Chapter Text
Jean sat on the corner of the bed, watching the light transform the blue of evening into the pale pink of morning. She sipped her still-steaming cup of coffee, and relished in its heat.
The still hours of the morning were Jean's favorite time of day: a time of solitude, where she could organize her thoughts before the weight of the day. It was also the only time she could truly bask in the gentle snores of her wife, curled beneath blankets and tossed honey brown hair, beside her.
Lisa rolled over, and Jean was greeted with a pair of evergreen leaves, sparkling with morning dew as Lisa blinked away the fog of sleep. Lisa smiled. Jean could see weariness nesting in the creases of her face.
For as long as Jean had known her, exhaustion clung to Lisa like a wet coat. It seeped between heavy limbs and leaden joints, hidden from view with honeyed words and languid tones. Its weight was ever-present: Lisa rarely gave voice to her woes, but that didn’t stop Jean from recognizing the bad days from the better ones. And if Jean decided on those bad days to go to work late, to bring their meals to the bedside table, and to carry Lisa around the house in an armful of kisses, well, Lisa hadn’t complained yet.
Jean brought Lisa’s hand to her face, and kissed it, pressing into each knuckle with her lips before letting go.
“Good morning to you, too,” Lisa said, her voice echoing a laugh. She looked up from Jean's lap and hooked her arm around Jean's waist, pressing bare skin to Jean’s blue morning shawl. When Jean took another unperturbed drink of coffee, Lisa said, “I don’t suppose you have a cup for me?”
From the bedside table, Jean pulled a small, porcelain cup; white, ringed with gold and hand-painted with multicolored rose blooms. Its flared base sat neatly in a matching saucer and, held within its delicate walls, was a fragrant but admittedly cooled amber-colored tea.
Lisa laughed again, and pulled herself up, slowly, to sit beside her. She took the tea into her hand, and with her other, wafted the scent of orange peel and dried redbush leaves into her breath. Then, she brought it to her lips, and drank. Jean pressed into her, knowingly.
“I can’t stay home, not today,” Lisa sighed in the way Jean knew she was trying to convince herself more than Jean. Even if Jean was technically her senior, it was Lisa, truly, who was her own harshest critic. “I promised Klee we would clean out that back room together. Sucrose and Albedo asked for help organizing the alchemical ingredients. And Razor has finally been making some progress on his letters—”
Jean kissed her cheek. “You don’t have to convince me.” Lisa fell silent, brows knit as the deep thrumming of uncertainty made itself plain on her face. "Just know your limits, too."
Lisa jabbed a finger in Jean's side. It was well-deserved, but Jean still pretended to be offended so she could see Lisa’s grin.
“I know, I know,” Lisa finally sighed. But still, it will be a hard day, she didn’t say. But still, she will be exhausted and worn and will have to rest threefold just to make up for it. She didn’t need to say it. Jean would be there for her.
Jean set aside her coffee and stood, letting the trails of her morning clothes billow out from behind her as she crossed their bedroom. She reached their shared dresser, and began to pull out pieces of Lisa's undergarments and lay them aside. She could feel Lisa's stare on her back until she finally turned around, holding Lisa's white cotton chemise by it's shoulder straps.
"May I help?"
Lisa opened her mouth, then closed it with an affectionate sigh. Jean watched as she drank the last of her tea, set the saucer on their bedside table, and kicked aside the blankets towards her. She stood over Jean and rested her elbows on Jean's shoulders. Jean leaned up, balancing on her toes to kiss her, then shrugged her shoulders until Lisa rolled her eyes and bent at the knee so Jean could pull the shift up and over her head. It fell loose down Lisa's form. A ribbon, the color of cream, held the neckline open. Jean tugged it close, tying the excess into a small bow.
A sleepy, morning silence settled into the room as Jean adjusted the ends of the ribbon. The loops were slightly off, and Jean needed to make sure they were perfectly symmetrical. Not that anyone else would see Lisa's undergarments, but Lisa always liked to look neat, and Jean would always oblige her.
Once satisfied, Jean turned slightly, and unfolded a pair of Lisa’s drawers. She set them on the ground and Lisa stepped in them, and in their careful dance, Jean bent at the knee, laid twin kisses on Lisa’s thighs and pulled them up under the length of her chemise. With a gentle hand on Lisa’s waist, she moved behind her, fastening them closed with a wooden button. Jean stepped back, nodding.
“Pleased with yourself?” Lisa teased.
“Very,” Jean smirked as she circled back around.
She stepped to the side, opening the doors of the wooden armoire—once shared, now solely Lisa’s—and removed from the interior hook Lisa’s white coutil corset, hanging by its loosened laces. As she walked, she unhooked the front busks. Jean snuck a kiss in the crook of Lisa’s neck as she brought the corset around her waist, only relenting when each hook was refastened. At her back, Jean held the ends of silk, flat ribbon and looped them through the column of metal eyelets.
A lot has been written about the care it takes to fasten a partner’s corset. It was an act of closeness, of mutual trust and care, but it was neither a quick-won nor easily-learned skill. Lisa had scolded her before, when Jean had made the lace tight enough to leave red marks on her skin with strength Jean did not always know how to reel in. But Jean was nothing if not stubborn, as Lisa often bemoaned, so that with time and plenty of patience, Jean now moved with careful precision: drawing the thread so that it was taught but not overbearing, stiff but not pinching, in reverential mirror to what Lisa did every morning. Once finished, Lisa sighed. She stood a little straighter, a little taller, and some of the edge of exhaustion was replaced with relief.
Jean brought over a chair, and Lisa sank into it. Jean pulled free the ends of the garter belts, and rolled and unrolled a set of black stockings up Lisa's ankle, knee, and thigh. She carefully attached them to the belts to hold them, and the corset, in place. Jean felt a hand stroke the top of her hair, and she looked up into Lisa's tired smile. She rose, and leaned into Lisa’s touch for a moment before pulling herself to her feet.
“Did you have a dress in mind for today?” Jean asked, retrieving the final piece of Lisa’s underclothes from where it was draped across the dresser. A slim, long white princess slip, edged in floral lace. With one hand, she brought the piece up and over Lisa’s head, and the other helped Lisa shift her shoulders, back, and thighs until it covered the corset and drawers.
“No, not yet,” Lisa hummed. “Decide for me?”
Jean nodded, rolling her fingertips into Lisa’s shoulder with a gentle squeeze. From Lisa’s armoire, she retrieved a silken, olive dress. Its high collar was patterned with sturdy lace netting that dipped at the breasts, and matched the elbow-length lace sleeves and ivory gloves partnered with it. Most of the dress was patterned with faint, velvet circles. A matching cumberbund and bow cinched the slender dress at the waist.
Lisa looked curiously. "Why green?"
"It brings out your eyes," Jean said. Most of Lisa's wardrobe was purples and blues— beautiful colors, made only more beautiful on Lisa, but if Jean was picking out Lisa's outfit today, she could be a little self-indulgent, too. She thought Lisa looked best in green: the green of fresh flower buds and Anemo crystal fly wings. It was the same color of Lisa's eyes when she told a particularly dry joke, and Jean was the first one to laugh.
Jean loosened the cumberbund from the waist, and set it aside. Just like before, she carefully pulled the dress up and over Lisa’s form, helping her draw her arms through and smooth out the slender skirt as it laid against Lisa’s waistline. Jean leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Lisa’s forehead. Then in a seamless motion, Jean hooked underneath Lisa's arms and lifted her to her feet.
She asked, not meeting Jean’s eyes: "You’re not tired of purple, are you?" The words were light but the meaning was heavy.
Jean would never give a voice to the darkest worries of Lisa’s mind. The worries that nagged at her for being useless, or troublesome, or lazy. Never. Not because Jean hid them out of a sense of duty, but because she knew they weren't true. Jean knew that Lisa’s value could never be measured in the work she did—Lisa was worth everything the world could give her, and more. She was cherished, not in spite of herself or her limitations, but because she was Lisa and no one else: gentle and kind, elegant and thoughtful, intelligent and strong-willed. Lisa, who was helping Jean believe these things about herself, too.
"Never,” Jean replied. She held Lisa tightly, putting all she could into such simple words: “I could never tire of you.” Lisa leaned against her, and smiled.