Work Text:
The Princess Bride was one of the few movies that Marisol would defend until the day she died. Maybe it was cheesy and a bit dated, yes, but she’d willingly overlook that in favour of its familiarity, the certainty in the lines and quotes now etched into her mind, and the warmth and comfort it offered her.
And of course, there was Salem. With her, there was never that trepidation, that awkward fear of judgement when showing her movies (the agonising will-they-won’t-they of please like it ); she just sat, curled on the sofa as if a cat, watching with genuine intrigue and care. From where Marisol sat, eyes straying from the screen to her, she looked pretty damn perfect. Like a fairy tale, like the love interest that Marisol has always slightly wanted when she watched this type of film, always with a slight flicker of awkwardness and denial.
Well. Salem was here now. No denial in that.
Did she want this type of fantasy-esque romance with her? Kisses that ‘left all the others’ behind? Maybe. No harm in daydreaming. But there was also this calm, this steady, constant love that they’d seemed to have begun, each one an anchor for the other. How attractive Salem would look in Westley’s mask notwithstanding, this was perfect.
‘What’s on your mind, Mari?’ Salem gave a wry smile, her voice knowing and judicious.
‘Nothing, buttercup. Just thinking about you.’
As Marisol smiled, a small, introspective thing, they knew that the unspoken words between them, hanging in the air like Christmas lights, carried more weight than either of them wanted to voice. So they sat, close, watching the film as their presence lit the room.