Who: Gemma Davenport & Fletcher Charleston What: Gemma has an idea... Where: Chez Davenport, LA When: Wednesday night, September 15th Warnings: TBA?
Gemma was having a hard time accepting it, but she had been a fool to dismiss Fletcher's fears as simple paranoia. He had been right about everything, on every account but one: his former comrades had gone after Abigail instead, and tortured her within an inch of her sanity. After seeing the young Jedi looking so drained and empty in the clinic, Gemma almost wished they had gone after her. It killed her to see Abigail like that, and she felt guiltier than ever for getting her involved. But, if nothing else, the past weekend had at least put her life in very clear perspective. If she wanted to keep more people from getting hurt – hell, if she wanted to keep living, she had to make some changes.
The first change was obvious. She had to move. Fletcher was right about that. But she wasn't going to sell her house. She was willing to live somewhere else until things got better, as she so desperately hoped they would, but she wasn't willing to give up her home just yet. Besides, she rationalized, if she didn't officially change her address, it would be harder for people to find her, and that was the whole idea, wasn't it? Whatever his objections, Fletcher was just going to have to live with it, and he couldn't very well complain. She'd spent every night this week poring over real estate listings online, showing him (much smaller) houses that she liked. So far, they hadn't found anything suitable. Fletcher was awfully picky. Understandably so. For her part, she was trying her hardest not to get frustrated. That wouldn't help anything.
The other change had occurred to her the night before. She had woken up in the middle of the night and just watched Fletcher until she fell back asleep. She woke up thinking about it, and had spent the entire day at work mulling over it, arguing back and forth with herself until she couldn't argue anymore. She honestly couldn't see a downside to it. The only tricky thing would be convincing Fletcher, but she was sure she could do it. Probably. If she did it right.
So, she came home from work late that evening (which was nothing new), put her things away in her office, and found Fletcher in the kitchen making dinner, like he did every night. She lingered in the doorway, biting her lip indecisively before finally blurting out what she wanted to say.