Chapter Text
June 1958.
“Can’t you stay?”
Fitz’s eyes are warm and blue as they peer out from beneath rumpled bedsheets. They melt her heart and she softens a little from where she fastens her shoes at the edge of the bed. She touches his face with her hand, marvelling, not for the first time, how smooth the skin is beneath her fingertips.
“You know that I can’t. I have to go to a meeting.”
A meeting that she forgot all about until she awoke this morning, pressed tightly to Fitz’s chest and saw the alarm clock on his bedside table. How funny, that the night before she had completely forgotten about what comes the morning after.
“Forget the meeting,” he tells her, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Stay here. With me.”
“I’d love nothing more,” she sighs because she would indeed love nothing more. “But I have to go. They’ll be expecting me.”
The light is low and he looks at her with such warmth in his eyes that she feels she could turn molten right here, right now. Before last night she had looked at him as only an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend at a stretch, and she had imagined he had looked at her the same. Now the world has tilted on its axis, and nothing is as it was before.
“Will I see you again?”
The question is asked lightly, but she sees the shadow that crosses his face. Oh, Fitz. Surely he knew, when they came back together last night, slightly tipsy, pressing themselves to each other as though there could simply be not even an inch of space between them, that this could not be a permanent arrangement. They are so very different people, from two very different backgrounds. Their lives are destined to go in entirely different directions. To start something now would be the act of lunacy. Surely Fitz knows that.
“I don’t know,” she tells him honestly, not having the heart to do anything other. “I’m going back to my parents’ tomorrow night and then after…” she shrugs her shoulders. “Well, who knows?”
“The entire world at your feet,” he says, smiling but his eyes are sad. They are very expressive, she has noted. She can see every thought within them. “I’m going back to Glasgow the day after next.”
“Then perhaps we might never see each other again.”
“Oh, I don’t know. When you’re a famous writer you might take it upon yourself to invite me to one of your fancy dinner parties that I’m sure you’ll be throwing every night.”
She laughs. Has she really been that transparent? The famous writer part is her secret dream, something she craves to an almost obsessive degree. The dinner parties would just be a bonus. “I might just do that, Fitz. But what about you? When you’re a fancy lawyer living in the big city in your big house, will you even have time for me?”
“Jemma Simmons,” he says solemnly. “I shall always have time for you.”
There’s such an ache, about the size of her first, that nestles in amongst her ribs. It settles there and is present even as she finishes dressing, as she kisses him on the cheek goodbye. It’s present as she takes her meeting with the other writers of the student newspaper, making it hard to laugh at the jokes and be sad during the goodbyes. It’s present as she packs up her tiny room, belongings going neatly inside her suitcase. It’s there as she boards her train, as she tries to very hard to prepare herself for life back at her parents’ estate.
The ache is there so long that it becomes a part of her, as much a part as her heart or her brain, and soon she becomes so accustomed to it that she can’t imagine how she ever lived in a time where there wasn’t an ache, where there wasn’t a time that she missed Leopold Fitz.
-x-
He was a friend of a friend at first. There was another girl who wrote for the student newspaper, a tall, blonde American who was loud and fun and held herself with a confidence Jemma envied. Her name was Barbara, but she went by Bobbi and dared anyone to do otherwise. This girl cornered her one day after a meeting and told her she should come to the union with her group of friends.
“Oh, no. I don’t think so,” Jemma had stammered, trying to stay cool but failing miserably as the heat crept to her cheeks. “I have rather a lot of work to do.”
Bobbi hadn’t seemed fussed, and there was a twinkle in her eye when she said. “And? There’s later for work. Come on, Jemma. Just an hour, two tops. You’ll be back in your rooms before you know it.”
Fitz had been there, at that first meeting, though she hadn’t known his name then. He was the quiet boy, neat and tidy, who stood at the edge of this rambunctious crowd that Bobbi had assembled. A little pasty, but handsome, and with blue eyes that were soft and kind. Jemma had liked the look of him almost immediately and had been on her way to say hello, ask him who he might be, before she was swept off, waylaid by someone else, and forgot almost entirely about him.
Jemma Simmons has always prided herself on never getting too emotional about things. She has never been one to be tied down by such fiddly things as feelings that can seem so sure in one moment and slip through your fingers the next. So, it’s with great confusion that she sits in the familiar rooms of her parent’s house, in her familiar seat by the window, feeling so confused and unsure and completely and utterly unable to forget about him now.
-x-
In another life, she wonders if she should have said something then, on that first night. Perhaps it would have changed the outcome entirely.
-x-
The Summer rolls on, ever so slowly, and living at home that no longer seems like home becomes intolerable.
“Darling, as you sure you’re feeling alright?” Her mother asks, for seemingly the tenth time today. “You’re looking quite white.”
“I’m fine,” Jemma snaps, patience wearing thin. “It’s just tiredness and this dreadful Summer cold. I’m sure it’ll pass soon.”
Her mother makes a noise in the back of her throat. “What a long cold it has been. If you’re not better by the end of the week then I’m calling for the doctor. Those dark circles keep getting bigger and bigger.”
Jemma has been feeling rather off lately. She’s sure it’s just down to her writing into the wee hours of the morning, the usual strains that come from being in close proximity to her mother and father, and the dreadful weather they’ve been having so far. All the same, her mother’s promise to call out the doctor has her feeling nervous in a way she can’t explain, and nothing seems to quieten her queasy stomach.
More than once she picks up her pen for a different reason, and every time she puts it back down again. For a writer, it’s amazing how easily she suddenly has nothing to say.
-x-
The doctor is an older gentleman, around sixty, with shockingly white hair and a moustache that has been twirled at the ends. He has a soft Welsh accent and a leather bag and reminds her of a grandfather she has never had. He delivers his diagnosis gently, but even still it hits her as though she has been punched.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s simply not possible.”
“My dear,” the doctor sighs. “You can say it as many times as you like but that doesn’t change the fact that you are expecting.”
She hates the way he says it - expecting. She was expecting a lot of things: a job, a husband, freedom from this dull house with its dull ways. She was expecting to have accomplished numerous things by the time she had to worry about something like this. What she was not expecting was a baby.
“I had plans,” she says weakly and regrets it as soon as she does. It’s not the doctor’s fault, after all. He’s not the one who got her into this mess.
“Well, you know what they say about the best-laid of them,” he says, gathering up his things and putting them in his bag. “They often go awry.”
She glares at him, unappreciative of his wit. “And what do you suggest I do?”
“Miss Simmons, I’m simply a doctor, not a priest or any other sort of figure you can turn to for absolution. I shall provide you with care of the highest standard, but I’m afraid that’s all I can do.”
She bites her lip. “Will you tell my parents?”
He shakes his head. “No. You are twenty-one, not some foolish child. That, my dear, is up to you.”
“I’m unmarried-”
“I’m aware,” he says, gravely. “But I’m afraid babies don’t really care about all of that.”
Babies might not but society certainly does. Her parents most certainly do. There’s an urge to be sick and she has to swallow it down.
The doctor goes to leave but before he opens the door and gives scent to the wolves, he gives her a warm look that makes her feel better for just a moment.
“You’re not the first unmarried mother, and you won’t be the last. This is not the end of the world. Call me out again when you’re ready.” He nods his head once and goes.
She simply sits on her bed in shock, unable to comprehend anything clearly. She’s pregnant. She’s twenty-one. She has a degree in English Literature. She’s slept with one man in her entire life. She’s unmarried, not even close to being so. She’s pregnant.
She had so many dreams. She was going to write a novel and move into a grand flat in London and perhaps she’d travel the world someday. She’d host dinner parties that people would kill for invitations to and when people saw her in the street, they would be filled with nothing but envy and longing because she was Jemma Simmons, an extraordinary writer and she had made it.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
That’s the English translation, she thinks dully, thoughts poking at her through the haze in her mind. The original is from a poem by Robert Burns.
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley
A Scottish poem, with awkward syllables, hard to get the tongue around if you’re not used to them. She’s never heard the poem told by a Scot before except…
Oh.
He’ll have to be told and she’ll have to do it now before she loses the bottle. When he gave her his address, hastily scribbled on the back of another envelope and pressed into her hand before she’d left his room, he can’t have imagined it would have been used for this. There’s a taste of regret in Jemma’s mouth and no amount of swallowing will make it go away.
She picks up her pen, pulls out a sheet of paper, scribbling before her mother comes in. At least, now, she has something to say.
-x-
She wonders what would happen if, in another life, she didn’t tell him. If one day they chanced upon each other in the street, years and years later and he looked at their child and looked at her. Would he see anything, she wonders? Would he know? Or would he assume that she had moved on, as he would have undoubtedly with his own life?
Would he nod? Would he smile? Or would he simply walk on by?
-x-
She writes that she will meet him in Cambridge, and that’s exactly what she does.
The city is bustling as it always is, people rushing to and from, not even a sign of laziness on this uncomfortably hot Summer’s day. She gets there early and goes to the café they have agreed to meet at. It will give her time to look at the notecards she has in her bag, unable as she was to read them on the train, the combination of words and motion of the train making her feel sicker than ever.
Cambridge. A trek for her, even more so for him, but it had to be here. This city is where it began after all. Cambridge was meant to be a freedom, a dip of her toe into the great wide world. Instead, she has left even more trapped than ever and the chances that are slipping through her fingers before she even truly got to feel them is the worst part of it all.
Fitz arrives at exactly twelve and it’s not hard to miss his grin as he approaches. Her heart soars for a second as she forgets.
“I expected you to be late,” she remarks, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor in her voice. “Aren’t you always late for everything?”
“I came down yesterday.” His accent has gotten thicker. She wonders if he misses home when he’s away. “Stayed with a friend.”
“Of course.” She is staying in a hotel. Her parents think she is here for a job interview and to meet a friend. How she wishes that were the truth. “How have you been, Fitz?”
“Good,” he says smiling, eyes as warm as she remembers. “Got a job. Not very well paying but I don’t mind. I’m thinking about getting a flat – some friends have a room going spare.” He laughs. “They want to get a dog. How have you been?”
“Also good. I’ve been applying to magazines and things…” but she trails off, unable to finish. Hearing him talk about his future is hard, of course, but talking about her own is worse. If he so chooses, he can walk away from this and still have that job and the flat and even the dog. It’s not quite the same for her.
“Are you alright, Jemma?” He asks, leaning across the table slightly. She must look a fright.
“Actually, Fitz, I’m… well, I have something to share with you, but before I do, I’d just like you to promise me that you won’t say anything for a minute afterwards.”
The smile has dimmed slightly and he nods. “Alright.”
Over and over again she has wondered what the best way to break the news is. There have been many different scenarios she has either written down or left in her head and each has been abandoned. How do you deliver such world-stopping news as this?
“I’m pregnant.”
Apparently just as it is.
For a second, she stops breathing, and she wonders if he does, too. Unable to look at him in those first few moments, she stares at the table.
He says nothing for a minute as she had asked him to, but then the minute stretches into two, then three and finally she can bear it no longer. She looks at him. His skin has turned even paler than a moment ago, and he has clasped his hands together on the tabletop, staring into them intently.
“Fitz?” She prompts, gently. “Are you alright?”
“I just-I don’t. How?” He looks at her plaintively. “It was once and we used, um, you know.” He flushes red. “I’m so sorry.”
Despite the graveness of the situation they find themselves in, she laughs. “Oh, Fitz. It’s not your fault. We were both there and if anything, I was the one who propositioned you.” She reaches out and puts her hand over his. “I’m not going to make you do anything, you know. I thought you should know, but I don’t need anything.”
His voice is hoarse; it is as if he is being strangled. “What are you saying? Of course, you do.”
“No,” she says, retracting her hand. “I do not. I’m quite capable of this by myself.”
Finally, his face has some colour to it, a slight reddening. She doesn’t know him well enough to label it, but she thinks it could be anger.
“So you don’t need me then, is that it? You’ve got it all figured out already.”
“Fitz, no, that’s not what I meant. All I meant was that I’m not expecting much from you.”
It’s the wrong word to use, and not what she meant at all, but it’s too late. The devastation that it wreaks it written all over Fitz’s face.
“Wow,” he whispers. “Good to know.”
“Ugh,” she huffs, thinking that they’ve both done the same thing and said nothing of what they both actually meant. “I think we both need a bit of time-”
“You might say that.”
“-so here’s the address of my hotel and the room I’m staying in. I’ll be there until eleven o’clock tomorrow. It’s up to you whether you come or not.”
She writes the details on a spare notecard and places it down on the table with more force than she means to, walking away immediately after and trying not to cry. Dammit. She wasn’t afraid to tell him, as strange as it was. Nervous, yes, but not afraid, and now it seems it’s all gone to hell.
That night she can’t sleep, and she tosses and turns in amongst the comfortable sheets, nausea keeping her awake. Nothing seems to help, not the plans she writes up in her notebook or the book she brought to soothe her mind. It’s a truly miserable night, made worse by the fact that she can’t see an end to them anytime soon.
The next morning, Fitz knocks on her hotel room door with a ring in his hand.
It’s early, just after eight, and he’s lucky that she’s been awake and dressed since six. He doesn’t seem to have had an easy night of it himself; his hair sticks up at odd angles and there are dark circles under his eyes. Her heart jumps at the sight.
“My father isn’t, well, he isn’t winning any awards any time soon,” he says, jumping straight in after she invites him inside. “And I know how much that hurts and I don’t want to be like that for my child; just some ghost in a picture or that disapproving shadow at their shoulder for the rest of their life.”
It hits Jemma, not for the first time, how little she knows about Fitz. They were acquaintances, really, friends of friends, and now there’s a child linking them, no matter what, for the rest of their lives.
“I’m not making you do anything, truly, and I don’t want to be the person who tells you what to do, Jemma. It’s just I know – can only imagine – how hard it would be to be an unmarried mother and I don’t want that for you. Not when it’s not just your responsibility.” He holds out the ring. “It’s up to you, but the offer of marriage is there if you want it. If you don’t that’s okay, too, but no matter what I would like to be involved.” His blue eyes bore into hers; it’s almost as though they reach right into her soul. If she believed in such a ridiculous notion that is. “Please.”
Her heart softens, turns molten within her chest. The ache intensifies. “Of course, Fitz. Of course. I would never keep your child from you, married or unmarried. I promise.”
The most intense declaration she has ever made in her entire life and she makes it to the man with the pasty face and warm blue eyes. A promise she intends to keep.
“Good.” His smile is the purest thing of all; she’ll treasure it in her mind for a long while to come. “Thank you.” He shuffles where he stands. “And uh, about the ring?”
About the ring? She still doesn’t know. To be unmarried is an awful thing for some, but to be trapped in a marriage without love is worse for her. She likes Fitz, truly, and he makes her laugh and he’s kind and smart but does she love him? One day maybe she could, but for now, she barely knows him.
Yet it’s not just her she has to think of now; it’s the little almond-shaped baby growing inside her that also demands her attention. To be an unmarried mother would be challenging for her, but not impossible to deal with. For her child, though, it could be a different story. What rights and privileges would she be denying them? Would they already be at a disadvantage before they have even drawn their first breath?
There’s also another reason, a slightly less pressing issue but one that is much more tangible. Her parents, who are not as open-minded as they might believe themselves to be. Her family, her friends, that high society lot who would scorn her and cast her aside if they knew. How wonderful to be able to tell her parents that she’s in the family way and say, but it’s alright, mum. It’s fine. I have it all sorted. Look, his name is Fitz.
Love is important but it’s not everything. She nods at Fitz and gives him an almost bewildered smile. “Alright then. Let’s get married.”