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“Do you think they’re together?” Ashildr gestured oh-so-subtly with their mug across the coffee shop’s little seating area. Clara knew who they were pointing at even before she turned a stretch into a quick peek. She’d clocked the nervous mountain of blonde muscle and the wiry brunette with the undercut as soon as they’d entered.
“Mmm…” Clara swirled her iced drink as she thought. The smaller, leaner woman was harder to read, but… “Depends. You think that’s hope in those mismatched eyes, or pleased disbelief?”
“Mm,” Ashildr echoed. “Pleased disbelief. The body language is just a little too intimate,” she concluded just as the blonde took both of the brunette’s hands in one of hers, covered in green leafy tattoos.
Clara snorted. “You’ve never gotten close to a girl only for her to tell you she was straight at the last minute?”
“Clara, darling,” Ashildr’s hand brushed her cheek, almost patronizingly, “if either of those women are straight, then I’m June Cleaver.”
“Did you honestly just namedrop a 1950’s sitcom at me?” Scornful retorts aside, Ashildr was almost certainly right. Purple check flannel and dark eye makeup? Sleeveless muscle tank and multiple piercings? Yeah, they were right out of central casting. Which - agh - didn’t mean that they wouldn’t look super cute together.
“You’re starting to ship it,” Ashildr pronounced. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. Were we ever that cute when we first got together?”
This was not, Clara knew, a rhetorical question.
“My dear,” she said finally, pausing only to press a kiss to one of Ashildr’s petite hands, “we still are.”
“You’re disgusting. And I love you.” Clara only smiled in response.