Chapter Text
Rarely does Angela deliberately hurt anyone; it is necessary, sometimes, resetting a limb or sterilizing a wound, breaking bad news or asking difficult questions, but even so, she does not want people to hurt by her hand, least of all Fareeha. Yet she has hurt Fareeha, when it has been necessary, has relocated joints and told her things which are painful to hear.
This is the same as that, she tells herself, hurting Fareeha by necessity.
It is not the same, is not the same at all.
So what now? Ought she apologize? Probably, but what can she say? She does not feel sorry about having told her girlfriend that she would prefer they both stayed closeted, for the sake of her own privacy, only sorry for how Fareeha felt as a result.
Feels. Present tense.
What good is an apology if she does not mean it? And she does not, cannot possibly. After all, she was hardly wrong in assuming that Fareeha being out would mean greater scrutiny was placed upon their relationship—she has seen as much happen with Lena’s friends, let alone women whom she was, at the time, actually dating—and that is not something that she is comfortable with, is not something that she wants to happen to her. Even if the two of them do deny everything, she knows that there are people who would never believe them.
(People who would be right.)
Still, it is an unfair thing to ask of Fareeha, of all people. Angela cannot think of anyone more dedicated to justice, to honesty, to openness than Fareeha. What else but a dedication to the truth would one expect from a woman who was greatly impacted by the knowledge that her own mother faked her death?
No, she should not ask Fareeha to lie for her, even if she is terrified of the outcome of the truth being known.
(There have been rumors about her sexuality for a long time, of course, and they have not hurt her career, will not, but she hardly wishes to stoke them, to force herself into a position where she might be obliged to answer such questions.)
She should not ask Fareeha to lie for her, but she will.
She will, and she intends to, but still, the first thing she says when she sees Fareeha in the morning is not Please but “I’m sorry,” because she is, even if she is not sorry enough.
“What?” Fareeha does not turn from the stovetop where she is preparing breakfast.
“I’m sorry,” Angela repeats, louder, moving closer to Fareeha, near enough that she can easily be heard over the music that is playing, but far enough, still, that if Fareeha is still angry it might seem like an invasion of personal space, and such that she is in her girlfriend’s periphery, rather than standing directly behind her.
“Did you not mean it?” asks Fareeha, and the phrasing catches Angela for a second before she responds.
“No, no I did mean it, but—” a deep breath before her least favorite part, “But that doesn’t mean it’s fair of me to ask of you.”
A hum from Fareeha, before she plates their breakfast—ful for two—and suggests that they sit down.
“That’s it?” Angela asks her.
“Unless you want to cook for yourself,” it is clear from her tone that Fareeha is jesting, before she sobers, “It isn’t the end of this conversation, no, I just… don’t know what more to say about it, yet. It was unfair of you to expect that I wouldn’t be honest, but I probably should’ve talked with you first, too, about boundaries. I thought you were private, not closeted.”
“I am private,” Angela corrects.
“Right,” Fareeha says, “But not wanting people to know you’re gay because you don’t think your relationships are anyone’s business isn’t the same as—”
“Isn’t it?” Angela asks her, “I don’t see why I need more of a reason than that.”
“I guess you don’t,” Fareeha concedes, “But I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want people to know about us, if it isn’t because you’re closeted.”
“Because—” Angela starts, but Fareeha is not finished speaking.
“If it were up to me,” says she, “I’d tell everyone about us, because I love you, and I’m proud to call you my girlfriend, and it’s important to me that other people know things like that, because I don’t like hiding. And I don’t see why you don’t want to tell people. I’m not some dirty secret.”
That hangs between them for a moment, heavy in the air, and suddenly Angela loses her appetite.
“I don’t know what I’ll tell them,” is the answer she finally produces. “If they know we’re a couple they’ll ask about my sexuality, sooner or later, and I—I don’t know what I’ll say. I know that I love you, and that it shouldn’t matter, but it doesmatter, to me, and until I know I… I don’t want to have to answer.”
(It makes her feel stupid, not to know something that she is the ultimate authority on, makes her feel inadequate. But how can she know? The men she loved before were nothing like Fareeha, and so a part of her wants to say that she is not interested in men, but what if that was just the timing, or the difference between meeting her life partner and casually dating? What will those people she cared about—men and women—think of her, when they find out that she was ‘hiding’ this, even if she did not know it yet? What does it say about her that at nearly forty, this is still a question she cannot answer? How might all of this detract from her work, if people are more focused on her sexuality than what she has come to speak to them about?)
“Okay,” Fareeha says.
“Okay?”
“Yes,” Fareeha tells her, “If you don’t feel ready, that’s fine. I can wait. I won’t lie to anyone about who I am, but I can wait to mention that we’re together.”
“And if I’m never ready?” She hates the way her voice trembles as she asks the question.
“I don’t know,” Fareeha admits, “But we have plenty of time to figure it out.”
Three and a half years later, and Angela is preparing to accept an award in Oasis for her contributions to the field of cybernetics. Truthfully, she does not much care about the upcoming ceremony, given that it is the sort of fluff lifetime achievement award that serves no real purpose other than to recognize that the recipient was repeatedly snubbed by the organization in the past, but she is nervous, nonetheless, about her acceptance speech.
(It shows. When she passes a mirror on her way from her spot on the couch to where Fareeha is relaxing in bed, she can see the anxiety on her own face. Not good.)
“Fareeha?” she asks, “Herzli?”
“Everything okay?” Fareeha must hear the anxiety in her voice, because she is already setting her book aside.
“Everything’s fine,” she hopes her voice does not sound quite as tight as her smile feels. “I just was wondering if you could look over my speech for me?”
(Of the two of them, Fareeha is not only better at expressing herself in English, but in general, so this is not an unusual request for Angela to make, even if it is an infrequent one.)
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Fareeha tells her, “But I’ll give it a look.” As she reaches for the sheaf of papers, she smiles teasingly, “I thought this award was no big deal, though.”
“It isn’t,” Angela insists, and knows that this will sound like a token protest—but it is true. The award itself is nearly meaningless, is only so that decades from now no one will look at the list of people whom Oasis has awarded and note her absence, question the decisions which led less impactful research from being chosen over hers every time. That is not what she is nervous about, not at all.
Her speech is another matter.
(In general, public speaking makes her nervous. She does it, of course, when it is necessary, and sometimes voluntarily when she believes that it will be beneficial, but she has never been comfortable with it, and imagines that she never will be. Why talk about things when she could do them?)
Writing is not one of her talents, is not something she has needed to be good at, to do the work which is important to her, and therefore is not a skill she cultivated. But that is not why she is anxious as she watches Fareeha read through her speech, is nowhere close to the true reason why she is watching her wife carefully for any reaction.
Unfortunately, she gets none, positive or negative. Fareeha reads the entirety of the document impassively, and then sets it down, concluding with a simple “It looks fine to me.”
Fine? “Is that it?” Angela asks her.
“Well,” Fareeha says, “I mean, it’ll do. I wouldn’t change anything, except that you called me your wife at one point.”
“I did,” Angela confirms.
“Yeah,” says Fareeha, taking it as a question, “Right here, in the third line.”
“No,” Angela tries to make herself more clear, “I meant to say—I did, on purpose.”
No response to Fareeha is forthcoming, and she seems to be taking a moment to process what has been said.
“Fareeha?” Angela asks, and then adds, “I can take it out if you want, I—”
“No!” she is interrupted by Fareeha, who sits up abruptly and moves near enough to grab one of her hands, “You don’t have to take it out, not at all, it’s just—people will ask questions, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Angela agrees, “They will.”
(They will, and she will not like it, because she still does not have the answers she knows they will expect from her, probably never will have those answers, but these days that is outweighed by her desire to tell everyone she meets that she is married, that she loves her wife, that her world is so much better for having Fareeha in it.)
“What are you going to tell them?” Fareeha is concerned, because of course she would be; she cares more about Angela’s wellbeing than Angela herself, much of the time. She is concerned that Angela is not thinking this through, that she will be unprepared for the response to her statement.
“That I’m married to you,” Angela answers, “And then I’ll move on.”
A frown from Fareeha, “And if they press you?”
“Then I’ll tell them that it doesn’t matter—I’m married.”
(It is not an answer that was available to her two months ago, but now that they are married, now that they have dedicated themselves to one another forever—now no one needs to question whom she might, hypothetically, be interested in in the future, whom she might have loved in the past. Fareeha is her present, and although her wife married her knowing they might never make such known, she does not want to keep that a secret, not any longer.)
“Thank you,” Fareeha tells her, rising to kiss her, “I love you,” another kiss and, “Thank you,” again.
Her wife always cries when she is happiest, and Angela knows when she feels Fareeha’s tears on her cheeks that she has made the right decision—for both of them.
Thinking about it still scares her, knowing that she will be asked questions she does not want to answer, that she will be seen by some as gay first and herselfsecond, but for this, for the ability to make her wife happy, and to tell everyone just how much she loves Fareeha, it is worth it.
Fareeha would have waited forever for Angela to be ready, but she does not have to.