Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Laud. I think this might be the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

Imogen’s voice is muffled from where she’s pressing her face into Laudna’s kitchen table, hoping that if she pushes hard enough, she’ll simply become part of it. It’s a last resort after slamming into it only resulted in an aching forehead and the prelude to a nasty bruise.

To cut a long story short, Imogen has fucked up. Really, truly, royally, fucked the fuck up. And that’s all anyone needs to know ever because she’d really much rather that no one ever finds out about it.

“I’d argue that it wasn’t really a decision so much as a… spur of the moment surprise. That you caught yourself with as well,” Laudna counters with a healthy note of manic joy in the eyebrows. “In my eyes, what’s done is done and now we simply have to deal and learn to live with it.”

“I’d rather fake my own death and move to Europe to live the rest of my life selling oranges out the back of my truck.”

She adds something, muttered and half-baked, about how she’s not sure that damn sack of junk would even make it out of the state in one piece.

This dance has become a routine just recently.

Ever since Imogen had first moved in down the street, they’d been meeting regularly. It’d started as exchanging gifts and over the course of the better part of two years, the gifts became coffee dates and company.

They’re not actual dates, obviously. All of the feelings that Imogen has towards Laudna are about as platonic as sex with your socks on. Which is very platonic, by the way. In case that wasn’t clear. Because even if they call them dates, they’re not really dates because Imogen actually hasn’t ever even been on a real date and stuff, so, yeah.

It’s just a cute little thing they do. Haha. Anyway.

Laudna is once again a victim to Imogen bitching about the newest hurdle that she expertly crafted for herself before barrelling head-first into.

“That’s… weirdly specific!” she notes. “Well, you know, it’s really not all that bad, you can just, you know! Make it up as you go.”

“Deanna can read me like a damn book.” Imogen barely resists the urge to put her head through a wall. “So she’ll know if I’m just makin’ it up. Shit, Laud. I dunno what to do.”

Imogen looks up to Laudna, who now also has her head sideways on the table, looking right back at her.

“Why don’t you just tell her the truth?”

She fights off a sigh. It’s not as simple as that.

Deanna had single-handedly raised her since she was only a little thing. She just wanted the best for her, and that meant seeing her well, with a fulfilled life and a good job and a nice house—the lot.

And Deanna had stepped up to the plate as a parent when neither of her actual ones had. Imogen figures she kinda owes her, in one way or another, to make her happy in return.

Even if that meant lying through her damned teeth apparently.

“She sounded so happy when I said I was seein’ someone. And—y’know the thing is I don’t even know why I said it, it just kinda slipped out like word vomit and I couldn’t even take it back because she was so excited and I felt like I’d have, like, ruined Christmas or somethin’.”

Laudna purses her lips.

“And there’s no way to…” she trails off, apparently discounting the thought before it could even fully form. She hums, sitting up fully again and taking a sip from her still-steaming mug.

Imogen peels her limp torso off of the table, feeling much like a deflated dancing car wash noodle man, to take a sip of her generously sugary hot chocolate.

“I’m gonna die, Laud—”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I am.” Imogen has mentally already gnawed her fingers down to the bone. “I already planned to go and see her this weekend—goin’ to stay with her for a few days since it’s been a while since I’ve been home, y’know.” Laudna nods. “And now she wants to meet whoever I’m seein’ and if I just show up, completely on my own, I just know she’s gonna be grillin’ me, askin’ me all these questions and I dunno what I’m gonna tell her. What if I accidentally start describing the plot of Titanic?”

A familiar look comes across Laudna’s face, a smile and something sort of long and restful, bordering on the affectionate side of exasperated. It’s easier if Imogen doesn’t think much about that.

“You have to understand how unlikely that would be,” she says in a soft, reassuring tone.

If Imogen was anyone other than herself, she’s almost certain she’d believe her.

“I’d manage to! I can fuck things up in about a million more ways than you could even dream of.” The words leave her tongue before she can properly stall them.

“Imogen,” Laudna says calmly. “You’re very capable. I’m certain that you’ll find a way to resolve this.”

Logically speaking, Laudna is probably right. For as many messes as Imogen has found herself in, she’s just about always found a way out of them, even if it meant calling in backup.

But there’s something so irking about this that leaves Imogen itching and picking at the skin around her nails, biting and pulling at her lips.

“Yeah,” she says, more rooted in the furrow in her own brow than her heart. “Yeah. Sure.”

A few moments pass in silence.

Imogen’s thinking of ordering a life-sized cardboard cutout of a ‘girlfriend’ stock image and pretending to be in love with that. The mug in her hands emanates warmth, despite being almost empty. She wonders, almost idly, if Deanna would believe her.

“I’m not opposed to helping you,” Laudna says, the majority of her face hidden by the mug she’s resting on her cheek.

“What–” Imogen clears her throat, feeling quite suddenly like her drink was made with spoiled milk. “What do you mean?”

“If she doesn’t know who I am, of course, I could… Well, we could pretend to be a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yes! As in…” Laudna draws away for a moment, placing her mug down on a coaster and making a vaguely lewd, vaguely not gesture including intertwined fingers. “Romantically entangled.”

A torrent of thought flies through Imogen’s mind, some, not all, including every different way of ever being entangled with anyone ever, romantically or otherwise. And then the rest of the stuff.

Holding Laudna’s hand, or leaning on her shoulder or kissing her, or playing with her hair, or waking up with her, or whispering to her across the pillow. It’d all be fake, of course. Of course it would. Especially on Imogen’s end, let alone Laudna’s.

They’d only really need to do that kinda stuff in front of Deanna, which would definitely be easier on Imogen’s heart.

Yet, the suggestion of having someone to share a life with leaves Imogen with a twinge that she wasn’t quite expecting. A reality she’s been shying away from for years now.

Because Imogen has been single her whole life and she’s fine with that. Really. In fact, she’s not really sure if she could handle any more change without flying off the handle and committing some kind of social felony.

“As in, like, you and me?” she asks eventually, even if she’s already mentally tangled her fingers with hers.

Laudna’s lips twitch upwards, revealing a smile that Imogen isn’t quite acquainted with. Sort of shy and curious and mischievous, all at once.

“Who else?”

Laudna reaches across the table, offering her pinkie to take.

Imogen inhales once, and takes it without thinking.

This is totally, completely, 100% definitely fine.

Eyes on the road, Temult.

Literally.

It’s her turn driving.

And if she crashes, she really won’t be able to forgive herself. If she’s even capable of doing anything after she spins out of control and ends up in a fissure in the Earth’s crust that would tear into existence just so she can fall into it.

“It’s fine,” she says aloud.

A reassurance that she isn’t dying, nor about to lose control of the vehicle and, most importantly, that everything about this situation and everyone involved is completely and utterly fine.

You know what, Imogen’s not even that bad at driving. Even if her road rage ventured a little too far south to be polite, she’s an attentive driver. Which, unfortunately for her, includes gripping the wheel so hard in this moment that her knuckles turn white.

In fact, she’d venture to call herself competent, especially since she’s made more than her fair share of trips in the dark. Compared to those, the early evening is a dream as they surf down the highway.

(They hadn’t intended on setting off so late, really, but Laudna couldn’t get anyone to cover her shift. It wasn’t the best, but they’re making do. Plus, Deanna just seemed happy that Imogen was bringing someone along with her at all.)

Laudna looks up from beside her, from where she’s crocheting a square of muted purple fabric for an ongoing project.

“Do we need to stop for petrol?” she asks, lowering the work further into her lap and leaning up to check the passing signs.

“Oh, no. It’s all good, I was just talkin’ to myself.”

“Are you thinking about crashing again?”

A beat.

“No.”

Laudna sighs. “I already told you, I can drive for a little while longer if you’re tired.”

“Laud, it’s not that I don’t trust your eyes in this light or anythin’, it’s just that…” Imogen purposefully tapers off.

Beside her, she can catch the form of Laudna shift, no doubt turning to stare at her over the squared-off rims of what she likes to call her Fine Working Lenses (Imogen, affectionately and consistently, corrects her to Old Lady Goggles).

“Nah, it’s not that. Really. It’s just—” Imogen’s fingers drum against the wheel, anxiously settling into her posture as she watches the road. Her only relief from the vice grip she usually adopts. “I’m just… anxious about Deanna’s.”

In the corner of her eye, Imogen glimpses Laudna taking her glasses off and allowing them to dangle from the beaded thread around her neck before carefully tucking her crocheting back into the bag in the footwell. Then, she turns to look at her. Imogen spares her a quick sideways glance.

“Would you like to run through the details again?”

Imogen tightens her grip on the wheel once more, swallowing the lump that’s been steadily hardening in her throat for the past hour.

“I think that’d help.”

This whole damned situation is so fucked up and, need Imogen remind herself, was completely avoidable if she had just. Not lied in the first place. And/or immediately backpedalled on the day.

Not to say that she couldn’t still do that but it’d be way more awkward to do it now.

Plus, Laudna has already come so far out of her own way, making the four hour drive out here with her, not to mention booking a few days off of work so that she could make it in the first place. And on such short notice too. All on top of putting up with Imogen the whole way.

“We met at the beginning of this year, when you moved in,” Laudna begins. “You were upset in the street, I found you on the way to drop off a housewarming present—ginger cookies—and then helped you find your missing box.”

This part was the truth, obviously. All good lies have to be buried in a foundation of truth, that’s what they say, right?

And thinking about it, Imogen recalls telling Deanna something about those cookies because she was well smitten with them for a good couple weeks.

“You insisted on giving me a gift in return—”

Also the truth.

It felt weird receiving a gift and never giving one back. She’d settled on a bunch of different fresh fruits that she’d bought way too many of. It’s not but the day after that she finds Laudna at her doorstep with a still-warm sweet fruit crumble and some ice-cream.

“And I insisted otherwise so we kept going back and forth. This ended up in us meeting up a couple times a week for some warm drinks.” Laudna pauses, tentative like she’s hesitant. Like the coming words are a new, unfamiliar taste in her mouth. “Eventually, we ended up developing feelings for one another.”

And this is where the story deviates, taking a hard left turn and driving right into a family of four.

Sorry. Imogen’s still kinda thinking about crashing the car.

“Before too long, you… asked if you could kiss me.” Another beat. “I said yes.”

Imogen hasn’t thought about kissing Laudna ever, by the way. That’s for the record, too. Feel free to write it down to hold it against her later in court.

In fact, Imogen doesn’t even know what a kiss is. Nor why she’d want to do something like that with Laudna. The very idea of something like that is so beyond ridiculous that you’d have more chance catching a horse playing a game of hot potato with the rooster.

“Right,” she says, with a few too many nods of her head, not thinking about kissing Laudna at all. “And since you only live a couple houses away, we hang out almost every day after work. So it works.”

“Exactly. And, most importantly, it’s still very new so we’re still figuring things out.”

“Yeah. It gives us a good cover if we fumble.”

“Exactly.”

So yeah.

It’s fine.

Good, even.

The road ahead of them is long, but that just means that they’ve got more time to talk it out. To iron out the details until the seams of their plan lay flat against the board, ready to be placed on the hanger and observed by Deanna. Haha.

Hey, is it just Imogen, or is it getting way too hot in here? She takes one of her hands off the wheel just long enough to pull at the hem of her shirt before replacing it feverishly.

As much as this whole ‘Laudna helping her out’ scenario is good, it is also, simultaneously, absolutely horrifying in more ways than Imogen can write on the plate she would hypothetically take to the hypothetical rage room.

On the one hand, it gets Imogen out of the absolute mess she’s got herself into. Come spring, or even sometime sooner than that, they can simply ‘break up’ and it'll be done and dusted.

On the other, though? Imogen is still alligator wrestling with some very distinctly homosexual emotions that she feels whenever she looks at Laudna. It’s not serious or anything like that.

She’s just. Really pretty. And she’s always been so gentle with Imogen—always there with the calm words and soft touches—it’s hard to not immediately become a puddle around her.

If anyone held her with such a tender care, Imogen would probably get fuzzy around them too.

Maybe?

This is all kind of new. The whole having feelings for people thing? Kinda insane actually.

For the last six or so years, Imogen has kinda been rolling around with the idea that she simply wasn’t capable of falling in love, that she was going to spend her whole life living alone and getting a cat and naming it Lover or something sentimental of something else she couldn’t have, like Gluten.

So. Yeah.

None of this is what she anticipated.

This whole thing in general—it’s a little weird. The being here, the feelings, the closeness that she feels to Laudna, in particular. That one really is a shocker.

Especially considering the fact that the lady from next door had actively given Imogen a warning that the house with the black door and the white fence, yes the one with all the flowers, had been owned by a creepy, witch-like woman who apparently got a little too into Halloween.

Or did she say that the props looked ‘too real’? Maybe that was just Imogen.

Anyway, it’s safe to say that Imogen hadn’t entirely expected to be anything but scared of someone like Laudna. But the reality is honestly and quite safely the stark antithesis. Once introduced to her quirks, she found them to not be ‘quirks’ at all. They’re simply facets of her. And Laudna is one of the loveliest souls.

She loves books and crafts and hand-made trinkets—she even makes a lot of her own clothes.

It’s a plus on top of that that she’s really, really pretty. The way people in paintings are.

Sidenote—Imogen didn’t anticipate being as into the milf energy as she is, even if Laudna herself is pushing well into her forties, and with no children to speak of, mind you.

(Her hair, though, where the majority is a brown so rich it borders on black, is already streaked with grey. According to her, she’s leaning into it because it adds to the aesthetic, apparently. And, well, you definitely won’t catch Imogen complaining about it any time soon.)

“It’ll be fine,” Laudna reassures her again, leaning ever so slightly across the console to place a hand on Imogen’s shoulder.

She takes a long, deep breath, dipping her head slightly to look at the miles that they have left before reaching Deanna’s. At this rate, they should have a couple hours left in the journey.

No problem. Not at all.

That is, until Imogen’s absolute shit-bucket of a truck starts making a noise that it most definitely shouldn’t be making.

Well, in fairness, there’s a whole bunch of noises that it makes that it probably shouldn’t. Like the sound of bones being crushed up by a hydraulic press that screams from the console’s every orifice every time she tries to turn on the AC. Or that heavy clunk that it makes if she turns the engine over with the wrong vibes.

But this?

A cacophony of banging and clattering. Like there’s a fucking smurf under the hood doing renovations while Imogen is simultaneously running over a line of geese or some other critter capable of making that god-awful screeching noise.

Which is fine. They can just ignore it and turn the radio up.

That’s when one of the red, blinking warning lights comes on in the middle of the dash.

“Oh fuck,” Imogen manages to voice.

“What? What’s going on?” Laudna jolts forward in her seat, looking over and apparently trying to find the source of the problem.

The last time this happened, Imogen had to pull over and was stuck at the side of the road for four hours while she waited for Ashton to come and pick her up to help jumpstart the truck. And they’re two and a half hours out of town, leaving Saviour Ashton (she’d never call them that to their face) way more than four hours away.

It’s fine.

If Imogen just. Closes her eyes. Then she can’t see the warning light.

Wait, no, shit, eyes open. Eyes on the road. She does not want to send Laudna home in a body bag—or herself for that matter, it’d be embarrassing if anyone ever found out why and—

Oh jesus fuck she’s panicking.

There’s a rope tied around Imogen’s ribs, slowly cinching further and further, constricting like a damned boa until her bones begin to crack, one by one. They puncture her lungs, the breaths coming in shallower than a dried up stream in a drought.

She can’t breathe.

She can’t drive if she can’t breathe.

Maybe she’d be able to if that light on the dash wasn’t so bright.

“Laudna— oh fuck—”

“Imogen, just—you know, I think we need to pull over.”

“It’s fine!” Imogen says, definitely not in an inside voice. “Sorry, that was loud. I’m—we gotta keep goin’.”

“Are you sure? A little pitstop might not be a bad idea if… things are going wrong.”

Considering they’re in the middle of a small town, driving down what seems to be the central strip, it probably isn’t a bad idea.

But also, Imogen is, namely, having no thoughts at all.

She pulls to a stop in front of a red light, taking her hands off the wheel to run them through her hair, pulling it out from under the belt and from where it’s stuck, slick to her neck with sweat.

It’s November, why is it so shitting hot in here?

Imogen is about to crack the back windows when Laudna speaks up, again.

“Darling, I don’t know much about cars—or trucks—but is steam supposed to be coming from the bonnet?”

Haha. What.

“No. No, no it’s not.”

Oh fuck, is that smoke? Smoke or steam?

Either way, it’s not fucking good.

Really? It’s just her fucking luck that everything falls apart now, just when everything else is falling apart. She just needed this to go smooth.

For the love of fucks and horses above, please just give her a damn break.

Imogen lets out a stream of curses, rolling down one of the windows to let in some of the evening air, though with much more urgency than previously intended. Imogen’s sweating like a hog.

“Do you think we should—”

“I’m gonna pull over.”

She manages to haul ass into the closest store’s parking lot—some place called Zhudanna’s—before her truck completely gives in.

“Holy fuck. What the fuck. I thought—I just got it outta the shop, I thought—They said it’d be fine to make the drive out here and—”

“Imogen, I think we should take a few minutes. Maybe get out? We can have a little walk-about?”

She’s fumbling with her seatbelt before Laudna can even finish the words, immediately finding her cheeks flush in the cold air of early November. They should consider themselves lucky it’s not raining cats and dogs out here.

Imogen skirts along the outside of her truck, reaching the hood.

Which is, still, pouring with steam. Steam, thankfully, and not smoke.

“Piece of shit,” Imogen mutters, running her hands through her hair as she paces, feeling all too close to kicking the sack of shit so hard she’ll break at least three toes. “Good lord, fuckin’ shit on a dick.”

How on earth are they gonna make it to Deanna’s now? Let alone back home.

“What’s going on?” Laudna asks, having to try a total of three times to get the door to lock.

“Overheated, I think.”

Imogen doesn’t smoke, but she feels like she needs a cigarette.

This whole damn month is going completely off the rails.

First, the online grocer forgets an entire bag of her food, and of course when she emails customer service they tell her to call up, so a whole twenty-five dollars worth of food is lost to the delivery ecosystem. Then she accidentally eats an out-of-date yoghurt that she only still had because her other yoghurts didn’t show up.

And of course, after the grocery fiasco, she’s hit by the school bus of not listening to Deanna on their weekly check-in Are-You-Still-Alive phone call. Which unequivocally leads to Imogen responding, “Yeah, yeah,” when being asked if she’s seeing anyone.

Then the whole Laudna Thing happened. Not that Laudna is a problem or anything, it’s just that the idea of having to hold her hand makes Imogen want to vomit. Not in a bad way, in a good way. Can vomiting be in a good way? It, like, makes her wanna gnaw on drywall and also, somehow simultaneously, build a porch?

And maybe a whole house? For Laudna to live in. With her, if that isn’t clear.

Holding Laudna’s hand—the thought of holding Laudna’s hand—makes her wanna build a house for her and live in it.

Jesus fuck, the gay stereotypes are real?

And now, just when she thought that it quite literally could not get any worse, her truck’s only gone and broken down. Overheated? Broken down? Same shit, different fucking smell.

Also it’s cold as balls out here and Laudna runs cold anyway and it’s probably not safe to keep the engine running to keep her warm and—

Imogen stops her pacing long enough to shuck her jacket and drape it over Laudna’s shoulders.

She’s about to open her mouth to protest, but Imogen holds the seams of the zip closed with her hands.

“You’re gonna be a lot colder than I am,” she says, feeling the stubborn furrow in her brow persist.

“We should at least go somewhere warmer than out here,” Laudna suggests, but she’s already reaching to take Imogen by the hand to pull her towards the automatic doors of Zhudanna’s.

They’re greeted by the kind eyes of an older lady, welcoming them to complimentary hot drinks to get away from the cold outside. The offer is accepted graciously.

Tea acquired, they begin a slow meander away from the small drinks station.

“In this kinda heat—or lack thereof—we should be alright to wait a half hour or so and then hittin’ the road again. Should probably give Deanna a heads up in the meantime, though.”

Laudna is drifting down one of the aisles, lured like a bird to seed to the hot case in the back corner. Left from the previous day, there seems to be a plethora of soggy and yet somehow still flaky pastries, an already-open box of breaded southern fried chicken, and a single hot dog, no bun.

She cups the open box of chicken like it’s water in the Sahara, staring into the orange light of the heat lamp like it’s the only thing that sustains her.

“Just a half hour? Are you sure?”

Imogen considers this.

“Uh, no.” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat before asserting, not quite as sure, “Yes?”

Laudna takes her eyes off of the box of chicken she’s supporting like a newborn’s neck and makes just enough eye contact for Imogen to feel like she got caught scratching her ass in public. “Could we call someone out to help?”

“I wish. I dunno anyone this far out.”

“I meant a repair company?”

“Oh. I mean, I could?” Imogen cringes. “I’m not sure if my savings could take it, though.”

Laudna looks back to the fried chicken baby, passing it from one hand to the other. “Maybe we shouldn’t risk it?”

“Huh. What do you mean?”

“Maybe we should stay the night here, you know. Wait for the engine to cool off and give the old girl another try in the morning?”

Imogen suddenly feels like her brain is going to explode in her head. “Deanna might be mad, though.”

“From what you’ve told me, she sounds perfectly lovely, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we took a little longer to get there—”

“I think she’d knife me with a knitting needle, Laud.”

Okay, y’know, Imogen can kinda see how that’s a little bit irrational. Then again, Imogen accidentally missed her bus one time, got home an hour late when she was a kid and she was certain that Deanna left her alive by accident (even if it was only a verbal scolding).

But also she doesn’t think she’d be able to stomach the feeling of knowing she disappointed Deanna. Afterall, Imogen promised that she’d be there by tonight. And they’re losing more and more evening by the second.

Laudna places the chicken carefully back into the bassinet, careful not to wake it up, before turning to Imogen.

“I think we need to go and get you a snack. And some water.”

The kind old lady—Zhudanna, if they’re lucky—behind the counter lets them linger inside the store, just by one of the heaters.

With a hot tea in her hands and an off-brand KitKat half eaten in her pocket, Imogen is feeling… better? Better may be a stretch. She’s not hyperventilating anymore. Which is an improvement. Probably.

Even if she has replaced the hyperventilating by jabbering on to Laudna.

“And now this—I’m freakin’ the fuck out, Laud.”

“I truly do think that it could be in our best interest to just wait it out. Oh! In fact, I don’t even mind being the one telling Deanna.”

Huh. That’s… definitely an idea.

Handing her phone over to Laudna isn’t an issue. There isn’t anything on there that she’s secretive about or would ever even need to hide from her. Hell, Laudna even knows her password from answering her texts while she’s been driving.

But handing her phone over to Laudna while it’s calling Deanna?

Imogen wishes she was driving so she could purposely run herself into a ditch, just so adrenaline would kick in and she’d stop being hyper-aware of the fact she exists.

“It’s ringing—should I put her on—? Oh! Hello!”

Imogen can hear some garbled something-like Deanna’s voice come through her phone.

“No, no, this isn't Imogen— yes! Oh, yes, she’s alright, don’t worry. I’m Laudna, Imogen’s…” She makes sudden eye contact with her. “Girlfrie—partner?”

Laudna turns again, the hand that had been in the pocket of Imogen’s jacket coming out to clutch the phone to her ear in both hands.

“I’m looking forward to meeting you as well! And… on that note, we do have a little bit of an issue. Mhm. We didn’t crash, no. Imogen’s truck seems to have… given up? For the night.

“We have enough gas, yes, we made sure before we set off. I think the plan is—” Laudna turns to Imogen again. “Darling, are we going to find a room for the night and then set off bright and early tomorrow morning?”

Imogen makes a face and somehow manages to shrug with her hands.

“I think that means yes? No? Gen, you can talk, it’s only Deanna.”

Okay, so here’s the thing.

Imogen can deal with pet names. Tolerate them, even, from the vast majority of people.

(Laudna, of course, being a special case because that damn accent gives Imogen some honest-to-god shivers every time she’s called literally anything that’s even a vague endearment. She stands by it. Not for gay reasons, obviously. Just because Laudna has a nice voice.

Yeah.

She’d make some big fucking bank if she ever decided to start doing VO. And that’s probably because Imogen would pay her to do it.)

So, yeah. Pet names? Fine.

Good, even, if you’re one person in particular. It doesn’t need to be spelled out who, in particular, it’s fairly obvious.

But nicknames?

Now. Now this is new territory.

Imogen doesn’t think she can recall ever being nicknamed something that she’s ever actually liked.

In fact, there even was a recurring joke for a while where Chet and Orym would call her Mogen because they knew it pissed her off. That’s the case for Chet anyway. Orym is… still a grey area.

There’s just something about the whole shortening her name thing that rubs her the wrong way.

Of course, not with Laudna.

As previously discussed, Laudna is the one and only exception to all things Imogen has historically considered the Law. Which would, by association, make Laudna a criminal, by the way. Because she stole Imogen’s hear—

No. But seriously.

Deanna knows she hates nicknames.

Which is a problem. But Imogen will deal with that later because Laudna is staring at her and there’s already been way too much eye contact involved.

“If you think that’s what’s best, uh… hon?”

“Yes, then. We should be able to get to you by tomorrow morning, if that’s alright?”

Laudna’s face brightens again as she nods and takes a couple steps towards the doors, before turning back on herself and coming back.

“Of course, yes. I’m sure we can find a place to pick up dinner— yes, thank you! So much! I’m looking forward to meeting you, too. Yes? Oh.” Imogen, who had admittedly begun her idle animation of rocking back and forth on her heels, is suddenly bombarded by Laudna thrusting the phone in her direction. “She wants to talk to you?”

“Me?” Imogen asks, already taking the phone and switching it to speaker. She turns the volume down to not be That Asshole. “Alright— hey, Deanna. How are things? And stuff. Yeah.”

“See, I knew you’d find a good one!”

Deanna’s voice through the phone, albeit a little grainy, is warm and familiar, like a particularly good soup. Immediately, Imogen is cradled in the feeling of being home, the place that she should be on her way to right now, and is harshly reminded that she’s in the middle of butt-fuck hay-chewing nowhere, with nothing but her truck, her weirdly sexy neighbour and a weekend’s worth of clothes.

Though that salt brings sting to the still-raw wound, maybe if Imogen closes her eyes and squeezes real hard, Deanna’s gonna appear out in the parking lot with a tow truck and a dream.

And speaking of her being right here in front of her, Imogen can imagine her wiggling her eyebrows and making that face. The one where she’s talking about something silly, like Imogen’s love life or the existence of dildos.

She just knows. She would be able to sense that expression from the other side of the damn earth if she had to.

“She sounds like a lil’ cutie. Is she cute? I just know she is,” Deanna steamrolls, only apparently a horrific second away from, “Hold up. Am I on speaker?”

In literally any other context, Imogen is certain that she’d freeze up when being asked that anyway.

Right now though? Her tongue feels like it’s been knotted and shoved into her stomach like a rock tied to her feet. Because of the look on Laudna’s face.

She’d wandered a little away, just to one of the nearby shelves, and had begun idly browsing through the hundred or so flavours of instant noodles, but even she bluescreens. Having heard only every single word of that.

That empty second spreads itself out like a groundhog day—one moment on an eternal loop.

Laudna’s face comes up rouge—a hint of colour hitting her cheeks like the doll-like makeup she usually wears. Which doesn’t mean anything. Nope. That doesn’t mean anything at all.

In fact, there are about a thousand reasons that someone would flush like that.

Maybe she’s sick. Or embarrassed. Oh fuck shit bitch balls—has a line been crossed?

Imogen feels herself internally cry a little bit.

Does Laudna regret coming here? Regret talking to Deanna? Agreeing in the first place?

There’s a feral part of Imogen that wants to shoot it down. Or better yet, completely ignore the fact that it was made in the first place. But that’d seem suspicious, right? If Laudna really was her girlfriend, why wouldn’t she entertain something like that? And it’s not like Laudna isn’t cute. She very much is.

But did it make her uncomfortable to be talked about like that? Right here?

Would it make Laudna uncomfortable if Imogen thought she was cute?

Why does that thought make her chest hurt?

“You—uh. You’re on speaker, I’ll take you off, hold on—”

“Oh, tell Laudna I’m sorry—”

“I don’t mind! Truly, thank you for the compliment.”

“Okay.” The word comes out with a long, deep exhale. And then Imogen brings the phone to her ear. “Okay, it’s just me now.”

There’s a lull for a moment, a thread pulled tight.

“Hello? You there?”

“So, is she cute?”

Imogen sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She is, yeah. I think so at least.”

“Great, she sounds it! So—anyway, more important, you guys aren’t gonna get here until tomorrow morning, right?”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah. Sorry if that ruins dinner plans, I can pay if you got reservations or anythin’.”

“Don’t you even think about paying me, Temult.”

“I’ve already thought about it.”

“Anyway, more importantly—”

Deanna has a habit of stabbing the shit out of Imogen’s Anxiety Thoughts the exact moment they come out into the world. It probably comes with raising her for the better part of a decade and a half.

“—what’s your girl’s favourite colour? For absolutely no reason whatsoever.”

Oh good lord.

Deanna’s going to knit something. Isn’t she.

“I can’t say I know but— I see her in a buncha reds? Dark ones. Maroon?”

Laudna, who had gone back to hiding in the noodles, turns again.

“Please don’t do the thing.”

“What thing?” Deanna responds innocently. “I don’t know what thing you’re talking about.”

“Deanna.”

“You girls get a room for the night, don’t sweat it! Once y’all are here, I’ll call Chet and he’ll take a look at your truck. He owes me one.”

“The wood guy? Really?”

“He knows a guy who knows a guy. Chill.” Imogen can almost picture Deanna waving her hand around, as if trying to swat a fly. “Okay, you girls be safe, I gotta get off. Text me when you get a room? Oh! And also in the morning. Just lemme know you’re safe and back on the road, yeah?”

“Yeah, no worries, will do,” Imogen says. “Love you, I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Love you too, sweetheart. Be safe! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!”

She’s in the middle of thinking of something witty to retort when the line beeps in her ear, dead.

Imogen takes a long, long deep breath. Is she asthmatic?

Maybe she should get it checked out.

An inhaler might do her some good.

In the meantime, she turns to Laudna, who is pressing her way down one of the aisles, bending to be eye-level with the shelves.

“Laudna, I am so sorry about that—I definitely didn’t properly warn you but Deanna can be… like that. Sometimes.”

“Don’t even worry about it!” She’s now making aggressive eye contact with a tin of chicken soup that reads ‘with bits’. “We’re… we’re girlfriends aren’t we? If I’m going to be playing a part, I might as well get used to it now.”

When the old lady from behind the counter—Zhudanna, as she formally introduces herself—offers them a room to stay in for the night, it’s safe to say that Imogen nearly has a panic attack.

It’s not even that irrational this time. You’re not supposed to take candy from strangers, right? Let alone a bed for the night and a set of keys.

For all she knows, this old lady really is trying to lure two women into the apartment above her store. Which probably isn’t even an apartment, by the way, and is just cold storage for the bodies of all of the victims that came before them.

Laudna seems a little apprehensive about it at first, too.

“Sorry, dears, but I couldn’t help but overhear your phone call,” she’d said as she scanned a bottled milkshake.

Which was, of course, followed up with Imogen regretting calling Deanna in the first place. The whole thing could’ve been solved in a quick text and—why on earth did she even put her on speaker? She’d love to know.

She’d overheard that they were looking for a room for the night. When Imogen apologised for her rudeness, Zhudanna offered that she was a local business, and that it wasn’t all that well advertised around these parts, but the flat upstairs did count as a bed and breakfast.

(They’re only convinced to take up the offer after Laudna spends a good, thorough bout of internet trawling to try and find a review of one of the survivors.

All flags turn to green, once they’ve found more than a couple reviews. And, well, if Imogen ends up dying tonight, at least it’d be with Laudna.)

After bringing what little they’d packed out of the truck, Laudna wanted to stay in for a little while to charge her phone before they head out for dinner.

Imogen is lost in thought, wondering if they have the only set of keys and if, in the middle of the night, she’s going to wake up to find that her car keys have been stolen and the old junk has been sold for twenty and change. It’s probable.

They’ve been making idle chatter as Laudna fidgets around the small kitchen. She’s opening the fridge and placing in the drink that she’d bought from downstairs, opening all of the cupboards and checking that the crockery is clean. And, Imogen notes with a sour taste, checking for any cameras.

And it’s in the midst of all of it, the distraction of being in a new place, when Laudna suggests it.

“We should probably practise, don’t you think?”

She says it as though asking if she thinks it’s going to rain, or what they’re going to have for dinner. Something natural. A prompt more so than a suggestion.

“Practise? Like what do you mean?” Imogen responds, desperately trying not to display an audible error message.

“You know… being affectionate. Holding hands and whatnot. I figure that it could be good for us to give it a little test run? Maybe when we’re going out for dinner! If you’d still like to go out, of course.”

“That makes sense,” she says, swallowing that big, bulbous ball of gay that’s been steadily congealing in her chest.

“And that way we can set up boundaries and whatnot and—I just think it might be better if we establish what we’re comfortable with in our own time, you know? And not when we’re being observed.”

It’s fine.

It’s totally fine.

And it does make sense.

There’s no way Deanna would even think about believing them if they were uncomfortable touching each other.

Touching each other as in holding hands, for the record. Obviously. Because that’s all they’d need to do. And, of course, Imogen’s never even thought about touching Laudna any place other than the normal places to touch another woman platonically. Like.

Her hands?

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s alright,” Imogen says, definitely not thinking about touching Laudna anywhere.

“Darling, you don’t have to, you know.” Laudna closes the cabinet closest to the sink and drifts in front of Imogen, ducking her posture to look at her through her lashes. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Behind her, the tap drips.

Imogen gulps. Hopefully not audibly.

“I know. I know you’d never… I just want this to work, y’know?”

“And it will,” Laudna says, bridging the gap between them, encircling one of Imogen’s hands in both of her own. “I promise.”

The diner that they end up in looks to be about as old as the woman running the register, maybe even longer. Because Imogen doesn’t even want to guess what that stain is.

But the interior is warm and there’s a smell like home cooked food and fryer grease coming from the kitchen and, all things considered, a slightly stained, creased-at-the-corner menu isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to them today.

They start off with a basket of fries between them, fresh from the frier and glistening with a generous helping of salt.

Laudna picks one up, using it to dictate her words, as if she’s standing up at a chalkboard.

“All I’m saying is that this is a good space, you know? There’s a lot of things that you could do to really revamp this place. You know, give it a little flare,” she finishes, with a shimmy of her shoulders.

Then, gesticulating to the walls on the far side, then up to the roof, and even briefly tugs on the rugged rouge curtain partially shielding their booth from the rest of the warmly lit interior of the diner.

“Uh huh?” Imogen bites into a fry, leaning her face down onto her palm, watching Laudna intently. “What’d you do with the place, if you could?”

“Well, you know, a good coat of paint and new cutlery is always a solid place to start,” she considers. “But after that? Hm. If I could do absolutely anything—”

Laudna launches into a surprisingly long monologue about how much she hates these kinds of booths. That, yes, a little bit of privacy in your dining is always a good thing but with it being so cordoned off? It completely closes off the room!

It’d do much better taking on a more modern aesthetic, if only to make better use of the space. Make it seem like there’s more than there really is at the very least.

“You’d help me renovate, wouldn’t you, darling?”

Laudna’s got this sheen to her eyes, like she’s been painted with a glittery finishing gloss, filled with the sky itself. Imogen would like to think that the sky started from here, from Laudna. And found itself copying the design of her eyes for its nightly horizons.

“I’d certainly try, can’t say I’m all that great at DIY but there’s a first for everythin’, right?”

Imogen is suddenly thinking of that irrational feeling she got before. The one that told her to build Laudna a porch. As if she doesn’t struggle with IKEA furniture.

“Exactly!” She clasps her hands together, apparently in the midst of a vision. “You and I, we’d run the place rather spiffingly, wouldn’t we?”

“You think?”

“Of course! Between your capabilities and my own? We’d be a hit, I’m sure!”

As the mains are served, Laudna has drifted the thought to something more tangible. What they’d do, the things they’d sell, what her apron would look like dusted in the flour.

In one particular imagining, they wake up early in the mornings and walk down the street from Zhudanna’s—their shared home—together. They go in early to freshly make dough and pastry bases, just like every other morning. It’s a routine, you see. The key to good business is keeping the food fresh! And if that means getting up at dawn, then so be it.

Working alongside Laudna in a kitchen, flicking pinches of flour at her when she’s not looking, bumping hips as she stirs a batter, working in a tandem, as natural as yeast making the bread rise. That thought fills Imogen with so much warmth that, by the time they’re exiting the diner, she hardly feels the cold at all.

“How would you feel about taking a walk around town? I know they have their holiday decor already up in town,” Laudna says, her breath misting. “We could… take the scenic route home? Well, not home but back to Zhudanna’s, of course.”

The streetlamps have already turned on, dusk having finally set in with a rush of deep blue sky.

On a normal day, Imogen would probably be in bed by now. And if not in bed, huddled up on her couch with a cosy show and a blanket. Especially when it’s as cold as it is today—startlingly frigid for the early winter season.

And more than that, a day full of talking and driving and being the constant mess of anxiety that she is, would usually mean that Imogen is out for the count by seven sharp. In fact, a day like today, in such an unfamiliar place, too, would leave Imogen imitating a garden gnome.

But today isn’t like any other day, she finds. It isn’t any old trip to see Deanna, and that’s for certain.

Today, it’s colder than it should be and her truck is broken down and she isn’t wearing a jacket.

“Yeah,” Imogen says, rubbing her palms together to heat them.

Beside her, Laudna pulls Imogen’s jacket closer around herself and, just for a second, she warms.

“Yeah, that sounds good, actually.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

Laudna’s shoes click softly against the pavement, a slowed pace to match the cadence of Imogen’s boots. The only sound for miles, it seems, in such a sleepy town.

The streets around them unfurl as they glide from light to light, crossing over carless roads and darkened shopfronts, shutters pulled down. In the daytime, Imogen can almost imagine the energy this place would have. Not the intrusive kind, definitely not the same energy from back home.

But the energy of starting the day with a coffee bought from a home-owned business, rolling over in bed and taking the lazy route into the morning. The kind of day you’d start, getting to see the person you love. On the other side of the bed, maybe. Or on the other side of the street.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Laudna says, voice shuffling through their silence.

Imogen can’t help but smile. “It really is. It’d be great to live in a place like this.”

“You know, I was thinking the exact same thing! I think I much prefer smaller towns,” Laudna muses. “Getting to know all of the faces, knowing all of the routes, having a home that you can afford to own. The works, you know?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Imogen says, eyebrows suddenly furrowing. Her steps falter, even minutely.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just came from a small town, a little like this, actually.”

Laudna hums. “Gelvaan? I think I recall you telling me about it. Something about it being a ‘dead-end shit-hole’?”

“I said that?”

“You did.”

“Shit.”

Laudna’s smiling, though. Imogen is too.

“Gelvaan was a little too small, I think? Neighbours all up in your business, stickin’ their noses in other people’s yards and stuff like that. Bein’ too seen?”

She pauses, too, head tilting to the side as she seems to think. “I do suppose that it would lose its charm rather quickly. And I know how lonely that must have felt for you, being there for all that time and not having a single person that was even willing to hear you out—and you’re ever so capable. I mean, truly, you’re one of the most talented and beautiful people that I’ve ever known!”

Laudna continues on for a while, apparently having forged a vendetta against the people of Gelvaan since the last time the bog of a town was brought up.

She’s in the middle of saying something about how she’d knock down Relvin’s door herself if she trusted that her arms wouldn’t break when Imogen reaches and takes her hand.

By the wrist, at first. That quiets her.

And then, slowly, hand drifting down to interlock her fingers with her own.

“What’s this place called again? The Heartmoor?” Imogen asks, fruitfully turning away. Her face feels so red that she’s afraid she might genuinely be glowing.

Laudna tucks their interlocked fingers into the coat pocket—a shelter from the biting wind.

“The Heartmoor, I believe, yes.”

“I don’t think I’d mind bein’ here too much,” Imogen admits, even if she is lying a little.

She’d never want to up and leave the city. It’d mean leaving Laudna and Ashton and the rest of the friends she’s somehow managed to make, and finding a new place to work and packing up again and possibly losing another box. Only, that time, she’d be out of the city, her Box Saviour neighbour still living on their old street.

Laudna gingerly squeezes her hand. “You think they’d let us get a place here?”

“Us?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t let you go alone,” she says warmly.

It doesn’t feel like how she expected it to, holding Laudna’s hand. Not that she expected anything because she’s actually never even thought about holding Laudna’s hand before so this is totally a completely unique experience with no prerequisite thoughts attached to it at all. Nope. None.

Laudna’s hands are bigger than she thought. Long, thin hands. They wind around Imogen’s own like ivy growing around a trellis and blooming.

And the thought of Laudna coming with her, being here with her?

“I wouldn’t want to be alone,” Imogen admits. “Not again.”

Another squeeze.

“Then you don’t have to be. We’re… we’re friends, aren’t we?”

The warmth that had taken residence in Imogen’s chest rises bitterly to her throat.

“Friends. Of course, yeah. We’re friends.”

They’re friends.

Friends.

This means nothing, not to Laudna, and most certainly not to Imogen. Her friend is simply doing her a favour. It’s not any more complicated than that. It can’t be any more complicated than that.

Because someone like Laudna would never in a thousand hundred million years like, let alone love, someone like Imogen.

They fall back into silence, the sounds of their shoes now slightly unmatched. Still a cacophony on the otherwise vacant street.

Friends.

Imogen barely even notices the lights, only briefly registers that they’re pretty.

Long, winding chords glittering with the bulbs, like icicles frozen over the lines, zigzagging across the street, glistening like the stars that their light hides. Their illumination reflects on the cobbled road, scattering over a puddle of wet ground.

“Are you alright, darling?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m alright. Why?”

“You’ve just been a little quiet, is all,” Laudna says, and she pauses at a crossing as a car approaches, turns. “And you’re staring.”

Imogen feels heat rush to her head. Maybe she’s gonna pass out, maybe not.

“I am? Oh, yeah, right. Sorry, Laud. Just lost in thought, that’s all.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, sliding their hands out of her pocket so that she can swing their arms between them. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, I’m not really thinkin’ much of anythin’. Nothin’ important.”

“I don’t mind hearing, if you don’t mind sharing?”

You called me your friend just now and actually, the thought of only ever being your friend makes me feel so sick that I might genuinely start cryin’. And all of this stuff that you’re doin’ for me, it’s so awful nice and sweet but it’s also so confusin’? I really appreciate it, more than I even know how to show you and I feel so so ungrateful ‘cause I keep thinkin’ about wantin’ to kiss you and—

“You think rent prices are high?” she asks, instead.

And breathe.

You got this, Temult.

Friends help each other out all the time.

There’s nothing that makes this time any different.

By the time they get back to their room around the back of Zhudanna’s, the only thing Imogen is thinking about is slipping into warmer clothes and tucking up into bed.

Her entire body feels like it could’ve come right out of a damn meat cooler, and yet one of her hands remains hot. The ghost of a touch lingering, carving its way into a scar that leaves the palm tingling.

And suddenly her face is, too, as she comes back from changing in time to watch Laudna throw herself back onto the bed, hair fanning around her on the pressed red linens. The only bed.

“I’ll take the couch,” Imogen says, not long needing to think about it before it spills from her mouth like an excuse. She’s still tugging her hair out of her shirt, fluffing it out around her head and shaking it out.

Laudna, with her chronically aching joints and the impending doom of a possible early hip replacement, should not be made to sleep on a couch. Categorically. Not that it was ever even an option in the first place, but she’d probably wake up with her spine all twisted up like a pretzel and her legs in the sockets her arms should be in.

Of course, that’s not to say that Zhudanna’s couch isn’t lovely. It’s just that Imogen, of all people, knows that even the most comfortable of couches are only really good for sitting. Sleeping on them is a whole other ball game.

At the very least, she can wrap herself in a duvet like a burrito and have the mass of fabric cushion her back from the discomfort of the couch. Well. She hopes there’s another duvet—a fleece at the very least. Because lord fuckin’ knows she might wake up with three toes less than she started with if she goes without one.

Laudna sits up suddenly, back rigid as if she’d been pulled up on a taught puppet string. Blinking like she’s been flashbanged, or something.

“What?” she asks, head turning to an odd angle to face Imogen. “Are we not sleeping together?”

And she says it so confidently, too. As if Imogen is supposed to turn around and say ‘Oh, yeah, Laudna. My bad, I completely forgot that it’s normal for two girls to sleep in the same bed when they’re on their fake-girlfriend trip to the not-mother-in-law-to-be’s house.’

The whole fake girlfriend thing aside—is it normal for two friends to sleep in the same bed?

Imogen finds that she doesn’t recall.

In movies, sure, but trusting movies for romance advice is like watching porn for tips to fix your sink. So, who’s to say, really?

She’s pretty sure that she can recall something about Fearne staying in the same bed as her friends. Then again, Fearne is Fearne and Imogen isn’t even sure if Fearne even knows what the word platonic means, or if it even applies to any relationship she’s had to anyone, ever.

And still. There’s a small, niggling part of Imogen’s brain that wants to believe that there’s something to this nothing. That maybe, just maybe Laudna is suggesting it because she wants to be close to Imogen. As ridiculous as it sounds.

Laudna liking Imogen.

Frostbite must be setting in or something, because Imogen’s starting to entertain her delusions again. Loser.

“You know, for practice!” Laudna rectifies, all too quickly with a flourish of her hands.

In the orange light of the room’s corner lamp, her cheeks almost look red. Another blip of Imogen’s imagination.

“Practice. Yeah, right, practice,” she repeats back, trying her best not to fly around the room screaming like a rapidly deflating balloon. “Yeah.”

“Of course, we don’t have to if you’re not comfortable! I was just thinking about it and whatnot,” she says, her fingers roiling through the ends of her hair, almost backcombing it in the rush. “I would completely understand. I try not to address it too much but I am, you know, aware of how I look and I know that I’m not the most pleasant thing to wake up beside so I understand, but…”

She trails off, then. Long enough for Imogen’s brow to furrow, long enough for her to cross the room and perch on the bed beside Laudna.

“Who told you that?” Imogen’s voice is gentle, surprisingly. A blanched contrast to the gurgling train of thought brewing all too rapidly in the bottom of her stomach.

“What?”

“If you don’t mind tellin’ me, that is? Who told you that stuff about yourself?”

Laudna worries the ends of her hair until it’s all but a nest gathering on one side of her head. Once she notices, she rapidly grooms it down before starting from the bottom and working up again.

Her eyes are fixated across to one wall of the room, where a painting hangs, slightly crooked. Pooled and dark and glassy.

Distantly, there’s the sound of a car door closing, an engine turning on and driving down the street. The tap in the next room drips. The internal heating hums urgently. Condensation rolls down the window.

Imogen is about to speak up again before Laudna draws in a breath, fingers still startling her hair.

“Well, it’s not as if they have to tell me these things,” she begins. “They’re all sort of… implied. In a way, anyway. The way I see it, I’ve always been this way and it’s not anyone else’s fault that they find me—that I’m me. They’re just too nice to say anything to my face about it, that’s all.”

“The way I see it, Laudna, is that you’re beautiful.”

Laudna’s eyes leave the crooked painting, finding Imogen’s instead.

“You’re gorgeous. Seriously, I’m—I… to even think that you think that about yourself is…” The words having escaped, Imogen trails off.

So many stolen minutes spent finding moments to see her. In profile, all of her angles and the way her features open, brightening with her smile. The way her eyes get all dream-like when she starts talking about one of the thousand things she loves—god, what doesn’t she love? Yarn crafts and DIY and second hand furniture stores and decorating. And small animals and Pâte and the plants she can never manage to keep alive.

The way she looks when she’s brought a new flavour of tea to try. The way her features seem so all at once serene, gathered up close in a soft robe and loose clothes and slippers and…

Sometimes, when she looks real close, sometimes she might be looking at Imogen that way too. Like she was stealing minutes, too.

Laudna draws in too large a breath, holding it a moment before releasing. “Darling, you really don’t have to say something like that. I’m happy as I am! But I do understand. That’s all I’m saying.”

Bridging the gap, Laudna’s hands find hers. Imogen squeezes their partially laced fingers.

“I’m not just sayin’ it, Laud. Seriously. I think you’re—you might be one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. And—and I was only gonna sleep on the couch because I didn’t know if I was crossin’ a line and also I know that I snore a whole bunch and I didn’t wanna keep you up and stuff, y’know so—”

Laudna’s eyes soften, looking, searching Imogen’s face for something, maybe. And then she drops her hands, long arms folding around Imogen’s midsection, face falling into the crook of her neck. In response, she pulls Laudna in further, somehow, by the shoulder.

“You alright, Laud?”

“You really don’t mind staying with me for the night?”

In her chest, Imogen can feel the ebb of her own pulse.

“I’d stay with you every night if I could,” Imogen says, just before she could process the thought. “Sorry. That’s weird. Ignore that if you think it’s weird. It’s probably weird.”

Laudna’s body is acutely still when she laughs. A gentle thing, like a secret.

“Not at all. In fact, I’d rather like it if I could stay with you, too. Good company.” Laudna’s voice slides across her skin like warm caramel. “And, for the record, I think you’re wonderful. Beautiful, of course, but so incredibly talented. I find myself thinking of you often, you know?”

“You think I’m good company?” Imogen catches a glance of her through her eyelashes.

“More than good.”

That sits, like leaves of tea in hot water, infusing their flavour into every passing thought. Laudna’s voice, her words, soaking in like a warming balm to sore muscles.

She isn’t forcing herself to be here. More than that, she likes being here—not just here, in general, but with Imogen, specifically. Imogen, of all people.

Imogen, a tightly wound chord of nerves, a woman more like an over-stretched elastic about to snap than a person. The same person that can’t stand crowds and feels overwhelmed in loud rooms or wants to cry when she has to eat yoghurt with a big spoon. The same girl who’s too busy mourning the time she’s already lost to notice the present slowly slipping from her fingers.

And Laudna—the CEO of Halloween decor and interior design and smiles and spontaneity. Wants to spend time with her. What a fucking thought.

A yawn stretches itself from Laudna’s chest, her posture unfurling as she stretches, plucking Imogen from her thoughts.

“We really should be getting to sleep soon if we’re wanting to head out to Deanna’s early doors?”

Laudna is looking for a response, patting the bed to her side. For once, there isn’t a doubt in her mind when Imogen fills the space beside her.

Imogen sleeps better than she has in months. It’s like someone fucking power-cycled her brain and it’s suddenly able to do the things it’s meant to do. Like think even vaguely rational thoughts, and rest, for once.

All the while, Laudna sleeps soundly beside her, apparently taken out from their day of travel and pondering. Imogen doesn’t mind the change of pace. Lets her rest until late into the morning, until the sun is soundly in the sky.

By some fucking miracle, Imogen’s truck starts in the same way it always does, with a ugly clank and a dream, the engine gurgling to life.

Just like that, they’re back on the road to Deanna’s. A little chilly and more than a little on edge, but on the road nonetheless.

This time around, Laudna gets situated behind the wheel, lightly adjusting the mirror and assuring Imogen that it’s more than alright if she wants to get an extra hour or so of sleep on the way there.

“I’m alright,” Imogen assures her, pressing her head back into the rest and huddling into the excess fabric of her sweater.

“As long as you’re sure,” Laudna responds in kind, a gentle wave of reassurance passing over her voice. “I know that your sleep can be a little iffy in unfamiliar places, that’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah, no, really, I’m good. Just let me know if you start achin’, alright? I can take over.”

Laudna brushes off Imogen’s attempts to switch so much that, by the time they’re pulling into Deanna’s driveway, she’s still behind the wheel.

Which Imogen is thankful for, because it gives her enough time to run through her breathing exercises between giving directions down to the cul-de-sac she was raised on.

As Laudna turns off the engine, she unclips her belt and turns in the seat, pushing it back ever so slightly.

“Doing alright, darling?” she asks. “How are you feeling? Too cold? Hot?”

The name goes down like a smooth, saccharine syrup.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Imogen says, even though her mouth and throat feel as though she’s been sucking on wool. “All good. I’m all good. Antsy but… That’s expected, I guess”

“Happy to be home?” Laudna asks, a reserved smile falling onto her lips.

She seems to hesitate, just for a moment, before Laudna’s hand finds a resting place on Imogen’s knee. Her thumb glides over the fabric of her jeans, running a reassuring arch. Again and again and again.

The quivering, touch-starved part of Imogen is just about ready to get on all fours and start barking for Laudna in some feral, outrageously inappropriate act of dedication. Which, if not clear, is the part of Imogen’s brain that’s been at the forefront for the past forty eight hours or so.

And yet… There’s stillness.

A contentment that curls and preens at the edges, melting like sugar under low heat, crystallising around her like a warm, candied blanket over her chest. The feeling like watching snow fall from inside a heated cabin. Security and calm, at once.

Another swipe. Slow and steady and consistent. It’s like taking a deep breath.

“Yeah,” Imogen says, minutely. “Glad you’re here, though.”

“I’m glad I’m here too.” Laudna leans in, her shoulders pushing ever so slightly upwards. In the same breath, she takes Imogen’s hand in both of her own, holding them to her lips as if to kiss them.

Instead, she breathes in deeply, much like Imogen’d been doing for the last half hour.

“You’ve got this,” Laudna confesses, before finally letting Imogen’s hands fall. “Shall we go in? I’m sure Deanna’s been waiting for us since your ten-minutes-away text!”

And exhale.

Before she can even think about it, Imogen’s standing, hand raised as she finishes knocking on the door. The key feels too heavy in her pocket, it feels too rude to just barge in after all this time.

She feels Laudna beside her, patient and solid, a little willowy. There’s a hand on the small of Imogen’s back and she fights the urge to lean back into it.

Laudna draws in a breath, as if she’s about to say something, when there’s a flash of movement through the translucent glass of the front door. Then, the soft, muted jangle of Deanna’s hundred keychains as the lock clicks.

And in an instant, Imogen is thirteen and coming home to someone that loves her for the first time.

Home.

Deanna’s arms are around her before she can even think about getting her mouth around a greeting. Warmth and wholeness and homesickness fill Imogen’s bones all at once: leaking from the soft place her heart sits to where her feet are planted in the floor.

Every anxious feeling bleeds out, smearing and spreading like inked letters in water, stretching and morphing until they don’t look like world-ending apprehension. Instead, they take the form of a blank horizon, a qualm for another day.

And from here? That looks so, so far away.

“You don’t have to knock, you know,” Deanna says, voice muffled by Imogen’s shoulder. “No matter how long you’ve been away, it’s your home too.”

There’s an unspoken threat there, probably, but Imogen is too busy smiling to see it. She gives her one last hearty squeeze before letting her go, taking a small step back to meet Deanna’s eyes.

“How was the drive? Truck held out alright by the looks of things,” she says, hands clasping and quickly rubbing her palms before she stills, blowing into them.

“Oh, uh, Laudna drove all the way from the Heartmoor, actually.” Imogen half-glances over her shoulder with what she hopes is a fond look. “Insisted on it so I could rest up on the way here.”

“Oh! I spoke to you on the phone already but I’m Deanna—you must be Laudna! I’ve heard great things. Welcome to the family!” She opens the door wider, gesturing them both inside.

“Deanna, that’s—” Imogen mumbles. “Laudna, you don’t have to—”

“Sorry if it’s a little small, we’re cosy!” And then, as Imogen stands up from putting her shoes away, Deanna stage whispers. “She is cute.”

Imogen watches Laudna for a moment, who’s still standing by the now closed door, looking at the walls. Or, more specifically, the walls decorated with framed pictures of Imogen growing up. Most pictures taken against her will, mind you, but growing up nonetheless. She’s smiling, the grin slowly pulling further until her cheeks make her eyes crinkle.

Then, Laudna turns to Deanna, beaming.

“I’m happy to have such a warm welcome! It’s wonderful to meet you. Do you do hugs?”

Imogen isn’t sure why it surprises her so much, but Deanna welcomes Laudna into their home like greeting an old, well-loved friend. Already forming inside jokes and little jabs as they make their way inside, offering drinks and those little gluten free snack-y crackers that Deanna always had in for her.

Laudna surreptitiously takes a handful into the pocket of her skirt that she crunches on as they continue through from the kitchen to the living room in their impromptu tour.

(Imogen makes sure to point out the cutlery drawer. Important.)

Deanna’s home is quaint, but definitely not demeaning in its size. Even if the rooms themselves are rather small, the downstairs alone is large enough to boast a kitchen, spare room, Deanna’s craft room, the living room and a small, but well-meaning shoe closet. The main bedrooms, and where Laudna is going to be sleeping, as Deanna reminds her, are upstairs.

In fact, Deanna is trying to start her way up the steps before Imogen is just about yanking her by the collar back down.

“Let’s not, please?” Imogen says, her jaw so clenched that the words are choked in her mouth. They come out half-cocked but with enough menace to make Deanna shrug knowingly and saunter her way back down, as if that had been her plan all along.

“She’s gonna see it eventually!” Deanna says, as if that hasn’t been on Imogen’s mind this whole time.

It’s a vulnerable thing, sleeping beside somebody. She found out, first hand, just last night in the bed above Zhudanna’s as she laid, watching the gentle rise and fall of Laudna’s chest once her eyes had found respite in sleep. Something so unarmed to the act of being in your most unprotected state, just an arm’s reach away from another.

To dream in the same space and maybe even share a dream. What a thought.

But the thought of taking Laudna to the place she spent all of those long nights alone? That thought pulls the strings wound around Imogen’s heart taut, her chest seeming to constrict entirely.

There’s a different sort of vulnerability there. Outside of the material sense of the word.

Being laid completely helpless in sleep is one thing, but this feels like being stripped bare. Every word, every long night and every friend lost, all of that is in that room.

All of the things that went wrong, outside of Deanna’s control, wait for her up there. A regression that Imogen can’t help but be consumed by every time she sees the unwrinkled sheets on her old mattress.

And Laudna is going to see every one of them.

The silver trophies, the certificates, the frames of Imogen and Deanna. Her old music box, her locket. It’s all going to be there. Untouched and undiluted.

It’s a sort of vulnerability that Imogen would much prefer to have alone with Laudna. Else she risks losing all of her composure on the spot.

Then, a cold hand plants itself on her shoulder, persuading her shoulder backwards until she has the reach to pull Imogen into the crook of her arm. Laudna presses a kiss to the side of Imogen’s hair. She leaves her head pressed there for just half a second longer than feels necessary before pulling away.

“I’m sure it can wait until we’ve seen the rest of the house!” Laudna interjects helpfully, arm falling from Imogen’s shoulder before she can reciprocate the gesture.

It’d be weird to thank her girlfriend for kissing her, right?

Well, not Kissing Her kissing her, like, kissing the side of her head. No, no. Laudna would never Kiss Her.

(Hopefully she would eventually but not right now, Imogen doesn’t know if she could handle that without liquifying.)

“Exactly,” Imogen interjects, truly grateful for avoiding that swinging anchor.

“All good! Okay, where to next? Hm.” Deanna looks down the hall that they just came from and then the other direction. “Oh! I have a gift for you, actually!”

“For me?” Laudna asks, brow furrowing.

“For you!”

“Deanna—I told you not to do the thing—”

“I don’t know what thing you’re talking about!” she insists, leading Laudna further down the hall, skipping a couple doors and B-lining straight to her craft room.

Imogen forgets just how much wool Deanna owns when she hasn’t been in here for a while. It’s wall to damn ceiling in here, fixed up, of course, with a small desk and a comfy chair for crafting.

She’s in the middle of announcing that Laudna also knits (crochets?) when the gremlin in question gasps like she’s just been unexpectedly punctured like an unsuspecting balloon and immediately launches into a monologue about how she loves crochet (crochet!) and she’d love to learn how to knit.

All the while Deanna’s rummaging through what she affectionately labels her ‘Yarn Pile’ which, true to name, is a corner of the room piled high with skeins she hasn’t yet organised. She re-emerges with a half-used ball of a deep maroon, pressing it into Laudna’s hands with the label.

“It’s a favourite,” Deanna promises, before turning again and practically running over to her comfy chair. There, sitting folded neatly, is a sweater.

The same deep maroon. A little overly large, cuffed at the bottom and wrists. A soft, elegant stitch climbing its way up and down the body of the sleeves.

“It may not fit but if it’s not to your liking, just let me know and I’ll frog and remake it to your liking—oh, no, sweetie are you okay?”

Imogen whips her head around from where she was getting lost in the ocean of blue yarns, right to Laudna. Laudna, whose lip is stuck out and slightly quivering, eyes glassy.

“You made this for me?” she wobbles, taking a couple steps forward to take the garment into her hands. She runs the pads of her thumbs over the stitching like it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“If you don’t like it, it’s alright, you don’t have to take it or anything, I totally understand—”

“I love it,” Laudna says, with the conviction of someone who is going to wear the sweater every day for the rest of her life.

“You do?”

Laudna practically wraps her entire body around Deanna, giving her a hearty squeeze.

“Thank you so much, I love it!”

Imogen… can’t stop the smile from creeping onto her face.

Laudna unravels herself, just enough for Imogen to catch tear tracks made inky by her mascara, before she starts showering Deanna with questions. How long did it take? You knit, could you teach me? What’s this stitch even called?

Imogen excuses herself for a drink in the middle of a conversation about favourite yarn weights, whatever the fuck that means. She makes sure to pick up a glass of water for Laudna, too, just in case.

When she comes back, though, she finds them in the living room, still chatting animatedly, though seeming not to have noticed her return.

The smile creeps back and back and back, again and again and again. And she feels a welt of pride swell in her chest.

Those are her girls.

They might as well be talking gibberish for all Imogen knows, all hook sizes and ‘yarn grips’(?) but all of the worry and anxiety and anticipation she’d had on the drive here melts away like snow in the sun.

Not that them getting along actually even matters at all. Her and Laudna? Not a thing, not a real thing. So it makes no difference whether or not Laudna slips into this space in her home like she’d always been there. It makes no difference at all, because they’re not real and it doesn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

Laudna makes her feel things that she’s never felt before, not for crushes, not for friends, not for anyone. She’s a cold warm-place. A little safe person, a pocket to tuck into when she’s afraid. A solace, a shelter from a biting wind.

God, it matters so, so much.

Because Imogen… likes her. Yeah.

And even if she doesn’t feel the same way, it’s like Laudna is meant to be here. Be with her. Even if it doesn't turn out to be in the romantic sense.

There’s a level of peace in that admission as Imogen wades fully into the room, announcing her presence and handing Laudna a glass of water.

That tranquillity that settles over Imogen simmers into a restful anxiety as soon as she sits down at the dinner table. Dissolved by the presence of home-cooked food and replaced with a deep-set guild about lying to Deanna.

And right to her face, too.

Imogen likes Laudna. Really, really likes her. And that’s hard to admit.

Usually, she’d already have spoken to Deanna about this. As in, like, months ago. And here she is, making up some convoluted story about how they fell in love but it wasn’t really them at all, and it was just Imogen and fuck, can she even call this love?

Is it even fair to do that?

A pang hits her stomach, curdling under the warmth of Deanna’s affectionate glance to her as she talks to Laudna.

“—’ve been working on something just recently for Imogen, actually! Nothing too big, just a couch project, really, but I can’t keep it for myself. I think if I have anything else, I might as well start crocheting the wallpaper,” Laudna rambles, between small bites of her food, though still pushing it around her plate as she talks.

At the mention of Imogen’s name, she turns ever so slightly to give her a smile.

Imogen wishes she could meet her gaze, but if she does, she truly thinks she might make the acquaintance of her dinner for a second, less pleasant time.

“Not that I haven’t thought about it, of course,” she clarifies. A gentle squeeze. “Imogen, dear, are you quite alright?”

She blinks, a cloud of nauseous guilt clouding her better judgement. “Yup, yeah. All good. Just a little tired is all.”

Laudna softens. “I told you you could rest in the car—truck. Car-truck. Same thing.”

“I know, I know.” Somehow lying to cover it up is making it worse? It’s almost like she’s holding the spade she dug the hole with. “Just gotta get an early night, right?”

“An amazing idea!” Laudna says, retracting her hand away.

The knot in her stomach loosens, ever so slightly.

How can she even bring it up? And in front of Laudna, too? After she came out all this way, after making all of this effort, just to undo it all in a second?

This has to be an unrivalled level of complete and utter idiotry. Imogen has hit a new low with this one, and she’s honestly not sure if she’ll be dragging it, or whatever’s left of her dignity with her.

Laudna continues to chat backwards and forwards with Deanna. Nothing too big, nothing like revealing that this is all a sham and that Imogen is a little fibber, a spinner of untruths. Just compliments on the food and the house and fuck, she’s so good at this.

The whole talking thing. Endearing herself. Making herself liked.

Would Imogen really have a chance with someone like that?

Imogen would’ve loved bringing her home, for real. She’s just so—

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, of course, how did you guys meet?” Deanna asks eventually, dabbing at the side of her mouth with one of the napkins she’d laid out on the table.

Thankfully, Imogen knows the answer to this one like the back of her hand. If only because she’d recited the damn thing like a script on her way down.

The way her arm slides its way over the back of Laudna’s chair, though? That’s completely unplanned.

“You remember I told you about a real nice lady that helped me find my boxes when I first moved in? And that neighbour I’ve been meetin’ with,” Imogen says, the polished wood cool beneath her fingers. “That’s—uh—that’s my girl.”

And breathe.

“Right!” Laudna interjects, nodding her head and throwing out one hand in a ‘you know?’ sort of gesture. “And Imogen wanted to repay me for helping her, which, obviously, I told her was completely unnecessary and that anyone would have done the same if they’d been in the same scenario but she insisted. She ended up bringing me… what was it? Strawberries?”

“A buncha different fruits, yeah.” Imogen turns to her just in time to meet Laudna’s gaze. They share a brief look, hopefully a fond one. It feels it. “And she came to my door the next day with somethin’ she’d baked from ‘em and—oh, don’t let her tell you otherwise, she’s an amazin’ cook. Can whip somethin’ up outta nothin’.”

How can one give compliments without being gay about it? Is it too suggestive that she knows what Laudna’s cooking is like, even if it is the truth. Is it too intimate? It feels a little too intimate.

Maybe it adds to the effect?

“She’s exaggerating, truly—”

Imogen can feel her eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not!”

Did she respond too fast?

“I’d put my head on the fact you could sell somethin’ she makes from a restaurant and be a millionaire in a couple days.”

Shit, how does she do this whole ‘conversation’ thing again? It’s been a while since she’s had one that wasn’t entirely with Laudna. Is this even right? How did she speak to Deanna before? What did they talk about before this?

Laudna pauses, only briefly to look up at the ceiling and then back down to her plate, now mostly empty. “Imogen, that would be way too overpriced for just a meal. A millionaire in a couple of days? Make it a few years, maybe. And then you have to take into account the restaurant upkeep cost—”

“Darlin’,” Imogen says, much more steadily than she thought she would. “It's theoretical. I’m exaggeratin’ but I’m not kiddin’ about your cookin’ bein’ good. Promise.”

It feels right, so Imogen leans over and presses a kiss to the side of her head, landing in the hair just above her ear. And, of course, immediately feels like she needs to eat a lightbulb.

“You might have to come back and make us all some dinner one of these days,” Deanna says, expression looking like some concoction of elation and Trying To Keep It The Fuck Together.

“We’ll be back at some point soon, right?” The words leave her lips as they’re meant to, and yet she still feels that pang, the rush of panic like the clash of a symbol too close makin her ears ring.

Imogen wasn’t supposed to say that.

They’re not going to be back at all, weren’t supposed to be back at all anyway. This was supposed to be a one and done, break up by February deal.

Good fucking lord, she wasn’t supposed to say that.

She can feel her shoulders tense and coil like a heated wire returning to its original state as her arm slinks back into her own lap.

Why did she say that?

But when she looks over at Laudna, she’s looking right back, just like she always does. Patient and inviting and always with just the right thing to say. A whisper of a smile taking her lips, just watching.

“Right,” she says with a tilt to her head, still looking right at Imogen. Truly, the only thing stopping her from setting her hair on fire presently.

Imogen, suddenly, wants to apologise. To call this whole thing off, to say it’s gone too far and to thank her for everything she’s done and promptly move halfway across the country and change her identity.

She wants to apologise because Laudna doesn’t deserve to be tangled up in Imogen’s own mess. Good, beautiful, incredible Laudna. She doesn’t need half of the shit that she has to deal with being Imogen’s friend. Wouldn’t need more than half of the shit that’d come with being more than that.

Wants to stop it now and take whatever forgiveness she can get and wear it like a consolation medal.

“What do you like most about her?”

Deanna’s voice cuts through the noise.

And all in a breath of a moment, she’s back. Listening to the clock tick out in the hall. The soft scraping of Deanna’s chair as she pushes it back, refilling their glasses with the pitcher of water in the centre of the table.

What does she like most about Laudna?

Her smile or her eyes or the way she laughs and the way she makes Imogen laugh and the way she understands Imogen without her even needing to utter a word. Her good heart and all the love that she’s so, so willing to give.

But to phrase that in a way that makes it sound like Imogen is in a normal level of romantic interest in Laudna turns out to be an almost impossible task when you have the ticking conversation bomb of a pair of eyes awaiting a response.

It sounds almost too good, so much so that it sounds ingenuine. Maybe? Does it?

God, fuck, Imogen wants to go home. Not even home, just anywhere but here.

She’d rather be stuck in a ditch with her shitty truck and no gas and no oranges left to sell.

Laudna has… nice hair? She does, she really does but is it too shallow for an appearance to be your favourite thing about a person? Does it make Imogen look like an asshole that only wants Laudna for her looks? Because, of course, that couldn’t be further from the truth and—

She’s cut off, because Laudna that responds first.

“Imogen sees right to the heart of people,” she responds easily, like it was part of the script they’d crafted on the drive. “It made me feel known in a way that I haven’t in an extremely long time. And I consider myself very lucky to have found her when I did.”

Haha. What.

She’s lucky?

If Laudna is lucky, what is Imogen?

She feels her chest begin to constrict in that all too familiar way. God, she’s going to cry, isn’t she?

She doesn’t want to. Imogen doesn’t want to cry, not right now, not at the dinner table. Not in front of Laudna and Deanna and all of these other confusing emotions are just happening all at once. Maybe later, but not now.

The tears, though, aren’t quite in tune with this request. Welling up and threatening to make some sort of shitty clown makeup out of her face.

Even the laugh Imogen uses to cover them is a little blubbery. “Oh, I thought you were gonna say my eyes or somethin’.”

“Those too, of course,” she says, still not even hesitating. “You just might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. But I thought that’d be rather fatuous of me to say.”

So, long story short.

Imogen's soul has left her body to be an empty vessel while the rest of her astral projects into a reality when Laudna means the words she just said. Because there has to be a reality out there, right?

When Imogen finally manages to catch Laudna’s eye, the last thing she’s expecting to find is a glimmer of fear. Or… doubt? Maybe? Or… or what?

Her cheeks are a flash red, like a sudden onset fever, skin that’s raw from injury and yet Laudna hasn’t been hurt at all, hasn’t even been doing her usual picking at her own skin. The thing that strikes Imogen, though, is that it isn’t a red of hurt. Not really. It’s softer, kinder at the edges, bleeding into her natural complexion. Almost like a… like a blush.

The only thing that could’ve possibly… Could it?

Could she?

Could they…?

“Oh, Laudna, I—”

“Pardon me,” she pushes out, so quickly the words come out as one, jaunty sound. She barely has time to adjust her skirt as she thrusts her chair back, regardless of the nails-on-chalkboard-adjacent screech that emanates from the legs. “I need to use the little ghoul’s room, be back in just a moment!”

She almost seems to fly out of that damn room, feet skittering across the floor and arm almost seeming to pop out of its socket as she almost rams straight into the doorframe. She dodges last minute, thankfully, and the flighty taps of her steps can be heard tittering up and down the hall before eventually fading out completely.

So, this is Imogen’s chance right?

To confess, maybe? To finally come clean about all of these small lies that all feel so big right about now? What other chance is she going to get?

And yet, the other part of Imogen wants to run out of the room after her. To make sure she’s okay. Because she looked… distressed? Not her usual self, that’s for sure.

And if this has all gone too far, then she needs to be the one to put it to a stop now.

Putting herself in an uncomfortable situation is one thing. But Laudna? Putting Laudna in an uncomfortable situation?

Imogen feels a sudden swell of confidence manifest in her chest.

“Hey, Deanna?” She says, voice smaller than she’d intended.

“And you?” Deanna asks at the same time. “Oh, what was that?”

Imogen bites down on the inside of her cheek. “It’s nothin’, what were you sayin’?”

“What do you like most about her?”

The second time hearing the question is no less difficult. Made all the more difficult somehow now that Laudna’s not here and Deanna has this shit-eating grin on her face that makes Imogen want to find the squirty cream she knows is in the fridge and fill her mouth with it so she can’t talk anymore.

She clears her throat once, nervously. And then again, which breaks out into a chesty cough.

Oh great fucking heavens.

“Could I maybe— could I talk to you about somethin’?” Her voice crackles like she’s spent the last twenty years smoking ten cigarettes an hour. Fuck. “It’s real serious, I—”

“Imogen, if you’re about to tell me you wanna marry her—I’ll always support you! But you are U-Hauling, girl. You can take your time! I’m never gonna yuck your yum, but I gotta be honest with you, sweetie. And from the looks of her? She’s not going anywhere, any time soon.”

Hey, look! This table cloth is made of table cloth! How interesting! A dense weave of individual threads, lined up in a way specific enough to constitute a more sturdy material. Imogen never really took notice of how fascinating cloth is as an invention until this very moment.

How did people so long ago even figure this shit out?

“No, no, no, no.” Deep breath in. “it’s not that.”

And out. Fuck, she didn’t hold it.

“Then…?” Deanna draws.

Marriage? Quite literally the opposite.

Not divorce, obviously. You can’t get divorced if you’re not even together in the first place. So maybe not the opposite.

Maybe she should just wait until Laudna gets back. This conversation would feel so much easier if she was holding Laudna’s hand. Is that ingenuine?

Oh lord (Laud?) help her.

Deanna throws her a look. “You wanna ask her to move in? I say, if she makes you happy, go for it! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy, Imogen. It’s really—it makes me proud of you, y’know? Oh, I’m tearing up.”

She begins looking at the lights and fanning her eyes, desperately trying to will the tears away.

And that’s what breaks it.

What breaks every wall, every fragment of her constitution, every little thing that’s been keeping her own tears at bay. They come out like a torrent. Like pushing past the storm wall into the inner circle, suddenly pelted with the onslaught of the hurricane.

She’s shoving the heels of her palms into her eyes, pushing away the guilt manifested and all she can do is apologise. It spills from her tongue, as familiar as this dining room table, as familiar as Deanna and her cooking.

“Sweetie. What’s wrong? Whatever you’re sorry for, I’m sure it’s absolutely fine. It’s okay. You can tell me—if it’s about Laudna, you don’t even need to worry, we can work through it together—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s not real. I’m sorry.”

And it comes out.

The same way she told Deanna about the kids at school teasing her, or about that test she failed or the class she skipped. All tears and garbled words and Deanna letting her food get cold so that she can keep Imogen steady, instead.

Gradually, the lies that had been falling like dense seeds of guilt recede. Pulling up from her shoulders and letting Imogen breathe, chest no longer weighted with the pressure of whatever all of this was going to amount to.

Deanna, undoubtedly, unequivocally, solidly, is there. Wading to Imogen’s side of the table, pulling out the chair beside her and only offering as much eye contact as she needs. All reassurances and a knowing look and fuck, Imogen feels like a kid again.

Has she really not changed at all?

“Imogen,” Deanna says, eventually. “I wanna get something straight with you, okay?”

She pulls away just far enough to where she can look her in the eyes. “I would never ever get mad at you for something like this. I only ever want what’s best for you. I’m sorry for making you feel like you couldn’t just talk to me.”

Imogen nods, mutely. She swallows a breath that threatens to get stuck in her throat.

“And second, I just wanna make it clear that I never wanna put you in this kinda situation again, alright? This is the kinda shit I’m here to protect you from, not cause. And I’m sorry that you felt like you had to do this.”

“It was fine at first—it was fine ‘cause we were friends and it was fine because it was ‘sposed to stay that way.”

“What makes you think it’s not fine now, sweetie?”

“I really, really like her, Deanna,” Imogen blubbers. Aloud, it doesn’t sound so big. “I don’t wanna be her friend and I know she don’t feel the same way about me.”

At this, Deanna seems to take a pause. A long one. Way too long. Long enough to break Imogen out of her hiccupy breath cycle.

“What? Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

Deanna just stares. Slowly, one eyebrow hitches up, (not so) cautiously curious.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Pretty damn sure, yeah— I mean, she literally just ran away at the prospect of givin’ me a compliment.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, I think if my ‘best friend’ said something like that to me, I’m eloping with her. Like, immediately,” Deanna says, with a conviction that suggests that she’s been there before.

What.

Is Deanna suggesting that she and Laudna elope? Because that feels like an absolutely horrific idea because Imogen cannot afford somewhere like Yios right now.

“I would never tell you what to do because it’s gotta come from your own heart but—” Deanna cuts herself off, pausing for a moment before pushing on. “I think you gotta talk to her girl! If you have feelings for her, that’s the kinda stuff you gotta talk about. Otherwise neither of you get closure and that is not healthy.”

A beat.

“What do I even say to her?”

“What you just said to me? Duh?”

Imogen sighs. “It’s not as easy as that.”

“What makes it hard?”

The hardest part is that Imogen doesn’t even know. There’s just something about the idea of telling Laudna that makes her throat close up, a clamp taking hold of her vocal chords.

How would she even react?

She’s not sure what Laudna looks like when she’s mad, or upset, or disgusted and Imogen doesn’t want this to be the way she finds out, either.

“I… don’t want to lose her,” Imogen says through a still shaking exhale. “I don’t want to push her away. I don’t even think it’s the embarrassment? Don’t get me wrong, I'd still wanna disappear if it happened but I don’t think anything would be worse than her takin’ it the wrong way and… I dunno. She’s like my best friend.”

“That spooky lady looks at you like you painted sunsets for her, Imogen. Even if what she feels isn’t romantic, there’s no way that something as small as this would ruin what you guys have. I've never seen you so happy. Really. To find someone that makes you happy is so special.”

There’s a part of Imogen that hates that she’s being persuaded. The other, though?

“How do I even bring something like that up?”

Laudna comes back to the table, Imogen wipes her face and the meal finishes, almost as if nothing had happened.

No world-altering realisations or plans of confession or much of anything at all.

Just empty plates being swept into the kitchen, Laudna making a game out of washing and drying and the day gently bringing itself to a close. As if it’s just any other day. As if Laudna slinking her way into the process is as routine as her insisting on driving the rest of the way here.

The only issue, however, is that Imogen is too preoccupied in her thoughts to enjoy the ritual of it. Much like she’s been for most of her waking life, she’s loath to admit.

Even as they sit down to watch an easy sitcom in the evening, she can’t keep her eyes from wandering from the screen, the actor’s words falling on deaf ears, thoughts overtaken with conversation starters and awkward topic introducers and—

Fuck, what is she even doing? How long’s she been zoning out for?

Even the few suggestions that Deanna had—they were good and might work, even, but they just… didn’t feel good.

Like, the tried, tested and approved ‘I’ve got to talk to you’ spiel would make Imogen want to commit a crime, so why would she inflict it on Laudna?

Imogen’s in the midst of unfolding from her usual spot on the couch when Laudna rearranges herself to huddle into the place right beside her. And it’s strange, because even with how close she is, Imogen finds that she doesn’t mind at all. No increased heart rate, no sweating, and no panic.

Not immediately, of course, the impending fear that Laudna can somehow smell the gay radiating off of her creeps in but that’s after she’s already got her head pressed into Imogen’s shoulder.

But the pressure is right. The weight of another body leaning against her own. The press of her arms curled close to her body. The fit of Imogen's arm against her shoulder, the tips of her fingers winding into the ends of her hair, teasing out the knots. It’s right but at the same time it feels so wrong.

To keep up the act, to keep Laudna in the dark. Somehow, it’s worse than whatever guilt she had been feeling before.

It feels wrong to masquerade this as platonic when Imogen means every single piece of it means more to her than she could even dream of articulating.

It strikes Imogen at some point, mid-office-romance-gag, that Laudna might have heard her conversation with Deanna. Might already know the mammothly oversized homosexual sentiments she has for her. Which is enough to make Imogen forfeit her own portion of dessert.

(When Laudna offered her a couple bites of hers, she’d thought it’d look suspicious to refuse it. Only realised after, really, that it was a little futile at this point.)

Does she know? And she’s still doing this? That’s too unbelievable, right? Imogen’s getting carried away in her overthinking again, she can feel it this time. Poor Laudna needed the bathroom and here Imogen is, mentally accusing her of eavesdropping on her conversations. Laudna would never do something like that and if she did?

Well, Imogen isn’t so sure she would?

It’s hard. Laudna’s never been that type of person but what if she is?

A few episodes go by like that.

Trying her hardest to pay attention, getting lost in the drag of thought before being brought back with a shift of Laudna next to her, or making a new addition to her running commentary of the show.

A couple hours, at the least. Idle chatter about the characters or a stray laugh here and there until the aforementioned commentary comes to a gradual close.

Beside her, Laudna seems to huddle further into Imogen’s side, head turning so that half of her face is hidden. It’s unlikely that she’s even watching the TV anymore, given that even if her eyes were open, she wouldn’t be able to see it.

Imogen lays her head against hers as much as she can, pulling her arm just a little tighter on instinct. Laudna lets a breath that sounds suspiciously like a yawn fall from her lips, curling herself up even further if that’s even possible.

“Hey, Deanna?” Imogen eventually says, once the episode comes to a close and the next one begins to load.

She looks up from the knitting she has in her lap. “Uh-huh?”

“Think me and Laud’re gonna head to bed, I’m gettin’ a lil tired,” she says, stretching as she pulls her arm from around Laudna as she sits up. “That alright with you?”

Laudna blinks a few times, as if just realising where she is. “What? Oh! Oh, yes, of course.”

Imogen bids Deanna goodnight with a hug, a kiss on the cheek and a slow nod. The Indication, probably. If she doesn’t pussy out, which is honestly pretty likely at this point.

Each of the stairs feels much steeper than the last when they finally begin to ascend to Imogen’s old room. The probability of each step weighing getting heavier and heavier at the sheer thought.

The sound of the TV still playing in front of Deanna permeates through the house in waves. A distant laugh track can be heard and Imogen hopes there’s not gonna be some horribly comic timing for her fucking confession. Somehow, that’d be worse than being rejected on its own.

That’s what this is gonna be, right?

Rejection?

There’s something ironic about it: plans to confess, to expose her own feelings in the very same room Imogen spent years of her life hiding in.

“I don’t think Deanna even touches this place when I’m not here” Imogen says, just as she pushes the door open.

And it’s there, just as predicted, exactly as she’d left it.

Bedsheets slightly rumpled, not quite made right, pillows slightly askew. The silver trophies, the certificates, the frames of Imogen and Deanna, Flora, too. Her old music box, her locket. It’s all here, just where she’d left it.

“I clearly didn’t feel like makin’ the bed the last time I was here,” Imogen says, if only to fill the all-too-apparent silence as Laudna takes in the room.

Maybe she should wait until morning to tell her. This feels too delicate a moment to shatter.

That thought trickles back again. She might already know.

“I’ll—uh. I can change the sheets? If you want? You can take the bed, I don’t mind, really,” Imogen says, gently. Almost as if speaking to the room itself. As if she doesn’t already know what it’s like to wake up beside her.

Laudna doesn’t respond, though. In fact, doesn’t even give a notion of having heard her in the first place. She’s drifted through the room to Imogen’s old dresser. In her hand, she’s found the music box that Deanna had gifted her when she moved in.

She turns and looks at Imogen over her shoulder. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead.”

Imogen watches, rather intently, as Laudna runs her fingers over the soft, metallic trim of a nostalgic music box. Listening to the familiar crank as it winds and begins to play a soft tune, the silhouette of a girl on the back of a rearing horse spinning in the centre. In the box, there’s jewellery.

Nothing worth anything, of course. Memories mostly. Rings that turned her fingers green with plastic gems and a cheap metal locket that she never found the perfect picture for. A stray eraser, of course, too.

She catches Laudna smiling before the melody plinks to a stop, and she closes the box, placing it back on the desk.

“You alright?” Imogen asks, a little tepid.

“It’s just a little strange,” Laudna says after a moment of pause. “Thinking about you growing up here.”

The back of Imogen’s neck suddenly feels awfully hot. “It’s not much, for sure, but it’s a thousand times better than the one before.”

“Oh! That’s not what I meant at all!” she says, turning from the dresser to look at Imogen, eyebrows almost in her hairline. “I just meant that… it’s strange to think about you young, is all. Because all of these things are so you and—well, I don’t know it’s silly but you don’t have your purple hair in these! It’s so strange!”

She’s referring to the pictures pinned around the mirror. Imogen plucks the pin from the wall, taking the picture into her hands and walking back to the bed, sitting on the sheets. Laudna shuffles in beside her, leaning over eagerly to have a closer look at the picture in her hands.

Imogen remembers asking Deanna to take her to the library so that she could print this off, and on her next birthday, Deanna surprised her with the premium glossy print. She’d cried. Bawled even. She’d been too afraid to touch them in case her fingerprints ruined the image.

“Man, I couldn’t even tell you when those were taken,” Imogen says. “Way before I discovered hair dye, obviously.”

“And your glasses, too!”

“Listen, everyone makes a bad choice with square frames and the colour purple at least once in their life and mine just happened to last all of middle school! Don’t make that face—”

“You’re adorable! You look so tiny!”

“I was not, I hate thinkin’ about every second of it,” she snaps back. It’s playful irritation, the kind where the smile can’t help but sneak its way onto her face.

“You look happy, though.”

“I was,” Imogen admits, just as quickly.

For the most part.

When she wasn’t being absolutely bombarded by enough anxiety to kill a family of five and then some.

“Deanna did a real good job of makin’ sure that I had a nice place to come home to, y’know.”

“I can see it,” Laudna says, quietly. “It’s… reassuring to know that you’ve got a place to come back to, even if something else happens.”

“You sick of bein’ my neighbour?” Imogen jabs.

“Not at all!” she rebuttals. “I don’t know—I don’t mean to make this about myself or sad at all but—and I’m not sure if I’ve told you this but a fair few years ago I had some rough times and I didn’t have anywhere to go for a long while.” Laudna twists her hands into a knot. “I’m… It makes me happy to know that you won’t have to experience that, you know? I’m sorry, that’s rather dark, it’s just… I—”

“I get it,” she cuts in, nodding. “I do, I—”

“I care for you an awful lot—”

Imogen’s chest tenses.

“I l—care for you too and, yk’know, I know it won’t mean much now but Deanna loves you. If you’ve… If you ever have any hard times again, don’t hesitate. I’m here for you, right?”

“Alright.” Laudna swallows and it’s only now that Imogen notices the glassiness in her eyes.

The breath seems to catch in her throat and she leans back, putting the picture behind them.

She can’t know, can she?

She’s acting far too normal to know. Telling her tomorrow morning, maybe even after they’ve gotten home. Just so Imogen can maybe avoid her for a couple days. Wouldn’t see whatever emotion would carve itself in the place a smile should be.

“I, uh, I gotta be honest.” Imogen clears her throat.

No laugh tracks in the distance. No voices, at all, even. Just them. Them and this little bubble.

“I was kinda afraid that you and Deanna were gonna hate each other.”

Okay, that’s not what was meant to come out but it works? A segue of sorts.

“What?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, you guys get along real great, I dunno why I thought something bad was gonna happen,” Imogen says, a little twinge in the back of her mind. A nagging thought. One of her hands balls into a fist in the bedsheets.

Now?

“Bad?” Laudna looks up at her, curiously. “What do you mean?”

No, not now.

“Like, I dunno. I thought maybe you’d hate each other or somethin’. Deanna’s always been real protective and it was rare I even had friends at all growin’ up, let alone someone to bring home to meet her, y’know.

“It’s like when you have two friends from different groups and you want ‘em to meet but you don’t know how they’re gonna gel? Kinda like that.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Laudna starts, turning so that her knees brush Imogens. “I find her to be quite lovely.”

She’s got this smile on her face, as if she’s recalling a happy memory. Imogen almost wants to ask what it is, but when Laudna’s hands take hers, she doesn’t want to risk ruining the moment.

“And on the plus side, we have common ground! You know, similar hobbies and whatnot, it’s some good talking points. And, of course, we both love you an awful lot so…” she trails off for a moment, before glancing up again. “Call it a catalyst for conversation, if you’d like.”

Now?

Is Laudna feeling the same kind of love?

How can you even tell that sort of thing.

“I—uh. I know you’re not—that we’re not anythin’ but…” Maybe we could be somethin’? “I just feel real happy that you’re the one that’s here with me right now, y’know?”

Imogen squeezes Laudna’s hand tentatively, trying to desperately control her breathing. It’s so hot in here. Someone should open a window or something, jeez.

They’re not anything. They’re not. But they could be. All she needs to do is say the words. It’d be so, so easy. All she has to do is voice it. Give the words a place to sit in her mouth.

She’s said them all before, just not in this order. Is the order what makes it hard?

“I’m glad you feel the same way,” Laudna says, squeezing back.

“You’re happy to be here?”

“Of course, I’m always happy to spend time with you, Imogen,” she says. “And I’m particularly honoured that I get to see all of this.” She motions around her. “And Deanna, of course.”

“Yeah, about that, actually—”

“Did you mean it, earlier?” Laudna says suddenly, her grip slackening on Imogen’s hand. “That we’d be coming back.”

“No? Yeah? I—I don’t know. I just—” Imogen sighs heavily, hand slipping from Laudna’s almost entirely. “I just feel like we’ve hardly had a conversation alone since we got here and I know it’s weird, I just didn’t wanna be always asking you if things are alright all the time and I just ended up doin’ ‘em anyway and I don’t ever wanna make you feel uncomfortable or anythin’ and—”

Laudna catches the falling grip, pulling Imogen’s hand into her lap to clasp it with both of her own.

“Imogen, all you have to do is talk to me. If not then, now. We’re here now, aren’t we? All you have to do is ask. I’ll always share my thoughts with you.”

A leap.

“Can I—can I kiss you?”

It hadn’t been what she’d been planning to say. Not at all. Not after the stolen kisses pressed to her head and the hand holding and the fond looks and the cuddling on the sofa and all of that. She’d at least intended to apologise for some of it. For doing it without permission, anyway.

“I can’t tell if it’s alright or not anymore.”

Laudna blinks owlishly. As if her head is about to turn a full one-eighty and then proceed to fly off into the night.

“Alright,” she says after a moment, something of shock lilting her voice.

“Alright?”

“Alright!”

“Like, not in this fake datin’ girlfriend thing, I mean like, a real—”

And then Laudna’s hands are on her face. One on either side of her jaw, cold and a little clammy and so her and— oh.

Her lips are a little cold too.

Only a little dry, pressing chastly to Imogen’s. And pulling her closer still, Imogen’s eyes closing on instinct.

Her hands find Laudna’s hair, chasing it back behind her ears, tangling in at the nape of her neck.

She smells familiar, like incense and orange trees and petrichor all at once and home. Not this home, but home, nonetheless. Like warmth and lamplight and fresh bed sheets and a waiting bath at just the right temperature. Like finished crochet projects and bonding with your mom and a truck that doesn’t rattle when you turn the engine.

Laudna presses her forehead into Imogen’s as she pulls away, only briefly.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ve just been thinking since dinner,” Laudna says, too quick, like the thoughts are a pan boiling over suddenly. “I’ve had such a lovely time here with you and Deanna and I’ve been dreading going home and, you know, we were talking and everything and then you mentioned us coming back?”

Imogen almost cringes. Not her best moment. But one of Laudna’s hands is gently mapping the side of her face. She softens.

“And all of a sudden, I was so excited and I realised that I—not only did I want to come back but that I wanted to come back to be with you again. Because I enjoy being with you, even if it was pretending and—oh, Imogen, I felt so happy when Deanna said that I was part of the family and looking back on it now, it all feels so obvious.”

Laudna’s eyes are searching her own, piling at the edges with… Imogen wants to call it affection. It has to be, right?

“What’s obvious?” Imogen asks, her mouth suddenly feeling parched.

“That… I want to be with you, Imogen, if you’ll have me.”

It doesn’t quite feel real. Not for the first couple seconds anyway until Imogen, for once, snaps out of her thoughts.

She squeezes her eyes closed and the breath that comes out almost quivers. Between that, and Laudna’s palms on her cheeks, she’s never felt so grounded.

After a long drive and an even longer train of anxiety, Imogen feels like she deserves this. They deserve this. After all of the lies and the deceit and the half-hearted practice behind closed doors, Imogen couldn’t imagine wanting—needing anyone else.

They deserve to see the Heartmoor again. As a couple. For real, this time. Maybe even go back and see Zhudanna every once in a while, for the holidays.

They deserve this, don’t they?

“Yeah. I’d—I’d be more than happy to have you.” And Imogen closes the space between them to press their foreheads together again.

“Do you think Deanna would mind if we stayed a couple more days? We don’t have to lie to her anymore.”

She can’t help but smile. “I think she’d like that. I’d like that.”

And Laudna leans in and kisses her again. Like wrapping pinkies on a promise.