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“You’re beautiful.”
The moon and the stars mirror in Moira’s bright blue eyes. The whole galaxy shines in them as she turns her head and looks down at Angela, drunk and smiling, standing by her side. A smile of her own spreads across her freckled cheeks – like constellations, unrhythmical and lopsided.
“I don’t think I heard anyone tell me that before.” Her voice is quiet but soft, a little husky as it usually is, low and dark, but still soft. Warm. Loving? Angela grins and leans up to press a kiss against Moira’s cheek, smearing her pink glossy lipstick against the smooth and cold skin.
“You’re pretty nonetheless.” Moira smirks. “Aren’t you a little too drunk to really see me?”
She teases her, lightly. Her world would go down if Angela misunderstood and grew mad at her – maybe not now, but perhaps another time. Moira’s always careful and good with words, but sometimes she’s just blunt and hurts others without really meaning to. But in this case, Angela’s grin widens and she lifts a pale, well-manicured hand to comb it through Moira’s fiery red hair.
It’s silver in the moonlight and for a moment, Angela imagines growing old with the woman by her side. How that would be. How that would feel. Certainly – different. She remembers her parents, her grandparents. They’ve always been so happy. She’s always hoped for Prince Charming to come along on his fancy white horse and pick her up to his castle one day, and look what she’s got: a gangly, rude, awkward scientist WOMAN driving a Mazda and having never been on the back of a horse ever before.
And she doesn’t have a castle, either.
But as she smiles up at Moira and watches her lips twitch and her smile widen, she knows that she wouldn’t prefer a Prince Charming over her. She loves her, and she’s happy to know that even though Moira hasn’t ever said the three magical words before, she loves her nonetheless – she simply can’t admit it, her pride way above her IQ and that’s really supposed to mean something.
“I …” Moira starts quietly and turns to face Angela completely, reaching for her hands. “I’m sorry.” Her girlfriend’s eyebrows raise and she tilts her head. “What for? You don’t have nothing to say sorry for, Moira.” A harsh exhale, a while, large cloud sent out into the chilly air of November evening. Icy blue eyes flutter shut. “I do. I’m sorry for not being any better than this. But I’m still learning, alright? I do my genuine best to be a good significant oth –”
She’s cut off by Angela, and yes, this may seem plenty cliché, but it’s true, because she’s cut off by Angela leaning up and planting her lips on Moira’s sloppily. “Halt den Mund,” she grumbles, “you’re not perfect, but you’re great …” The redhead swallows down her tears and nods and rubs over Angela’s back. “Thank you, daor.” And pushes herself back against the railing of the balcony, glad that Angela understands her even when she’s not thundering and praying the fancy words from heaven.
She’s glad that Angela loves her even when she’s not in her best state, even when she’s weak, even when she feels like absolute bullshit. She’s glad that Angela loves her even though she can’t tell her she loves her, too. “I love you,” Angela says, one more time.
And it’s then that Moira finally breaks, finally lets Angela in close, finally lets her love her,
finally lets her cradle her in her arms and kiss her and it’s then that Moira finally kisses back and sinks a gloved hand into Angela’s hair, blood and whiskey rushing in her veins, just a little, just enough to let loose and let go of her pride and her dignity and finally, finally she breathes the sacred words back against Angie’s lips, “I love you, too.”