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Clementine's creepy mirror doppelganger is waiting in Valencia's apartment when she gets home from her route one morning. It's clearly not the real Clementine because Val saw her twenty minutes ago at the station and she wouldn't have had time to beat Val into the city, especially not if she'd taken the time to change into the olive green jumpsuit number this Clem is sporting. It does have a post bag slung over its shoulder, but Val can't tell if there are any letters inside. 

There are no immediate hints as to how it got through the locked door, or how long it's been waiting. Val should be worried, but honestly she's too tired. Her stamina still hasn't recovered well, and running an entire route really takes it out of her. 

"Good morning, Dark Clementine," she says. "Unexpected seeing you here." 

The Clementine stares at her. Do mirror clones blink? This one doesn't seem to need to. 

Val toes off her shoes and kicks them in the direction of the pile near the door, carelessly tossing her keys after them.

“What are the chances you made me breakfast?” she asks, just to fill the silence. The mirror clone doesn’t answer, but she does step out of the way when Val moves to pass her and check in the kitchen. Nothing cooked and waiting on the stove. Then again, nothing in the fridge besides a half gallon of sour milk and leftover stir fry that is probably also bad by now. Fuck. She’d meant to stop by the grocer on the way home. 

Oh well. Nothing to do for it now, not with the way the bed is calling her name. 

She checks back on the entryway. The weird thing hasn’t moved. Val eyes it. 

“If I don’t kick you out, are you going to murder me in my sleep?” 

Dark Clementine doesn’t answer. 

“Not as reassuring as you could be, you know,” Val says. “But I’m bushed so whatever. Mi casa and shit. Help yourself to anything you want in the fridge. Lock the door on your way out. If your kind use doors, I guess.” 

The thing is gone when Val wakes up that evening, and she even has time to go shopping before her shift, so she's going to mostly chalk the day up as a win. 

A few days later, she finds an envelope tucked beside her toaster. It's in one of those official Night Post envelopes they keep in random cupboards and supply closets around the station. In the addressee location is written "do not deliver to Valencia Torres" in Clementine's careful, tiny handwriting. 

"Oh, so this is what you were here for," she says out loud, even though she is presumably alone in the apartment. She slices the envelope open with a butter knife. "Let's see what Clementine had to say." 

Val smoothes out the creases and sticks the letter on her fridge. She hasn't noticed Clem acting oddly around her lately, so whatever's going on is probably no big deal. Even people who are too curious about the supernatural for their own good, and who nearly get sucked into haunted mirrors on occasion, and who have a creepy-ass clone illicitly delivering their journal entries to various eligible women in their life must have regular dreams from time to time. It can't always be prophetic omens of doom. 

It must have been embarrassing, though, whatever it was. What could Clem be embarrassed by? Any number of things about Val, frankly; Clem still hasn't taken the time to properly introduce her to Will, and every missed opportunity makes it increasingly clear that Clem finds her too mortifying to display to her fancy new city girlfriend. Fuck her, but also Val gets it. She's not exactly the picture of desirability, between the thick, angry slashes of black eyeliner she meticulously applies each evening, the artful tears she's made through every work uniform she owns, and her fuck-off heavy boots. The eyebrow piercing. Now the limp. None of it adds up to anything close to what she presumes is Clem's favored look. If Val showed up at one of those fancy reservation-only restaurants Clementine tells her about dining at with Will, she'd be turned away at the door. 

Anyway. She'll probably throw the letter away tomorrow. 

* 

Dark Clementine is waiting again when Val gets home about a week later. 

"Oh good," Val says. "You got a postscript for me?" 

She holds out her hand in semi-mocking expectation. The mirror thing doesn't hand her anything, but – and maybe Val is imagining this – it might smile a little. 

"Fine then, no personal delivery," Val shrugs and starts hunting through the kitchen. "Do you want breakfast? Do your kind eat? I have –" moldy bread in the pantry, a single egg in the fridge "– frozen waffles?" 

She drops two in the toaster and starts looking for syrup. It should be easier to find things in her cupboards considering how little edible food there is, but it takes her several minutes to unearth the bottle. 

By the time she returns to the entry, Dark Clementine has disappeared. There's no letter in sight, but Val can be patient. 

*

Val finds the letter folded up in her jacket pocket the next evening on her way out the door. She rips the envelope open and reads it as she heads downstairs. 

Satisfied and warm. Val lets her attention linger on those three words. That's a dramatically different hint to the nature of the dreams than Val had gotten last time. In fact, this makes it downright easy to put together. 

Embarrassment plus satisfaction equals: their lovely little Clementine Keys is having wet dreams. 

About Valencia Torres. 

Val's first reaction is something like pride. She wouldn't have thought Clem had it in her. Val can't exactly put her finger on it, but there's something about Clem that simply exudes sexual innocence. 

She's desperately curious, suddenly, to know what kinds of fantasies a person like that might linger on subconsciously. Is Clem one of those women who present a facade of purity in daylight, but flips the switch in the sheets? Or maybe her imagination doesn't stretch past realistic strap-ons and missionary sex. Maybe the dreams are actually so tame that they don't even involve sex – maybe Clem is going red in the face thinking about Val holding her hand or giving her a peck on the cheek. Has she ever seen Clem and Will engage in such wanton public displays of affection? Nothing comes to mind. 

But hadn't Clem lived with Maggie? Back before Val really knew her, of course. And more recently, she'd mentioned staying the night at Will's a few times. Surely Clem isn't a blushing virgin. She probably just prefers keeping her love life behind closed doors. She and Val are fundamentally incompatible like that. 

So. These dreams aren't going to go anywhere, and neither are these letters, and Val will keep this little secret tucked in her head until it all blows over. Maybe she'll show Milo and Clem the letters someday, years from now, and they'll all have a good laugh at the long bygone subliminal crush. 

* 

“What’s got you so chipper today?” Milo asks as they’re prepping for their routes that night. 

“Am I chipper?” Val asks. 

“You’ve been whistling ever since you got in,” Clem says. 

“Love on Top,” Milo adds. “Something on your mind?” 

Val shrugs. “I got a letter from a friend earlier. It was a fun surprise. Guess it put me in a mood.” 

Clem’s hands slow, hovering over the paperwork she’s supposed to be sorting. 

“A girlfriend?” Milo asks immediately. 

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Val teases. 

* 

She's feeling decidedly less cheery a few weeks later as she's getting home from physical therapy. She's exhausted, thigh muscles tense and twitchy after having been put through their goddamn paces for the better part of an hour, and the only thing on her mind is the long trek upstairs that she has to endure before she can blissfully pass out on the couch until twilight. 

The mirror horror Clementine is standing in the parking lot in front of her apartment building when she pulls up, because of course it is. 

Val parks beside it and cranks her window open with a sigh. "I'm guessing you're trying to avoid climbing those stairs too?" 

The clone doesn't answer, just continues to stare Val down with a disconcerting focus. 

Why does Val bother speaking to this thing? Can it even hear her? 

"Look," she says, "I'm not in the mood for the mystic epistolary treasure hunt today, okay? Can you just make your delivery and fuck off?" 

To her surprise, Dark Clementine does respond to the request, pulling a thin envelope out of the post bag on her shoulder. It proffers the letter to Val, who snatches it out of the thing's hand before she can think better of it. Its fingers are icy to the touch where they brush Val's. 

She looks down at the letter briefly, and when she looks back up, the parking lot is empty. 

"Fucking apparition," she mutters, roughly breaking the seal of the envelope. It's as good an excuse as any to postpone the hike to her apartment. 

The fucking gall of it. 

Val crumples the letter up and shoves it into the depths of her purse. 

While you were recovering. Right, like Val is one hundred percent healed up already. Like Clem thinks she's going through these hellish PT sessions for kicks. 

Val gets out of the van and slams the door behind her. 

Overactive imagination, sure. Brain mixing up images. Uh huh. 

Fucking typical of Clem to dance around what's actually happening here. To ignore the obvious answer in favor of putting her faith in whatever grasped straws let her get away with not dealing with an uncomfortable truth. 

She gets halfway to the building, and then doubles back to the van. She yanks the letter out of her purse and fishes out a leaky ballpoint while she's at it. She smoothes the page out on the hood of the van, then flips it over and scrawls on the blank back side. 

Her pen hovers for a moment at the space above her name. Should she include some kind of signoff? Warmly yours? Sincerely? Best wishes? 

Fuck, better not to overthink it. She messily folds the sheet back up, stuffs it into the envelope, and scribbles RETURN TO SENDER in big letters across the front. She leaves it under a windshield wiper; she doesn't have her own creepy mirror double to deliver her missives (at least, not that she knows of), but hopefully Clem's will come back for this one. 

By the time Val makes it to her apartment, she only has enough energy left to collapse facedown on the couch. She falls into a deep sleep within minutes. When she wakes up at twilight, with her leg still throbbing and sore, she barely has a thought to spare for the letter. She can't even remember exactly what she wrote, just that she'd felt annoyed and angry and she'd wanted Clementine to know it. 

Of course, that's basically Val's emotional baseline these days, so it's not like the letter's going to change anything between her and Clem. And that's even assuming it'll get delivered. 

Altogether, it sounds like a problem for future Val. 

*

That future turns up two evenings later, when Clem stumbles into the station 10 minutes late. Her long hair is still wet from her shower, and she has bags under her eyes that would be impressive if Val didn’t have her week-long strike insomnia state to compare them to. 

“There’s our sleeping beauty,” Val says.

Clem yawns in response. 

“Here, you need this more than I do,” Milo says, shoving his mug of shitty coffee into her hands. "Long day?" 

"Weird dreams," Clem replies. "Thanks." 

Val's ears perk up. 

"Maggie again?" she asks, holding her breath. 

"No," Clem says, and suddenly stops meeting Val's eyes. She very conspicuously busies herself with the mug. She's blushing to the tips of her ears. "No, not Maggie." 

Milo shoots Val a confused look. 

Val shrugs and does her best to look ignorant. 

"Well, thanks for clearing that up," Milo says. 

"Yeah, spill the beans," Vall adds. That's a normal thing for her to say. Right? She's not being weird. 

Clem sighs. "It was the other Clementine. You know, my mirror? I dreamed that I'd written a letter to, uh, a pen pal. The mirror tried to deliver it, but the delivery was refused." 

"Sounds like someone's thinking about work too much before bed," Val says. 

"Maybe it wasn't about a literal letter," Milo says. "They say dreams in the Skelter can get awfully symbolic. What are letters a metaphor for?" 

"Communication?" Clem guesses. "Relationships? Maybe return to sender just means that I'm not connecting to my pen pal the way that I want to?" 

"Who is the pen pal, anyway?" Milo says. 

Clem takes a sip of coffee, but she darts a glance at Val from the corner of her eye. "Just a friend," she says. 

Okay, so this is definitely about whatever Val scribbled back to her the other day. Perfect. 

"But someone you want to connect to?" Val reflects back at her. 

"Of course," Clementine says, brimming with sincerity. "But I guess she doesn't feel the same way. Maybe return to sender means I should fall back? Stop writing to her for a while."

“So it is a her?” Milo pounces. 

Clem ignores him. “What do you think, Val?” she asks. 

"Any clues why it was declined?" Val asks. "Recipient deceased? Left with no forwarding address? Building swallowed by a sinkhole?" 

Clem presses her lips together unhappily. "No, the letter was definitely deliverable," she says carefully. It sounds like she has more to say, but she pauses. 

Clem is looking at Val straight on now. There's that one deep wrinkle between Clem's eyebrows that only shows itself when she's thinking hard over a problem. Despite herself, Val finds it kind of cute. 

She's conspicuously aware of Milo's proximity. 

"She may have indicated some... dissatisfaction with the contents of the letter," Clem says finally.

"No!" Milo says in mocking surprise. "Clementine Keys leaving a partner less than satisfied? Oh, I'm just so sure this has never happened before."

"Stop," Clem moans. "It's not anything like that." 

Milo laughs shortly. 

"You know, I was joking, but the way your entire face just turned red, I'm pretty sure I did hit that nail on the head. You should try resending the letter, but with lots more gory details in the postscript. See if that doesn't meet her needs."

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Clem says. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't know how. I’m not that kind of writer.” 

“Of course you’re not,” Val says. It’s silly of her to feel disappointed; she should have known Clem would want to take this as an excuse to stop writing. 

Clem makes a movement like raising her chin, but turns it into a head cock at the last moment. “I’m not sure I love that tone,” she says. 

Val rolls her eyes. 

“She's agreeing with what you just said yourself,” Milo says placatingly. “You’re, well, you’re not a very gory details kind of person.” 

“You’re a darling at a lot of things,” Val says. “But truly chicken shit when it comes to relationships. At least maybe that’s what your pen pal’s thinking.” 

“I – that’s –” Clem struggles. “Terrible!” she finally lands on. 

Val’s done, suddenly, with all of this. She pulls her keys from her pocket and turns to head to her truck with a shrug. “Maybe,” she concedes. “What are you gonna do about it?” 

*

So Val figures that’s the end of it. Clem gave as much as she could, and now that push has come to shove, she's going to quietly drop out of the race. It's not like Val ever expected anything more to develop from this whole situation.

And then, three days later, there’s a letter waiting on her bedside table when she wakes up, propped conspicuously between two days-old mugs of tea. 

Val reads it all in bed, and then sets it down on the comforter and wanders into the bathroom in something of a daze.

She showers, and spends the whole time thinking about inviting Clem into her apartment. Not that the mirror Clementine isn't here all the time already (was, in fact, apparently here undetected sometime in the past few hours), but – what would the real Clem, Val's Clem think of this space? 

There's soap scum on all the walls of the shower and stains in the tile grout that would probably come up if she scrubbed at it just a little. She gets out and brushes her teeth. There's dust and loose hair in all the out of the way corners of the tiny bathroom, lint speckling the sink and countertops, and water spots across half the mirror. 

She ferries all the dirty mugs from her bedroom to the kitchen sink before she gets dressed. 

*

Milo catches her cleaning out her van in the far corner of the parking lot after her shift ends, which is fucking embarrassing. 

"And here I'd thought Clem had been the one living in her van," he japes as she reaches blindly into the abyss under the passenger seat and sweeps out a fast food bag, three pieces of silverware, and a tank top she'd long ago given up as lost to the fickle whims of the laundromat gods.

“Fuck off,” Val replies crisply, and tosses a crushed soda bottle in his general direction. He dodges it easily, and squats down to rifle through the pile of assorted trash she’d unearthed so far. 

“I know your mom didn’t love you or whatever,” he says, “but she did teach you it’s not a great idea to fill an enclosed space with a bunch of mold, right?” 

“My mother taught me to be afraid of things that go bump in the night and to not leave standing water out during mosquito season,” Val says. “And this isn’t about her.” 

“Ooh, this is about someone?” Milo says, suddenly much more attentive. 

“No,” Val says.

“Liar.” 

“Fuck off,” Val reiterates. 

Milo makes a face at her. “Fine, I won’t pry. Just letting you know that I have a jar of change in my car if you want to vacuum the smashed sunflower shells out of the floor mats.” 

*

Milo comes with her to the car wash. In between feeding quarters to the vacuum and burying herself in the footwells, Val hands over Clementine's latest letter. 

He's still staring at it with a shocked look on his face by the time the vacuum times out and powers down. 

"So," Val says, dropping the hose. 

"Holy shit," Milo says. 

"Yeah." 

"Holy shit," Milo says again. "I mean, I knew something was going on between you two, but I never would have guessed this. Sex dreams and steamy letters?" 

"The letters are new," Val says. 

"So the dreams aren't?" Milo says. 

Val shrugs. 

"Wait, are you the weird pen pal?" 

"I would argue that I'm probably not the weirdest pen pal Clem has ever had." 

"Wait, are you cleaning out your truck because you want to fuck Clementine in it?" 

"No!" She isn't. Is she? Fuck. "I mean, I'm also cleaning up my apartment." 

Milo gives her a pitying look. "Damn, Val. I knew you had it bad, but this is an unexpected level." 

*

Val thinks about replying to Clementine’s last letter, of course. The post script had explicitly invited her to continue the conversation. She’d taken a few sheets of Night Post letterhead home with her, and set them out on her kitchen counter with her least awful pen, had even boldly printed DEAR CLEM at the top of a page, but the agonizing expanse of the blank space beneath had eventually defeated her efforts to rally a reply. She spends uncountable minutes dithering over the two words she had managed to write. Is “dear” too forward? Too direct? Is there such a thing as being too forward with a woman who had written you a detailed account of a sex dream she’d had in which you had featured? Maybe she should use Clementine’s full given name. 

Fuck it. 

So she leaves the mostly blank page on the countertop in case inspiration eventually strikes, and it's still there two weeks later when she wakes up one evening and finds Clementine’s mirror sitting on her couch. There’s a new letter on the cushion beside it. Val takes a seat on the other end, picking up the letter but keeping her attention on the person-shaped thing across from her. 

“I’ve gotta ask,” Val says in place of salutation, “what’s your investment in Clem’s love life anyway? I mean, first Maggie, and now me? If the goal is to get Clem laid, I have to say you’ve chosen an unconventional strategy here – and your success rate isn’t looking too pretty. Are you doing this out of an innate fondness for romance, like some hellish cupid? Are you hoping to get invited to some kind of kinky twincest threeway? Or are you, I don’t know, the physical manifestation of Clem’s sex drive, come alive after a brutal repression spell gone wrong?”

The mirror thing continues to stare at her with its creepy unblinking gaze. 

“I am not gone wrong,” it says in an echoing voice. 

“Holy shit,” Val says. “You speak.” 

“I am not,” it says again, “wrong.” 

“Noted,” Val says. “Are you a repression spell gone right?” 

The mirror seems to be calibrating. There’s a look of concentration and light confusion on its face, like it can’t find the words, or maybe its voicebox. 

“Gone,” it repeats carefully, like it’s trying to puzzle out the word. “I am not a spell,” it says. “I am…a being.” 

It places each of its hands on its thighs, palms down, and slowly taps all ten fingers in turn. The movements are jerky and mechanical. 

“I am new to being like this,” it says. “I am new to being like Clementine.” 

“Is that why you’ve been delivering these letters?” Val tries again. 

“They’re for you,” it says. “I am being like Clementine.”

"Clementine would never willingly enter this biohazard of an apartment, not even to deliver mail," Val counters, even though the place is actually more hospitable to human life now than it has been in years, ever since Clem's last letter sparked that little cleaning binge. She considers the being in front of her more closely. "I'll admit you do look a lot like her, though. The voice is different and kind of weird. And you don't have that impressive scar across the palm that she does. You could stand to try blinking, too. I really think you might enjoy it." 

It doesn't reply, and it doesn't blink. 

She wonders, due to the topic at hand, what other physical differences there might be between her Clem and the Skelter thing in front of her. Does it have something weird and haunted in its pants? She's curious, but not as much about that as she is about the contents of the latest letter. 

"Do you even know what these letters are about?" she asks.

It cocks its head and pauses for a moment, as though listening. "They are about you," it says. "And they are about Clementine." 

"Some might say letters between two people and about those two people are only for the eyes of those two people. Clem's not too happy about you delivering these, and I can't imagine she'd be any more thrilled to know that you know what they're about." 

She's definitely not imaging it this time - the thing smiles. The small grin it gives her is almost sly, tugging up one corner of its mouth. "I understand," it says, voice continuing to echo strangely with every word. "The correspondence is intimate to you. If you wanted me to leave so you could read in privacy, all you had to do was ask."

Val's not sure if that was what she wanted, but now that it's been mentioned, the envelope in her hands is begging to be opened, and she can't turn down any shift in this conversation that frees her to do so sooner. 

"If you don't mind," she says. 

"Not at all. I'll see myself out." 

It stands, and the movement is sudden and jerky, like a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who hasn't quite gotten the hang of a new doll. Val watches it make its way towards the entryway in starts and stops, before halting at the door. It squints at the doorknob. 

"You have to turn it," Val says, a mockery of helpfulness, but the mirror thing nods as though to signal it is taking this advice under consideration. After another moment of hesitation, it manages to get a hand on the knob, yank it open in a quick movement, and step into the hallway. 

By the time Val gets to the doorway, the thing has vanished again. She shuts the door firmly and twists the deadbolt for good measure before returning to the couch and the waiting letter. 

*

"I wish you hadn't ever shown me that letter," Milo sighs. "Everytime I look at the back of my van I think about how terrible a place it would be to have sex. I've spent way too much time thinking about Clementine's sex life lately." 

"You really need to get laid," Val says. 

"Tell me about it." 

They've flopped on their backs side by side on Val's bare mattress. On her way to the station the night before, she had happened upon a bed frame someone had left on the side of the road, a piece of paper taped to the side declaring it free to any passerby who wanted it. After running her route, she'd strong-armed Milo into going with her to pick up the deconstructed piece of furniture, load it into her van, haul it back to her apartment and up all those goddamn flights of stairs, and then put it together in her bedroom. The whole task had been more exhausting than she had expected, but was also strangely satisfying. Something like pride tickled in the center of her chest at reaching the venerated milestone of proper adulthood that was having her bed eight inches off the floor. 

Plus, Milo had only made one lewd comment about whether the frame would be sturdy enough for certain vigorous activity, which felt like a victory in its own right. 

"I know what you mean, though," she says. "Clementine wrote me something about her childhood the other day, and now I can't stop thinking about how it must mess you up in the head to grow up associating the Post with your parent. My new theory is that the reason she's so deferential to Nick is because the daddy kink wires in her brain accidentally got all wrapped up in the courier uniform."

Milo makes an unpleasant face. "God, I did not want to think about our uniform as fetish-wear. You're making it worse." 

"At least having a thing for a woman in uniform would mean Clem got something fun out of having an objectively shitty childhood, unlike the rest of us," Val says. 

Milo snorts. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you wanted to turn this into a proper pity party." 

Val sticks her tongue out at him. 

"You got something fun out of your shitty parents giving you to the Post, too, you know," he says. 

"Oh yeah? What's that?" 

"The opportunity to meet me."

Val can't help herself from laughing. 

"Touché," she says. "Hey, you supposedly had a not terrible childhood with parents that actually loved you, right?" 

"Supposedly," he affirms. 

"Tell me about that." 

Milo pauses for a moment, like he's deciding where to begin. 

"Ashley told me on our very first date that he didn't want kids," he finally says. "I did, but I also wanted him to rail me so badly that I decided not to tell him that." 

"Milo Andrew Cylix-Wilder," Val says, "did you put out on the first date? I think I'm impressed." 

"I actually didn't," Milo says, "but not for lack of trying. Ashley thought we could have something really special, right from the start. He said he didn't want to ruin it by rushing in. Wouldn't even let me take my shirt off until our third date." 

"I can't believe you married such a prude." 

"Patience is a virtue, you know." 

"Is that what Ashley told you when you tried to get into his pants?" 

"No, it's what he told me after we applied for our marriage license and had to wait the mandated three days for it to be issued before we could achieve lawfully wedded bliss." 

Val makes a face. "It's a good thing your husband has mysteriously vanished, or else I'd be really annoyed at you for bringing up how lucky you were to find true fucking love." 

"Ashley's disappearance is my point, though," Milo says. "He was conscripted before I met him, so by the time we got together he already had all sorts of experience with the Skelter. He knew there were things to be afraid of. He wouldn't consider having kids because he knew we couldn't protect them – not just from the Post, but from everything else outside of the city limits that could have eaten them alive. I can't imagine what it must be like for people like your parents, trying to raise kids in a world where there's no way to know what's lurking in the shadows." 

"I get it," Val sighs. "I mean, their supernatural bullshit always drove me up the fucking wall, but the longer I spend at the Post the more I understand that they were trying to keep me safe, in their own fucked up way. Whatever the Other is, it's definitely both willing and able to destroy people's lives. I still don't think any of their rituals did anything to help, but I can see why they tried." 

"You have to find a reason. Aggie used to tell me that sometimes. Not that everything happens for a reason, but that you have to find a reason for everything that happens to you." 

Val gives him a skeptical look.

"And what's the reason for the missing husband?" 

"So you could have the opportunity to meet me," Milo says again, and Val groans to keep herself from rewarding him with another laugh. 

"You're saying I should look on the bright side of my eternal, inescapable, supernatural conscription?" 

"Could be worse," Milo says. "You could have a huge, obvious crush on Nick instead of on –" 

"Okay, that's enough heart-to-heart for one day," Val interrupts. 

*

Val thinks on it for a while, and can't decide whether her huge, obvious crush on Clem is on the bright side of her conscription. 

On the one hand there's Clementine's smile, which pulls to the left and digs a dimple deep into her cheek, and always, always lights up her eyes. That smile does something to Val's heart, makes her chest warm and tight every time it's directed at her. There's Clementine's gorgeous, long hair, which she tries to tame with various pins and ribbons that never quite do the trick. The casual mess of it always feels like an invitation for Val to free it from its half-hearted confines and run her fingers through it. There are Clementine's long, light eyelashes, which flutter so prettily when Val flusters her with overly direct flirtation. God, that had been one of the first things Val had stuck on when she first made the young Keys' acquaintance, and it still draws her in, commands her attention at every opportunity.

It's...pleasant, might be the word for it, altogether. Fun, even. 

On the other hand, there's the sharp scrape of jealousy that gnaws at her stomach everytime Clem opens her wallet to buy Val a coffee after a shift and a photobooth print of her and Will looks up at them both. It's embarrassing. Fuck, everything about having a crush is always embarrassing, but Val has never felt so mortified as she does when Milo catches her staring at Clem from across the station – which he does with increasing frequency, the annoying motherfucker. And of course, there's the constant sting of the implied rejection. There's nothing to stop Clem from asking her out on a proper date at any time, other than that she must simply not want to date Val. 

"You're the one always going on about how you don't date other pigeons," Milo says in exasperation when Val gripes about this. "She's probably just trying to respect your boundaries." 

"Boundaries are for cowards," Val says. "Besides, you don't know Clem like I do. If she really wanted me, she'd have broken into my apartment by now." 

She chooses not to mention that Dark Clementine has been doing exactly that for several weeks, which is probably why the damn thing is waiting for Val again when she gets home that morning. 

It's cooking, or at least making an attempt at the motions. It has a half dozen eggs smashed in a saucepan on the stove, shells and all. At least the burner isn't turned on. 

Val suddenly regrets having gotten her life together enough recently for there to have been a full carton at its disposal. 

"This is new," she says, leaning casually back against the fridge and regarding the serial home invader. "All these times I offered you breakfast and you turned me down, I was starting to think you were personally offended by the existence of food." 

"Food is new," the thing says, "to me. I am new to food. It doesn't understand me." 

It furrows its brow, glaring down at the pan. It pulls another egg from the carton, holds it up at eye level, and then drops it into the pan. Val is actually kind of impressed at the splash, or would be if she wasn't going to have to wipe all that raw egg off the stovetop later. 

She gently but firmly takes the carton out of Dark Clementine's hands. "Okay, let's get those away from you before you do something I really regret, like throwing them at the ceiling. And I think it's more important for you to understand food than the other way around." 

"I understand consumption," it says. "I understand having and taking and using up." 

"That's most of what food is," Val says. "What's the confusing part?" 

"Hunger. Appetite. Craving. Wanting." 

Val unwraps a granola bar and hands it to the mirror thing. "Here, try this." 

Dark Clementine shoves the entire thing into its mouth in one go. It tilts its face up to the ceiling while it struggles to chew and swallow the mass. The spectacle reminds Val of watching a baby bird eat regurgitated worms, but somehow more unpleasant. 

"If it's any consolation, this has certainly made me lose my appetite," she says. 

Dark Clementine finishes eating. It sucks its teeth loudly. Then, it pulls an envelope out of its back pocket and offers it to Val.

"You never did tell me why you're doing this," Val says as she accepts the letter. "Making these deliveries, I mean." 

"People do things they want to do," the mirror creature says. 

"You aren't a person," she reminds it. 

"What if I were?" it says, and takes a step closer to Val. 

The thing looks at Val directly, and Val is reminded quite suddenly of two things. The first is that this thing, this inhuman, unnamed phenomenon in the shape of her friend, looks least like a person when Val looks into its cold eyes. They're wrong. Everything else about this form could pass as human enough, but the eyes chill something in Val's blood. 

The second is that Val's kitchen is extremely small, about the size of half a shoebox, and she's within arm's reach of this walking, talking sliver of Skelter. 

"Interesting hypothetical," Val says, "but I don't fuck things that don't blink. It's kind of a major turn off for me. 

It blinks its eyes slowly, deliberately, like it's trying out the movement for the first time and has to concentrate to engage the right muscles. 

"Good effort," Val says. "Still needs a bit more work to be convincing." 

The thing takes another step forward, and it is directly in Val's space now, right in front of her. Val finds herself frozen in indecision, unsure if she wants to walk away or pull it closer.

She's never touched it intentionally before, but she could right now. 

"I'll keep practicing," it says. 

Val nods, not trusting herself to speak. 

Dark Clementine smiles, just a little, then turns and leaves the room. 

Val forces herself to take a slow, steadying breath. 

She waits to read the letter until she's had breakfast, changed out of her uniform, and crawled into bed. Sitting up against the pillows, she reads: 

Val lets herself lay awake late into the morning considering it. It could be easy. The invitation here is a more direct flirtation than Clementine has ever given her in person, but it's the gradual culmination of a line that has been getting more explicit in each letter. Lying in her own bed, the letter folded on her nightstand, it's easy to imagine stopping Clem on her way out of the station the next morning, asking if she'd like to come over for breakfast at Val's place. It could be the thinnest veneer of an excuse to get Clem into her living room, onto her couch, where Val could sit down too close, brush her fingers over Clem's arm until deftly dropping her hand down to Clem's knee, slide it up her thigh...

Clementine would understand what the invitation was really for. She would say yes. 

Val falls asleep with the possibility playing in her mind, and it's still stuck there when she wakes up that evening. She debates the merits of the idea during the drive to the station, and has half talked herself into believing it's a good idea by the time she gets inside. 

Clementine gets in thirty seconds after Val does, and there's a whole trail of hickeys each two fingers wide across the front of her neck. 

Val's entire brain stops when she sees it. 

Beside her, Milo declares, "Jesus fucking Christ, Clementine," way louder than he needs to. 

"Um, hi, Milo," Clem says, miserably tugging at the collar of her shirt, as though willing it to magically grow into a turtleneck to hide her shame. "How are you?" 

"No," Milo says. "No, no way we're going to pretend this isn't happening. I didn't know it was possible to do a walk of shame into a fucking Night Post station, but truly there is a first time for everything." 

"Will you please keep your voice down?" Clem begs, coming right up to him and taking both of his hands as though that will reign in his volume. 

"Only if you drop some details," Milo says, but is agreeably quieter. "May I take it these are a memento from one Ms. Prescott?" 

"I've been staying over at her place for the past few days," Clem admits. "I didn't plan to, but it just – it keeps happening." 

Clementine glances at Val under her lashes. 

Val lets it click into place: Clementine had written and posted that last letter, and then not only stayed over at Will's again the next day, but let Will do – whatever it is exactly that caused those bruises. Not that Val can't guess, but she's not sure she wants to picture it in too much detail. 

"And Will has developed some type of vampiric wasting disease that requires the repeated application of her mouth to your throat?" Milo demands incredulously. 

Clementine makes a disconcerted noise. "None of your business," she tries. 

"I hate to break it to you, but when you walk into a public place looking like that, you're making it everyone's business," Milo says. 

Clementine's blush is so deep and so widespread that it emphasizes the discoloration of the bruises, making them that much more visible. 

"What do you want me to say?" Clem says. She's still keeping her voice low, but manages to sound more miserable than Valencia has ever heard her. "That I asked her to do this? That I didn't expect it to have this visible of a result so I didn't pack my concealer the night before, and then I slept through my alarm so I couldn't get home to pick it up before I had to come to work, and Will has more cosmetic products than most corner stores but didn't have anything even close to my color? Yes, okay. I had sex this morning, and I'm regretting certain consequences of the experience. Is that what you want to hear?"

"That's most of it," Milo says. "Follow up question: since you asked for it, was the sex everything you'd hoped for?"

Clementine buries her face in her hands and groans. 

"No, wait," Milo continues. "More important question: you still have to stop at home after staying the day at Will's? You haven't been allocated half her closet space yet? When are you planning on moving in, anyways?"

Clem emerges from her hands, looking genuinely surprised by the question. "What? Oh, I don't think I could ever – I mean, I couldn't leave my little house. It's got so much charm! And besides, I wouldn't be happy living in the city." 

Val couldn't string enough words together to participate in the conversation if she wanted to, but she manages to yank her eyes away from Clem's neck long enough to meet her eye. 

"Besides," Clem continues, holding Val's gaze, "Will and I aren't serious like that. We're not even exclusive." 

Val has to look away, and feels the coward for doing it. 

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean," Milo says. "Are you seeing other people? Are things going that badly?" 

"No, no," Clem quickly reassures him. "Will and I are good, and I do like her a lot. I just mean, I don't feel the need to limit my options right now. There are a lot of fish in the sea, you know." 

"And a lot of pigeons in the post?" Milo says knowingly, elbowing Val in what is probably meant to be an encouraging way. 

She kicks him in the ankle, on reflex more than anything. 

Thankfully, Milo's curiosity appears to be sated by that point, and he allows Clementine to flee further into the station. Val doesn't get off that easily; Milo corners her in the sorting room five minutes later.

"I'm begging you," he says, hands clasped in the picture of supplication. "Invite her back to yours already." 

"Milo–" she starts, but he cuts in. 

"Or, hell, just pull her into a closet here at the station. I swear I'll cover for you. Or go with the original plan and go fuck her in the back of your van."

"I can't–"

"Oh, all of a sudden your mouth doesn't work? You've been flirting with her for years, but when it comes down to it you can't perform?" 

"No, it's not–" 

"What, then? You're scared she'll turn you down?" Milo plows on. "Because I am here to assure you as an impartial third party observer that she is giving you every green light she possibly can." 

"I can't be that selfish!" Val finally manages to say, if a bit more loudly than she meant to. 

At least it shuts Milo up. He gives her a look of utter confusion. "Selfish?" he repeats faintly. 

Val runs her hands through her hair, turns away from him, and he allows her enough room to pace away and then turn back to him. 

"Clementine is so sweet and kind and beautiful and she believes in romance. And I – I know I'm usually a fucking bastard of a person, but I don't want to – I can't ruin – I'm not –" 

She has to take a shaky breath. 

Regroup. 

She can't get her thoughts in order, hasn't been able to since Clem walked through the door tonight. 

"Clementine deserves better," she tries again. "She deserves to be swept off her feet. She should get to have the girlfriend who dines her and brings her flowers and slow dances with her, and maybe that won't be Will, but I'm not going to fuck anything up for Clem just because I'm shallow and jealous and fucking horny. I cannot possibly be that selfish. I refuse." 

Milo stares at her in silence for a long moment. 

Val paces a bit again. Her stomach is churning. She can't stand the wait for his response. 

"Let me get this straight," he says eventually. "You're telling me you won't sleep with Clementine because you don't have enough feelings for her?" 

Val scrunches up her face. "Uh, yeah. I guess." 

Milo puts his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. "That's it," he says. "I give up. I'm done. That's the single stupidest thing I've ever heard a person say in my entire life. I actually can't help you anymore. You're going to give me an aneurysm. Holy fucking shit." 

And he leaves her there. 

* 

Val runs her route that night and doesn't think about Clementine's neck or mouth or hands, and she stops at the store on the way home to buy an unwise amount of alcohol. She cracks the bottle in the parking lot of her building to give her the strength to get up the stairs. 

Val makes it through the rest of the week on the basis of three things: the rest of that bottle, the small mercy that is Clementine's coverup, and the abundant task that is scrubbing down every inch of her apartment that hasn't seen so much as a dusting since she moved in seven years ago. She degreases the oven, as well as the burner grates and the range hood. She wipes every last odd, sticky stain from the fridge, inside and out, and shoves the whole appliance half out of the kitchen to sweep behind it while she's at it. She launders the couch cushion covers. She scours the sink with baking soda. She borrows a vacuum from her upstairs neighbors and pulls up more dirt and crumbs from her carpets than she wants to admit to. The fucking works. It keeps her hands busy and her mind occupied and her restlessness focused on something other than – 

Well. It keeps her focused. 

Saturday morning, she organizes and wipes down every cabinet in the kitchen before finally collapsing into bed long after the sun has come up.

She dreams of standing in her kitchen with Clementine, the two of them washing dishes side-by-side while something pleasant plays softly on the radio. Clem's hip brushes against her own, the faintest hint of warmth passing through the layers of clothing between them. They keep themselves turned towards their work, but when Val cuts her eyes to the side, Clem's eyes are there to meet her gaze, and Val would swear Clem smiles.

Consciousness steals over her slowly, and with it comes a sense of confusion and uneasiness – and that's all before she rolls over and finds Clementine's mirror lying beside her, feigning sleep. 

Its chest rises and falls softly, and it clutches the comforter with one hand. It's the most lifelike the thing had ever looked. Val can't resist the impulse to reach up and brush the loose hair away from its face. She tucks it behind the thing's ear, lets her hand linger against its skin. It's surprisingly warm. 

The mirror peeks one eye open. "Good morning," it says with its echoing mimicry of Clementine's voice. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up."

Val brushes her thumb along its cheek. "I really like this body heat thing," she says. "Did you do that for me?" 

The thing smiles with Clementine's lips. "Watch this," it says. 

It opens both of its eyes. It blinks quickly twice, pauses a few seconds, then blinks again. 

"Very impressive," Val says. "I'm touched." 

"And this, too," it says with suppressed excitement. 

The thing that is not Clementine drums its fingers against its breast bone, tapping gently against its skin above the collar of the green camisole it's wearing. The movement is natural and relaxed, and draws Val's gaze down to the inviting swell of its soft breasts beneath the fabric. 

"Are you just here to show off your new party tricks, or did you have anything to give me?" Val asks, genuinely curious. 

"Just this," the thing says, and rolls closer until it's in every bit of Val's space, its face an inch from hers. It pauses at the last second, flicks its gaze between Val's mouth and eyes. 

It's...asking permission. Where did it learn that? Certainly not in the Skelter. It hasn't asked any of the times it's let itself into her apartment, her room, and now her bed. 

This is something it's practiced for her, too, she realizes. It's going through the motions of consent because it wants to make her more comfortable. Because it wants her to want it as much as she wants Clementine. 

As far as consolation prizes go, a spirit that looks exactly like the object of her desire but without the romantic obligations that Val can't fulfill isn't half bad. 

Val closes the last inch between them, lets their mouths meet, slides her tongue between the thing's lips, licks its saliva off its teeth. 

It presses its whole body closer. Val lets herself be pushed onto her back, and the mirror crawls on top of her, sets its knees on either side of Val's hips, grinds down with a purpose. Val slides her hands up its bare thighs to its hips and keeps going, under the flimsy fabric of the shirt to feel more of the warm flesh it had created just for her to touch. 

It is, in every way, exactly what she would have told Milo she'd been dreaming of since the day she first saw that pretty new pigeon across the station, except...

Except the dream is different now. Except ten minutes ago she'd been dreaming of Clementine, her Clementine, standing by Val's side, and the feeling between them hadn't been heat or lust or desire or even simple companionship. 

It had been love. 

Because Val is in love with Clementine, and wants Clementine to be in love with her. She wants everything being with Clementine would entail. She wants lazy morning lie-ins on the weekends, wants to bring her breakfast in bed, wants to carry Clem's picture in her wallet, wants to kiss her at the station before they leave for their routes, wants to hold her hand at their favorite brunch place and give her flowers on their anniversary. Hell, she wants to have an anniversary with Clem, wants to schedule romantic candlelit dinners months in advance. And yes, yes, she wants to have sex with her, but she suddenly understands it's so much more than that. She wants to give Clementine everything she could ever ask for. 

And – Milo was right – Val is the stupidest motherfucker in the entire city for not being able to piece any of that together until she has 200 pounds of Skelter pinning her down. 

"Fuck," Val says. "Fuck." 

The thing looks at her with confusion on its face. Val rolls it off of her, and it collapses against the pillows as she gets out of bed. 

"I'm really sorry," Val says. "But I can't. This isn't right. I don't just want..." she gestures vaguely, trying to encompass everything the mirror is and everything it's missing. 

The thing's expression suddenly turns to rage. It slams its hands against the bed in frustration. 

"Fuck you," it seethes, in a voice utterly unlike Clementine's. "What am I supposed to do with all of this then? I have too much. All of the emotion in this body! All of this desire! I don't want to hold it." 

"That's being human," Val says. 

"I wasn't made for this," it says. 

"I'm sorry," Val says again. "I know it's shitty. I wish I could – I wish you were what I wanted. I thought you were, but I want more. I want my Clementine." 

The mirror hits the bed again, then tumbles to its feet, and stalks out of the bedroom. It slams the door behind itself.  

Val doesn’t hear the front door, but when she leaves ten minutes later there’s no one else in the apartment. 

* 

The drive to Clementine's little house outside the city is twenty straight minutes of nerves. By the time Val pulls into the dirt turn-off that passes for a driveway and finds Clementine sitting on the front porch with a warm drink, her stomach has tied itself into more knots than she thought possible. Her hands are sweaty as she throws the van into park and kills the engine. 

"Val," Clementine says, standing up to greet her as she approaches the porch. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?" 

"I got your letters," Val confesses, spilling the words out quickly, before she can chicken out. 

"Oh," Clementine says softly. Rose color blooms up her cheeks. "Yes, I – I thought you probably had." She looks uncertain. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

Val considers the avalanche of revelations she had had this morning, the dishwashing dream. The thought of trying to put any of that into words actually makes her feel a little nauseous. "I don't think I'm ready to," she says. "Not yet." 

"Oh," Clem says again, the single syllable somewhere between confused, surprised, and disappointed. "Oh, then you drove all the way out here to–" 

"To do this," Val says and, taking the porch steps in two long strides, pulls Clementine into a searing kiss. 

Clementine makes a sound of surprise, but then she lets Val slip her tongue between her lips, pressing along the edges of her teeth as their saliva and breaths and warmth all melt into each other. Clem wraps both of her arms around Val's shoulders, and it's suddenly as easy as breathing for Val to slide her hands down to Clementine's hips, to take another step up the porch, and then lift Clem right off her feet. Clem responds like they'd rehearsed it – like they've done this a hundred times, and Val thinks that in dreams they probably have – Clem keeping her lips pressed to Val's, as Val sets her down on the sturdy porch railing. Clem's knees bracket Val, her legs wrapping around and pulling her closer, closer, closer. 

Finally, Clem breaks the kiss, breathing heavily and nearly moaning as she leans her head back. Val takes the hint to press her mouth to the side of Clem's neck, kissing and sucking against the soft skin until Clem is making the most beautiful noises above her. Clem slides one hand up into Val's hair and grips tightly, holding her in place, and slides the other down from Val's shoulder to her collarbone, down to her chest, until she's feeling her up, squeezing and kneading at her breasts and it feels so good, so overwhelmingly good, that Val's knees go weak with it. 

"I don't mean to invite myself in," Val says, "but." 

"Oh my god, yes," Clementine says, "please."

They fumble their way through the screen door, into the house, down the tiny hallway to Clem's bedroom. 

"I don't mean to be a bad host," Clem says in mirror, pausing after she's half-unzipped her jumpsuit to reveal a faded gray sports bra. "I've never done anything like this before. Was I supposed to offer you a drink?" 

"You can make up for it by offering me a cigarette after," Val says, and then kisses the responding laugh out of Clem's mouth. 

They get most of the way to undressed before Val lays Clem out on the bed, kneels down on the floor between her legs, and puts her mouth on Clem until she's writhing and squirming above Val, toes curling against the edge of the mattress, thighs shaking as her folds grow increasingly slick under Val's efforts. Between her own legs, Val can feel a weight collecting as she gets turned on, knows without looking that she's most of the way to hard before Clem comes apart. Val doesn't let up once she does, licking and kissing and sucking purposefully until Clem props herself up on one elbow and uses her other hand to cup Val's head, gently pressing her back. 

"I want to ask," Clem says, astonishingly shy for a woman this side of an orgasm, "I never wrote about this in any of the letters, but do you think we could..."

"Anything you want," Val prods when she trails off, and realizes as she says the words that she means them deeply. Before she even mustered the courage to take that first kiss, she wanted it to be going in for a pound. She wants to give Clem the whole world, absolutely anything she could possibly ask for. "Just name it." 

Clem goes soft at the invitation, the reassurance. "Would you fuck me?" 

Val wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "That is the general idea," she confirms. 

"No, I know. I meant, um," Clem's blush is back. "Penetrative intercourse." 

"I–" Val stammers. The idea bursts her imagination in a way she wasn't prepared for. "Yes. I mean, if you're asking. Yes." 

Clem hesitates, frowning slightly. "Have you ever–" she starts. 

"Not in a while," Val says. Not since she became who she is. There were partners, before, but none who ever knew her the way Clementine does. 

"Shit, Val." 

"No, I want to," Val says, certain. "You just surprised me, that's all." 

Clementine sits up properly, cups Val's face with both of her hands, and pulls her into a slow, deep kiss, more romantic than any they'd shared so far. Val lets her eyes flutter closed and gets lost in the sensation of Clem's mouth on hers, licking her own taste off of Val's tongue. 

After several moments, Clem breaks the kiss. She tugs Val up onto the bed, helps get her properly situated right in the middle of it. Val watches as Clem brings her hand up between them, and carefully wraps it around Val's already-hard cock. She keeps the pressure light as she strokes her a few times, sliding her hand up and down. 

Val feels it, which is the weirdest thing. When she'd done this before, with people who had thought she was someone other than who she was, she'd always been so detached from the entire event, like it had been happening to someone else entirely. Like those parts of her body hadn't truly belonged to her, and anything that happened to them had been ethereally disconnected from what was going on inside of her. 

Like it had been a dream. 

But with Clem, she's present for everything, feels everything – the way Clem grows more confident, her touch more firm, the way she skims her fingers through the precum beading at her slit and smears it down her shaft, the way the friction fans the flames inside of Val, fuels the desire that's been thrumming in her veins since she left her apartment. 

"Fuck," Val gasps. 

Clem looks at her with eyebrows raised. 

"Are you ready?" Val asks. 

Clem rolls them over, so she's flat on her back with her legs spread wide around Val. Clem's still wearing one sock, and her hair is frizzy and disheveled, and the center of her chest is flushed bright red in stark contrast to the rest of her paper pale skin, and there is a warmth in Val's heart that is about to explode. 

"Whenever you are," Clem tells Val brightly. Val can't help but kiss her again before lining herself up with one hand and pressing herself all the way into Clem's center in one quick thrust. 

It feels heavenly – better than Val could have ever dreamed. Clem gasps as she is penetrated, and the sound of it goes directly to Val's cock, and she twitches against the tight, hot walls. 

"Ah – yes," Clem says breathily. "Do that again."

Val does, pulling out and then pushing in again as deep as she can go, and Clem squirms at the motion, so Val does it again and then again, until she's put together a rhythm to the movement that presses against all the best parts of herself, and Clem is moaning beneath her with every thrust in the quiet way that means she can't help herself. 

Val takes one of Clem's hands, presses the back of it against the covers beside Clem's head, and laces their fingers together. 

Clem makes a noise through her nose that might be a laugh. "I don't know why I didn't expect you to be such a romantic in bed," she admits, and then without giving Val time to reply, she continues, "You feel so good inside me. I want to come again, on your cock. Will you – ah – will you kiss my neck again? That got me so wet earlier." 

"I don't know why I didn't expect you to be so good at dirty talk," Val says, additionally unsure how she's managing to string even that many words together when she's this turned on. 

"I've had a lot of practice recently," Clem grins. 

Val takes her time trailing her mouth from Clementine's lips, along her jaw, then finally down the side of her neck. She varies her pace and pressure, allowing herself to explore every inch exactly how she wants to, until she lands on a spot that makes Clem inhale sharply above her, and tighten her grip in Val's hair. 

"Ah - fuck, Val, stay there," Clem says, voice tighter than Val has ever heard it. 

Val gives the spot extra attention, her mouth making lewd noises against Clem's skin as she licks and sucks, all the while still rocking in and out of Clementine. Clem's gasping breaths and moans get louder as she continues. When Val takes a chance and scrapes her teeth in a gentle approximation of a bite, Clem practically cries out, and the sound shoots straight through Val like lightning. She has to take a moment to pull her mouth away, to bury her face in Clem's shoulder. 

"I'm not going to last much longer if you keep that up," Val warns. 

Clem snickers. Val feels it rumble through her chest. "Keep what up?" she says, innocently. "This?" And she tosses her head back and makes an exaggerated moan, outlandishly loud. 

Intellectually, Val knows she's being teased, but the unrestrained sound of Clem's pleasure is still hotter than anything she had imagined over all these weeks of correspondence and fantasy. Her cock throbs inside Clem almost painfully. She really is getting dangerously close, and it's all she can do to keep fucking her in anything approximating a consistent rhythm. 

"You don't want me to – ahhh!" Clem pokes again, moaning long and loud before falling into a laugh, and Val cracks up right along with her. It's a full, roiling, belly laugh that passes back and forth between them, and it's almost incidental the way it clenches all of Clem's muscles, makes her tighten around Val, and that's what tips Val over the edge she'd been balanced on. She grabs Clem's hips and thrusts messily, uncoordinated, a few final times, coming harder than she can ever remember. Beneath her, Clem's laugh fades back into sounds of pleasure, less exaggerated, as she rolls her hips desperately and follows Val to orgasm. 

Val tries to kiss her, but can't catch her breath enough to do so properly, so it's mostly just bumped noses and breathing each other's air. Val collapses beside Clem, contenting herself with looking at her smile. It's the exact same smile that Val has seen a thousand times before, has memorized without even trying – tugging to the left and digging a deep dimple into her cheek. 

Clementine is exactly as beautiful in this impossible moment as she has ever been. Val is going to spend the rest of her life kicking herself for wasting so much time thinking this was something she either didn't want or couldn't have. 

"Break up with Will," Val says. 

Clem huffs out another laugh. "Obviously." 

"Be mine." 

Clem's face goes soft. "I thought you didn't want to date another pigeon," she says. 

"I didn't," Val says. "But I've recently received several strongly-worded letters that convinced me otherwise. Delivered, I might add, by a very passionate and persistent courier."

Clem buries her face in the pillow and groans. "Ugh, it has been my double this whole time, hasn't it? I don't know what I'm going to do about her." 

"Don't be too upset. After all, it did lead us to this." 

"That's true," Clem agrees. "I do like this."

"I like being with you," Val admits, "anyway you'll have me." 

Clem gives her a mischievous grin. "Oh, I plan to have you all sorts of ways, Valencia." 

*