Chapter Text
>The Delaire's Hawthorn Grove mansion sat quiet among the various New Year's Eve celebrations up and down Hibiscus Drive. The upper floor sits in darkness. In the sitting room, Madeline crumples in one of many cushy leather chairs, formerly determined to stay awake for the new year, now fallen asleep before 10pm and buried under blankets. The foyer lays disheveled from Ted's hasty exit, his rushed goodbyes and apologies as he leaves his family to celebrate the coming year with Sterling, cigars stuffed in his jacket pocket and brown liquors in his hands.
>And at once, the holotape clicks on, filling the bottom floor with the playful tonality of grand piano and orchestra from the drawing room.
>Angela stands over the tape player, in her best cocktail dress, swaying her hips side-to-side in stochastic rhythm. She takes a final sip of her mug, labelled 'NEWBURGH ELEMENTARY SCHOOL PTA' and turns on the heel of her stockinged feet. "Do you know what symphony this is, Emmy?" her expression is reckless, her smile crooked and her face flushed with the light pink of one too many drinks.
>Emmy sits on the couch upright, hands on her knees, watching Angela with increasing curiosity. She cocks her head slightly, listening to the holotape. "Deux Arabesques: Number two, Allegretto Scherzando, by Claude Debussy." She answers, giddy at her own recollection.
>"Very good!" She peers into her empty mug. "I love this song—" she hums, meandering to the bottles of wine set on the side table beside Emmy.
>"Debussy is your favorite, isn't he?"
>Angela scoffs in disbelief. "That's right..." she mutters, pouring more wine into her coffee mug and adjusting her done-up deep blonde hair. "...why do you remember that?"
>Emmy averts her gaze, embarrassed, "You played this Debussy tape last month when Mrs. Khatri visited and said he was your favorite-" Emmy remembered a myriad other things about that day— the exact outfit Angela wore, the way she smiled whenever the topic of her work came up, how her thighs shifted underneath the cloth of her pencil skirt— memories that activate the soft glow of her cheeks. "Something about the unresolved chords."
>Angela gazes down at Emmy, her increasing smile pulling at the subtle wrinkles at the sides of her mouth. "That's precious-" she elates, and with her free hand runs her slender fingers through Emmy's hair. Emmy leans into her touch, making soft little noises as she stretches her chassis to press against her owner. "You really listen, don't you?"
>"Of course ma'am, it's my job" Emmy stammers.
>Angela's smile wanes. "Your job. Of course." she mutters, taking another sip from her mug, "You'd think that'd be Ted's job, wouldn't you? Listening to me, being around for New Year's", the frustration in her voice building.
>"I wouldn't say that about Mr. Delaire-"
>"Oh, because he's such a good husband, isn't he? Leaving me for his employees..."
>"Can't we have fun, just the two of us?" she chokes out, trying to comfort Angela.
>Angela pauses, nonplussed as she reads Emmy's tender smile looking up at her— the nandroid she'd trusted with her most intimate secrets, the nandroid she'd felt the safest in the company of, the nandroid she'd fallen in love with despite it all— this was her family. "Oh Emmy-"
>She falls into Emmy, desperately crashing her mouth onto hers, tongue dancing in Emmy's mouth seemingly with the exuberant melody in the air, sloppy from drink, muffling whatever flustered exhalation Emmy intended to mouth. Emmy sits back into the couch, grasping the cloth of Angela's dress around her waist as if hanging on for dear life, cheeks blazing red in melted elation.
>Angela pulls back, leaving Emmy, eyes shut and mouth ajar. "You're right-" she exhales, wiping her eyes and laughing shakily. "I don't know what's gotten into me. Blame it on the rosé?
>"O-okay!" Emmy stutters, still basking in the glow of Angela's embrace.
>Angela plants a gentle kiss on Emmy's forehead. "Good girl." She takes another sip. "Let's have a toast." she announces, picking herself up from Emmy's lap.
>"A toast?"
>"A toast!" She refills her mug and hands Emmy the half-empty bottle. Emmy takes it gratefully, inspecting the label.
>"To the new year?"
>"To us!" Angela sits beside Emmy on the couch, feet tucked under her thighs "You and me. Us." She gesticulates with her mug.
>Emmy giggles and holds up her bottle. "To us!"
>Tink! Angela takes a final chug from her mug and Emmy brings the bottle to her lips in a faux-sip.
>Angela begins to undo her pinned-up hair, humming along to the cello in the holotape symphony. "You know something, Emmy?"
>"Yes?" Emmy murmurs.
>"You make me feel young." Angela falls into Emmy's lap. "Play with my hair?
>"Oh-" she simply replies, cheeks flaring pink once more and watching Angela's thick blonde locks fall from her grasp as she runs her fingers through it with abandon. "What do you mean?"
>"Oh, you know... you bring out parts of me, lively parts I thought I was too old for. More than just, you know, us fooling around. I feel happy." She grabs one of Emmy's hands and places it against her cheek. "Does that make sense?"
>Emmy is lost in thought, fixated on the subtle contortions of Angela's face talking up at her. "Y-yeah. Yes."
>Angela further nestles into Emmy's lap, trying to find a more comfortable position, and softly laughs to herself, "I guess that's part of why I love you."
>She could hear it a million times and it'd still send electricity up and down Emmy's core and facsimile of a heart. Angela loves her. If her cheeks panels and smile could get any brighter or wider they'd crack her chassis. "I love you too, ma'am."
>A smile creeps on Angela's face as her eyes dim to a close. "Call me Angela when we're alone." she lazily requests.
>"I love you too, Angela." Emmy corrects with a light giggle, watching Angela intently as she dozes off.
>"Good girl-" she purrs.
>Emmy would sooner die than disturb Angela's sleep. She pets her gently, curling her hair in her fingers and dropping them. Her makeup is smeared, her dress disheveled, and her smile crooked, but resting her head on Emmy's lap is the woman she's dedicated her life to— she'd kiss her if it wouldn't wake her.
>Time passes, clocks tick, the world sits still for the night. And then: a distant applause. A distant cheering. A distant shout. All of Hawthorn Grove cracks awake, if only for a moment, then drifts back into the dark. Emmy's optics meet the clock: 12:01, The New Year. She looks back down at her lover before her optics click shut, ready to begin a year anew with Angela. Her Angela.