Work Text:
Crisp grass brushed by the early touch of frost crunched beneath Moira Linton's feet. Every year, when the chill of Winter set in, Moira grumbled to herself about the place they had chosen as their meeting spot.
Only ever to herself, though; never out loud. And never with much in the way of vigour or sincerity either.
Truthfully, the heaths were as beautiful in Winter as they were in Summer, just in a different sort of way. Up here, there were no demands upon them, for they had never seen another soul in all the times they had met up.
They could be alone and happy — or something approaching it, at least — in these hours away from the lives they were expected to build.
In all the times they had met, each time Moira made the walk from the road to the spot by the tree they always met beneath, an irrational fear — for even she was allowed the occasional one — that Catherine wouldn't come caught hold of her. The worry that this would be the time that Catherine chose to end their time together grew greater until she reached the tree and could know for sure that those fears were wrong once more.
And this time, just as all those before, amongst the ice-tinted late afternoon, Moira was just as relieved to see her fears were unfounded. The last of those concerns melted away beneath the smile that Catherine seemed to keep just for her.
Catherine had stopped smiling genuinely at school for a while; their years in the upper forms had been tarnished by a dreadful masquerade that Catherine had put on; complete with a simpering smile that left no-one feeling as comforted or at ease as Catherine thought it did.
Moira learnt years after, once the Catherine she remembered crept back out, that it had been the influence of family and church squashing Catherine into someone more befitting of who they wanted her to be.
"You're early," Moira said, for she could never be a person who started a conversation with sentiment and heartfelt greetings.
"And you're exactly on time." Catherine never seemed to mind, though, for she had long known who Moira was. How she was.
Catherine was firmly wrapped up in her thick winter coat, warding off the cold further with a scarf and gloves. The Winter did little for facilitating physical affection, either; an expression which Moira found a little easier than affection through words. In the warmer months, it was much easier to allow fingers to brush against one another before hands slipped together as one, or arms linked or eased around another's waist.
Winter did, however, have the decided advantage of huddling closer together being altogether desirable in an effort to ward off the cold.
It took a moment for them to get to that point; no matter how often they met here. Seconds, then a minute, before Catherine held out her hand in offer.
And one second more before Moira accepted.