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“You know, technically this isn’t a date.”
The words come from behind Deena, come from the countertop opposite the grill, and she grins without turning around, keeping her eyes firmly trained on the sizzling burgers in front of her. They’re nearly done- a few minutes more should do it- and much as she would love to spin around and admire the mischievous glint she’s absolutely sure will be shining in her girlfriend’s eyes, she’s wise enough to know that getting lost in Sam’s eyes would most definitely result in burnt food and events not best suited for the kitchen floor. She chooses, instead, to hum in acknowledgement of the comment and keep her eyes on the cooking meat. She’d promised Sam cheeseburgers, after all.
See, Deena knows things when it comes to Sam. She’s not a genius, by any means, not even a high achiever at school. She barely scrapes passing grades in her Math class and she gave up on English years ago. But in the studies of Samantha Fraser, Deena Johnson is a master.
She knows her favourite books (they share a mutual love of Stephen King), knows the movies she’s watched so many times she has them memorised. She knows how she likes her toast, the jokes that make her cry with laughter, knows how to make her laugh when she cries. She knows her every fear, irrational and otherwise, knows every story behind every scar. She’s old friends with the way Sam’s hand will seek hers in a crowded room, is no stranger to the arch of her back, the part of her lips, the touch of her tongue, is intimately familiar with the way her breath hitches, her eyes clamp shut and her legs tremble. She knows how to read her like a beloved poem, knows her body, her mind, her very soul.
It’s how she knows Sam is only teasing with the words she speaks, knows that, if she were to give up her self-control as she so desperately wants to and turn around, her girlfriend would be grinning right back at her, misleading innocence displayed in the scrunch of her nose, sin hidden in the curve of her lips.
There is silence for a moment; comfortable, as it always is. Deena finds herself overwhelmingly grateful for moments like these, moments of quiet and peace and safety- moments she’d taken for granted not even two weeks ago.
Because their world had been turned on its head, flipped on its axis by an untimely nosebleed, a truly unfortunate accident and the wrong woman’s grave being disturbed. They’d been chased, hunted like animals, by killers whose names had adorned the newspapers of years gone by, sought out by a witch whose anger was unlike anything either of them had ever known, not even in a world of violently alcoholic fathers and stiffly prejudiced mothers. They had felt fear creep into every nerve, had lost two of their friends along the way, and had still come out the other end of everything, physically and mentally scarred, but alive nonetheless, and totally unpossessed (C. Berman had helped them with that).
Now, with Sarah Fier’s curse ended for good, her grip upon the land removed, for Deena there is only this: safety and security in the company of the one she loves the most. And as she muses on this, sends a gentle prayer up the sky where she knows Simon and Kate are watching over them, she hears quiet feet padding their way closer to her, feels arms encircle her from behind, a head come to rest between her shoulder blades.
Sam nuzzles further into her as she relaxes back, letting her eyes drift closed and bringing one hand up to cup the one her girlfriend has stroking her stomach through her shirt.
“Is the food nearly ready? I’m starving.” Deena chuckles at Sam’s words, muffled by the material covering her back, and nods.
“Burgers are done. But you gotta let me go so I can plate up.” Her request is met with a groan and a shake of the head that she feels against her shoulders. She hums out another laugh, far too engulfed in the warm feeling of simply being, in the home she’s made in existing with Sam, to spout a witty remark in response.
“Don’t wanna let go.” Sam murmurs but releases her, moving to plant a soft kiss at the nape of Deena’s neck. Deena nearly fucking melts.
She plates up in a haze of warmth and happiness and love, so pure and fierce it almost blinds her, only turning around once she’s got the food in her hands, set to touchdown on the table behind the countertop, and she almost drops it at the sight of her girlfriend, despite having laid eyes on her not ten minutes ago before she started cooking the meat.
Sam is a vision, that much is indisputable. Stood there in one of Deena’s hoodies, plaid pyjama bottoms and fluffy socks, Deena could die. She’s wearing an expression so adorably excited, so youthfully ecstatic that she has to swallow a lump in her throat before she can set the plates down. She manages it without making a fool of herself (although, she knows that if Simon and Kate were here, she’d be teased for her heart eyes relentlessly) and sits down next to Sam with her own plate.
They eat in relative silence, the only sounds made being the appreciative little noises Sam lets out every now and then, the cars that pass the house and the faint echoes of Josh’s music coming from the basement. It’s quiet and it’s mundane, and it’s so peaceful, so fucking peaceful.
Deena almost startles when Sam gets up, her abrupt movement shocking her out of her dazed reverie. Her eyes follow her over to the radio that’s been sat on the windowsill for God knows how long, happily curious as to what her girlfriend is up to. She smiles when she begins to fiddle with the buttons, taking her in in all her pyjama-clad glory; soft and comfortable and so beautiful Deena feels she’s in the presence of Aphrodite. Well, no, not Aphrodite, she revises: Persephone. A beauty so innocent, so pure, that it enchanted even the darkest of gods. A beauty that meant spring and hope and love and joy. A beauty that, in its absence, left darkness and cold and despair.
Deena, who was never one for Greek mythology in the first place, starts to understand Hades as Sam finds the station she was looking for. Starts to empathise with the god of the Underworld as a familiar song crackles through the beat-up old radio, a song she’d put on a mixtape months ago, a song her and Sam had listened to only last week, before it had all gone to shit again, in her bed. As ‘Hey’ by The Pixies floats through the air of the kitchen, Deena realises that she, too, would waste half a year, half a decade, half her life waiting on Sam, if only to spend six months basking in the glow of her.
She’s beckoning to her now, and it’s all Deena can do to get up and go to her, reach for Sam’s extended hand and bring her into her arms. Sam’s arms end up wound around the back of her neck as she rests her forehead against Deena’s, small breaths puffing out across her lips.
“Must be a devil, between us.” The radio croons as they both lean in, lips connecting in a soft dance of give and take, a waltz of the most elegant proportions. Sam sighs against her, kisses her with such painstaking care that Deena could cry, and holds her with love in her palms.
They sway together, lips breaking apart and coming together again, and Deena thinks the Pixies got it right. There had been devils between them, a whole load of them, from overbearing mothers and the oppressive, impending doom of living in Shadyside, to actual demons and witches and the undead. And despite it all, they survived. They lived, and Deena can’t help but grin against Sam’s lips.
This is the best night of my life, she thinks, and kisses Sam again. This is the best night of our goddamn lives.