Work Text:
In the caverns beneath Wartwood, the night is still, quiet; sound is muffled by thick walls of dirt and stone, and the rebellion is sleeping, anyways.
Or at least, they’re trying to.
“Sash?”
Anne’s back is pressed against Sasha’s, warmth seeping through her ratty gray T-shirt. The body heat feels stifling in the warm air of the cave, but she can’t fathom pulling away, savoring the sensation of curling up in bed with her friend. It’s like they did when they were little, and they all crammed into Anne’s tiny twin-size bed at sleepovers, limbs intertwined and secret, giggling whispers exchanged in the quiet darkness. She misses it. She’d missed Sasha.
“Hm?” The friend in question mumbles, voice soft and hoarse like she’d been pulled out of the pleasant drift between sleep and consciousness. Anne hesitates, then speaks:
“Why did you do it?”
Once she gets started, the words tumble from Anne’s lips so suddenly that even she’s not quite sure what she was getting at. Sasha remains silent, but she hasn’t fallen back asleep: Anne could feel her stiffening, tensing up, against her back. She regrets the question, but she can’t take it back now, so she continues, “In Newtopia.”
She sits up; their thin blanket pools against her waist, exposing Sasha’s shoulders to the damp night air. The girl shivers. Anne can feel sweat clinging to her back, cooling, clammy; she props herself up on the wall, eyes falling to Sasha. She almost reaches out, touches a hand to her back; she doesn’t.
“When we thought we were all gonna go home. Why’d you,” her voice falters for a moment, before she continues, “Betray us?”
Silence returns to the room for a long moment; the space is filled by the rustling of covers, a sense of doubt curdling in the back of Anne’s throat, hesitant to speak her next words. Finally, she spits them out, sorrow and hurt clear in her speech: “Betray me ?”
And Sasha’s not sure she’s ever regretted anything quite so bad as she did Newtopia in that moment. To hear Anne’s voice sound so pained, and to know she was the cause of it… it makes her stomach churn, her vision flash hot, hot, hot with anger. Not at Anne, of course; not at anyone else, either. Anger with herself . She had been such an idiot. Of course, she’d never meant to hurt Anne; at the same time, she didn’t understand how she hadn’t seen it happening. Sasha had hardly even considered Anne thinking it a betrayal — she’d still get the box; they could go home if they wanted; no harm, no foul. Had she been blind, or had she been willfully ignorant? She’s not sure anymore.
The silence had stretched on far too long now, growing uncomfortable. Sasha tried to choose her words carefully, be the pillar of strength and reassurance she’d always sought to be, but the words tumbled clumsily from her lips: “It’s gonna sound stupid, in hindsight.” She props herself up, next to Anne but refusing to make eye contact. Her cheeks are hot with embarrassment, heart running a mile a minute; she fidgets anxiously with her hair, curling it loosely between her index fingers. There’s nothing she can say that will fix this; she lives with the consequences of her actions, healing Anne’s hurt out of her hands. Out of her control . She hates it.
Breaking the tension, Anne laughs, nudging Sasha with her elbow. “Dude, it was stupid at the time.” Sasha feels a smile rising on her face, and a laugh bubbling up in her throat; she turns her head to meet Anne’s eye, earnest and lovestruck and pleading , how do I make this up to you? How do I make things better?
“I know that now.” She sucks in a sharp breath, bracing herself for Anne’s reaction to her next words: “And if I’m being honest with myself, I knew it then. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
But Anne only looks at her patiently, all soft smiles and understanding eyes, and Sasha knows she doesn’t deserve a heart so big, but she also knows she’ll do anything to earn it. To hold Anne’s heart in her hands and shield it; to never hurt her again. She continues, owing Anne her explanation: “I kinda figured you’d be upset. That I lied, to you and Marcy. But,” she hesitates, spitting out the next words like they’re poison: “I thought you’d just get over it. Suck it up, keep quiet. It’d all be water under the bridge once we figured out how to work the box without Andrias.” Sasha smiles again, sadly: “I guess I didn’t know you as well as I thought I did.”
A pained voice echoes through her mind: I think me and Braddock are done with this. With all of it . Her eyes burn, and she scrunches up her face, willing herself to keep it together. “I never meant to hurt you,” Sasha offered lamely, but all she ever did was hurt, hurt, hurt , “It was just… what I had to do to get what I wanted. No big deal, you’d get over it. You always did. It’s what I counted on.”
Regret and revulsion tangle in her belly, in the back of her throat, behind her eyes. She blinks back hot tears; the back of her head thuds against the wall as she stares, determinedly, at the ceiling. Anne’s arm is warm where it’s pressed against her own, but that’s just her: warmth, sunshine, forgiveness. The biggest heart Sasha’s ever known. And somehow, she’s bundled up in bed beside her, curly hair tickling Sasha’s shoulder, not pulling away . It’s all Sasha has ever wanted, and it’s everything she thought she’d never have again. She swallows thickly, then turns to look at the girl beside her:
“I’m not a good person, Anne. I don’t think I ever have been.” Determination flares in her gut, and Anne is warmed by the fire in her eyes. “But I want to be. I want to deserve you.”
The two hold each other’s gaze, lost in it, for god-knows-how-long. Anne feels a fierce blush rising to her face at the declaration; sometimes, she wonders if Sasha really means it, really wants to make things right this time. But when she reaffirms it like that, fervent, like she’s pledging her undying devotion; like a prayer; Anne’s doubt melts away. Affection bubbles up in her heart, and all of a sudden she’s overwhelmed with the desire to hold her friend’s hand, draw her closer, nestle her head into Sasha’s shoulder.
When the girl in question shifts beside her, she’s snapped out of her longing, back to reality. Gay. You are so gay. She’s suddenly all-too-aware of Sasha’s eyes on her; the tension feels palpable. She clears her throat: “Hey, uh, you didn’t answer my question.”
A playfully-petulant frown touches Sasha’s face at her words. “Damnit, Boonchuy, I thought you’d give it a rest.” She sighs, looking away; as she says her next words, her voice takes on an evasive quality, drawing out her vowels and speaking all high-pitched, like she does when she’s uncomfortable. “It’s really not important. And it’s stupid. And honestly, really embarrassing, can we change the subject?” She cracks a nervous smile, flicking her wrist dismissively, like she doesn’t care either way.
“Sasha.” Anne’s tone is light, but firm. Sasha holds her hands up in defense.
“Okay, okay!”
There’s a slight pause, then the cautious playfulness drains out of her. Sasha’s hands drop; she clasps them together in her lap, wringing them anxiously. Anne elbows her; gentle, but goading, she pushes, “C’mon. I don’t bite.”
Sasha looks at her, ruefully: “It started out as me wanting to help Grime. After Toad Tower, he… wasn’t himself.” She shrugs. In the way her shoulders tense, her gaze flits around the room, Anne can tell the nonchalance is an act: Sasha hates being vulnerable. But she’s trying. “When he suggested the plan to me, he was excited for the first time in months. He needed something to fight for,” she wears a soft smile, and a distant look in her eyes: “I helped him get it.”
There’s a pause; as Anne opens her mouth to speak, Sasha interrupts, “I was angry, too.” Her smile drops to a frown. “I was angry you stood up to me at Toad Tower. I thought I could get you back under my thumb — I wanted that. More than anything.”
Sasha’s gaze loses its distance as she talks; she looks at Anne with meaning, heart pounding in her chest as she admits, “Having a mission made me feel in-control again. I could channel my anger.” She laughs, wryly: “But honestly? It’s only been a couple months, and already, I can’t imagine wanting that.” She offers Anne a tentative smile, as if testing the waters; Anne only looks at her, enamored with her passion but entirely bemused.
Anne tilts her head. “What do you mean? Wanting what?”
Sasha’s heart flutters in her chest. “For you to go back to how you were. Small.” She holds Anne in her gaze, warm and half-lidded; her voice is low, ardent. “But this Anne? The one who knows how much she’s worth? The one who won’t take shit from anyone? Who stands up for herself?” Anne spots a twinkle in her eyes, feels heat rising to her own cheeks. “She’s really something else.”
And Anne is sure she’s never heard such enamored words in her life. In all the books she’s read, all the rom-coms and soap operas she’s watched, she’s never had the floor swept from under her so easily, with a single phrase. Never felt her heart thud like it was in that moment. Warmth and light surge through her veins, spark a fire in her chest; giddiness snakes through her bones and tingles at the tips of her fingers. She’d have to struggle against a grin, now, and so she just lets it be, cheeks aching and eyes stinging but in a good way, a way that makes her feel like she’s on top of the world.
Emboldened, she moves her hand so that her pinkie lightly brushes Sasha’s. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments before Anne stubbornly averts hers; the look in her friend’s eyes could pull her in, inescapable, if she let herself look too long. Instead, she simply links their hands together, soft pads of fingers cradling rough calluses, and the moment stretches on for eternity. Somewhere along the line, Sasha squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back; no singular gesture has ever done so much to still her longing heart.
Anne opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it, rubbing her arm nervously. Just as Sasha goes to encourage her friend to speak, she’s interrupted, finally, “Do you really think that?” Anne’s voice is quiet, tentative. Sasha hates the sound of it: Anne, unsure of herself, doubting the truth of her words. And so she tries to keep her voice level as she earnestly supplies:
“Anne, I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
The two blink at each other lamely; Sasha hasn’t quite realized the magnitude of what she’s said, and Anne is still processing that the words are real. There’s a moment of silence that feels anything but: their hearts thud in their chests; their minds run a mile a minute. Heat rises to Anne’s cheeks as the message sinks in, and Sasha’s eyes widen when she sees her friend blushing.
Realizing what she’s said, she falls over herself to explain: “Like — your personality! As in, you have a really good heart!” But that doesn’t feel right either, Oh, God, what if Anne thinks I’m saying she’s not good-looking? Sasha quickly adds, hands gesturing wildly, “Not that you’re not pretty! Because you are. Like, really pretty.” She’s about to continue when she realizes maybe, she should cut herself short, not dig any deeper a hole. She closes her mouth and watches Anne’s face, waits for her next words, anxiously. Fuck .
And so Sasha’s not prepared for what Anne says, at all. It’s mumbled, almost bashfully, so unlike Anne that Sasha has to do a double take. “Could you keep going?”
“I — what?”
Heat sears Anne’s cheeks, and her mind is muddled with equal parts doubt and desire. This should be awful, mortifying, but it’s not ; Sasha is safe. If Anne needs reassurance, she knows she can seek it, and so she does: “Tell me — tell me what you think about me.” After a brief pause, a slight consideration, she squeaks out a, “Please, dude,” salvaging whatever’s left of her plausible deniability. It’s an exercise in futility, when at the same time she’s bringing their hands together, searching Sasha’s eyes fervently for who-knows-what.
Sasha exhales a sigh, but her lips quirk up in a small, good-natured smile: “Yeah. I think you’re beautiful in,” she pauses, cheeks warming, “all the senses of the word. Fuck .” She puts her head in her hands, embarrassed; for a brief moment, all Anne can see is messy blonde hair and the tips of fingers peeking out from it. But then, Sasha peeks up again, meeting her eyes almost tentatively, “…And you deserve everything.” The room is silent once more, for a time.
And then her next words make Anne’s chest ache.
“I’d do whatever it took to give it to you.”
What do you even say to such a declaration? The way Sasha says it, it sounds like a vow; like she’s never been so certain of anything in her life. It makes Anne’s heart do all sorts of funny things in her chest, her breath catch in her throat. Overwhelming — that’s the only way she could describe the flurry of emotion swelling in her body right now, making her head fuzzy and her face warm and her hands all fidgety. She feels desired, significant, adored . It doesn’t feel real that Sasha, her Sasha, the same one who used to make her feel small, was sitting before her and saying those things — but she was . And now she’s staring at Anne with an anxious look in her eyes and tensed-up shoulders, holding her breath, and Anne thinks that maybe, definitely, she should respond. But what is there to even say?
She’s never had a way with words like Sasha, never been a master of emotions. She spends a few moments pondering what to say, what could she possibly say that would be that monumental, before she gives up: tentative but bold, she mumbles out, “I think you’re pretty, too.” Her voice pitches up at the end, as if she’s asking a question instead of stating the heavy truth that’s been resting on her shoulders for years. As if there’s a trace of doubt in her mind that she’s head-over-heels for her best friend.
Anne isn’t sure what reaction she’s expecting, but it’s certainly not Sasha staring at her like a deer in headlights; literally squeaking a cautious, “You do?”
She nods affirmatively.
Sasha blinks. Anne shifts in place, cracking the joints in her fingers; it’s the only sound in the deafening silence that’s fallen upon them. Nerves flare up, her head light and fuzzy as she tries to process that it’s out , the cat’s out of the bag, but Sasha maybe, kind-of, possibly feels the same? Which doesn’t feel real. At all. Oh, hell.
Suddenly, Sasha’s voice stutters out, piercing through Anne’s muddled thoughts: “Anne?” She looked up. Sasha swallowed nervously, taking a deep breath to steady herself, regain some modicum of her bravado, before questioning, “Can I kiss you?”
And Anne just about gapes at her. “Uh — totally, dude!” She stumbles over her words, internally facepalming the moment her sluggish brain catches up with her clumsy mouth. She’s going to have her first-ever kiss, and she just called Sasha dude . She can already see herself losing sleep over it.
But Sasha breaks the tension by snorting out a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. Her nose scrunches up all cutely, and the mirth sparkling in her eyes is contagious; Anne plants her face in her hand, shoulders shaking with laughter of her own. They lean against each other, Anne’s arm finding its way around Sasha’s shoulder, supporting her through the fit of giggles. When it finally resolves, there are tears in Sasha’s eyes, and a big smile is glued to her face, and Anne thinks maybe she’s never seen anyone look so beautiful in her life.
And then, all of a sudden, Sasha’s hand is on Anne’s cheek, and she’s leaning in; Anne’s heart is running a mile a minute, and this would all be so romantic, but when Sasha’s an inch from her face she’s overcome with another burst of giggles. Her free hand rises to cover her mouth. Sasha just looks so soft, so genuine, and it’s so at-odds with everything she knew about her. To see her untouchable facade so thoroughly dismantled — it makes amusement bubble up in Anne’s chest, mingled with love and affection and disbelief.
Her friend leans back, but just slightly, not so quickly dissuaded. Feigning annoyance, Sasha complains, “Anne, c’mon! Knock it off!”
The protest is just for show, though: she cups Anne’s other cheek to stabilize her head, gazing into her eyes with such intense affection Anne thinks she might pass out. Voice warm with laughter, she replies, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Here,” and she leans in and seals the deal, closing the distance between them. It’s a simple brush of lips, but Anne’s stomach explodes with butterflies. Sasha trails her thumb over Anne’s cheek, idly back-and-forth, and she wonders if maybe she’s been electrocuted. By the dazed look in Sasha’s eyes when she leans back far enough to see, Anne guesses she feels about the same.
Naturally, her first instinct is to poke fun. She quirks an eyebrow, voice teasing: “Jeez, Sash, you’re not gonna, like, pass out on me, are you?”
Sasha rolls her eyes and gives Anne an exasperated shake of her head; her smile betrays her. She leans in, nestling her head in the crook of Anne’s neck, warm arms wrapping around her sides and helping Anne into a comfortable embrace. Blonde hair itches her face, and she scrunches up her nose, running a hand through the rat’s nest before gently brushing it out of the way; as she does so, a fond voice pipes up, vibrations tickling the skin at her clavicle. “Don’t test me. It’s late.”
Anne fakes a pout, fingers combing gently through Sasha’s hair. “Aw, c’mon. When we used to have sleepovers you’d freak if we went to bed before the sun came up.” Sasha chuckles, raising an arm to flap her hand dismissively.
“When we used to have sleepovers we weren’t running a rebellion .” She pokes Anne, gently, in the ribs, eliciting a chuckle; a sleepy smile spreads across Sasha’s face at the sound. “You know, we can talk about this in the morning.”
She raises her face to look at Anne, mischief playing over it: “Maybe even,” she bats her eyelashes, gazing through half-lidded eyes, “Pick up where we left off?”
Anne’s eye twitches as she tries, in vain, to suppress a giggle; ultimately, she slaps a hand to her mouth, snickering and shaking her head in apology for the outburst. “Oh my god. Sasha,” she crows, watching her friend’s face light up pink.
Sasha gapes at her in mock-outrage, clutching a hand to her chest. Her tone is defensive as she exclaims, “I don’t see you trying to flirt!”
It’s an empty reproval, though: moments later, she’s right back in her position against Anne’s chest, wrapping her arms snug against the girl’s waist. When Anne fails to protest, this time, Sasha smiles and snuggles closer into her side; she murmurs a shockingly-soft “goodnight,” and tilts her head up briefly to peck a kiss to the place where Anne’s jaw meets her cheek.
Anne feels her heart melt, all warm and gooey against her sternum, at the tenderness in Sasha’s words, her movement. It should be impossible, for a person to hold so much love, adoration; to feel so secure in it, to know her love is safe and sound, with someone she’s sure will never forsake it again. She brings her hand up to cradle the small of Sasha’s back, and lets her eyes drift shut.
The night is quiet once more. The only light comes from the faint glow of fungal colonies growing from cracks in the damp walls, the cave dusky and ethereal and dark. It’s balmy, almost stuffy, and the dense heat clings to the girls’ skin as they lay; but they don’t break their embrace, curled-up close to each other, breaths sounding in sync. As they settle in their positions, fingers carding through sweaty hair and curling against rough fabric, the room returns to how it was: still, secluded, peaceful. Finally, the two can rest.
After all, in the morning, they’ll still be there to pick up where they left off.