to make sure her imagination would be matched by reality. He launched the transcription program before opening the voice log file, watching the audio file frequencies flicker up in front of him, the only visual representation of Jemma he had that wasn’t an outdated photograph, an old video, or what his mind conjured up.
After a brief moment of static, her voice echoed through the room, and as usual, the gentle sound of her English accent brought tears to Fitz’s eyes.
“Fitz,” she said softly—their names being some of the only words they allowed themselves to say without encryption, “vv0183792—01-14-22—”
Fitz looked at his transcription program, ensuring it wrote down her message correctly. He furrowed his brow. “Wait, isn’t that—?”
He paused her message, curiosity getting the better of him. He looked up the entry on IMDb and scoffed in amusement when A Knight’s Tale popped up on his screen. “I knew you’d watch it,” he mumbled, a boyish grin playing on his lips. Still, he decided to wait until the entire message was transcribed before looking up the actual quote.
“vv0436994—07-07—37-04,” Jemma eventually concluded, and Fitz knew he wouldn’t have to look up her valediction. It had become their tradition, one that seemed so utterly fitting.
Fitz sighed, shifting his focus from the audio file to the finished transcription. He interlaced his fingers and pressed his palms forward. “Alright then,” he prepared himself, beginning to divide the various letter and number combinations into individual entries.
Once he was finished, he opened his copy of A Knight’s Tale and skipped forward to the appropriate scene. He chuckled quietly when he realized that Jemma’s quote was taken from the same scene as his message to her.
Hope guides me . It is what gets me through the day and especially the night. The hope that after you're gone from my sight it will not be the last time I look upon you.
Fitz sniffed, the video becoming blurry in front of his tear-filled eyes.
Our love is like the wind— , Jemma’s message continued, I can't see it, but I sure can feel it.
Fitz’s lips pulled wide at the thought. He bit his lower lip and nodded. “Sure can,” he muttered to the universe in agreement, imagining that Jemma could somehow hear his answer. He made a mental note to find a quote to reply to this particular part of her message.
Her message went on to somewhat lighter topics, even touching upon Fitz’s humorous remark about their grandson.
[Re Deke:] I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones . For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed.
Yet, eventually, her tone shifted again. He had noticed it even when all he had to go by were letters and numbers she read aloud, but once he had deciphered the message, it became clear that she indeed had grown more contemplative again.
Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place? , she philosophized, and all Fitz could do was agree wholeheartedly.
'Cause every night, I lie in bed. The brightest colors fill my head. A million dreams are keeping me awake. I think of what the world could be. A vision of the one I see. A million dreams is all it's gonna take. Oh, a million dreams for the world we're gonna make.
Fitz listened as the song ebbed away, tears once again clouding his eyes. He closed them, a single tear rolling down his cheek, leaving a thin watery trail. It didn’t surprise him that they shared so many dreams of the future, but the thought that Jemma—like himself—had to endure those lonely dream-filled nights alone—without an end date in sight—pained his heart.
The ghosts that we knew will flicker from view and we’ll live a long life.
And there it was again, what maybe set her apart most from him—that bright shimmer of hope that she always seemed to hold onto and that allowed him to hang on as well.
When you look up at the sky at night , since I shall be living on one of them and laughing on one of them, for you it will be as if all the stars were laughing. You and only you will have stars that can laugh.
Fitz scoffed, a sound between a laugh and a sob. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, trying to push back the tears, but he was helpless against the flood of emotions that her quote had opened. He dropped his head back, inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling sharply through rounded lips. He got up, walking over to the small window in his room, and looked outside. There was no way for him to see the stars, and yet, his imagination was strong enough to allow him a glimpse of the night sky. He closed his eyes, conjuring up an image of Jemma, her smile, her gentle eyes, her joyful laughter.
Slowly, his lips pulled into a smile. He sniffed away the last few tears, before opening his eyes again, bobbing his head in agreement with Jemma’s message.
He walked back to his desk, and though he knew that he didn’t have to look up her valediction, he played the Doctor Who episode nonetheless, to remind himself of all it represented.
Together or not at all.
It wasn’t the first time that they had hugged after having been separated—for hours, days, weeks, months. They didn’t think it was possible that with each separation their reunions hugs could become tighter as they clung to each other, trying to make every micrometer of space between them disappear. And yet, when they fell into each other’s arms this time, they both hugged each other so tightly that it was almost painful. Yet, the joy of finally being able to hold the other again, smell them, touch them, see them, made up for any potential physical discomfort of holding on to each other more tightly than seemed humanly possible.
Both laughed, both cried, as their hands roamed across each other’s back, fingers combing through hair, eyes searching each other.
Fitz cupped Jemma’s face, the gesture made awkward by Jemma trying to do the same. Yet they didn’t care, their lips finally meeting after a separation far too long. Despite having been in contact, or maybe because of it—this separation had hurt them the most and yet had been the most bearable. It was full of contradictions that now that it was over dissipated into thin air.
“vv0436994—07-07—37-04,” Fitz whispered against Jemma’s lips, his thumbs caressing the soft skin below her eyes to wipe away the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Jemma’s eyes sparkled, a sound between a laugh and a cry escaping her. “You do realize we can now speak in full sentences to each other again?”
Fitz shrugged slightly. “Wasn’t sure if you’d still recognize me if I did that,” he joked, one corner of his mouth ticking up teasingly.
Jemma laughed out loud. “I think I’ll manage.”
She inhaled a sharp breath when Fitz closed the gap between them, their kiss quickly growing in urgency.
Jemma broke away, pressing her palms against his stubble and looking into his eyes with conviction. “Together or not at all,” she repeated what he’d said in code.
A smile flashed across Fitz’s face. “‘Not at all’ was never an option,” he replied, before kissing her once more, with longing and the promise that they would now finally be able to start the future they had saved and start it the way they wanted to.