Work Text:
The Christmas party had been a success. Extravagant and enjoyable in equal measure, cocktails aplenty and only a mild argument between her sweet Jeanne and the ever bumbling Cheshire. The lights were low now, and Cereza was enjoying the soft velvet of her chaise-lounge, the last dregs of a ‘54 Bordeaux, and the soothing pressure of a still, dozing girlfriend nestled on her chest.
Too still.
She hated this; feeling helpless had never been her favourite pastime, especially now that the danger had passed and all was right between them. She was here . Breathing heavily and clutching at Cereza’s dressing gown. To worry now would be ridiculous, would it not?
Try as she might, she could not stop her eyes from glazing, nor the memories of the past few days from catching up to her.
Heat and ash burned in the back of her nose, closing her lungs and chilling her spine as her temples threatened to burst with the pressure of ensuing panic. The once comforting weight of Jeanne became dread that she wouldn’t wake, and had her limbs not been stilled by fear, she would have clutched her tight and wailed. As it was, all she could do was look down upon her lover’s sleeping form and hold back tears.
And then, it passed.
Cereza let out a breath at last, and wiped her cheeks with the back of her free hand. They were safe .
The movement and hushed sniffing must have woken Jeanne from her dozing. Opening her eyes and looking up at her girlfriend, there was a second of realisation followed by worry, before her lips settled into a wry smile.
“Not like you to shed a tear, love. Was my sleeping face so beautiful as to move you?”
it was enough to make Cereza chuckle softly.
“Heavens, no. I was just remembering that ghastly excuse for a pastry that Rodin brought. He calls himself an artist?”
They both laughed at that, thought Cereza hoped the look she gave conveyed her thanks enough. It wasn’t a subject they had spoken of, not so close to when it had occurred, but they did what they could to hold one another up.
“Say, love…” Jeanne began, lacing her fingers into Cereza’s hair. “We seem to be beneath the mistletoe.”
She glanced up and sure enough, there it was. Laughing again, she was about to retort, but the softness of Jeanne’s lips meeting her own squashed the thought before it could surface. As she was gently pushed back, Jeanne straddling her and kissing her once again, for the first time that evening Cereza felt the tension in her shoulders ease off.
They were safe, yes, and they were
home
.