Chapter Text
She’s at a bar, a little hole in the wall in Brooklyn with cracked vinyl booths tucked into dark corners and a lingering smell of cigarette smoke that lives in the air just as the Patrón lives on the top shelf. The bar is crowded but the energy is mellow as she sips on a whiskey rocks, condensation wetting her palm. Ice clinks as she throws it back, the watery remains of a double trickling a burning trail down her throat. She should rejoin the group, share in the camaraderie that comes from surviving a pandemic and a months long ratings slump; she should order another drink, something fruity that says I’m here to celebrate! and walk back to their table with a smile on her face but all she can think about doing is turning around, walking out the door, and hailing a cab. In 20 minutes she could be wrapped in flannel and down, watching shitty reality TV, and shooting the mini bottles of tequila she stole her last night at the Archer Gray. Her new place doesn’t feel like home yet, not that the Archer ever did. Come to think of it, she’s not sure if anywhere has felt like home in…years. Jesus .
“Another please,” she nods at the bartender, sliding a twenty across the bartop.
When a fresh tumbler of liquor finds its way in front her, she waves off the change. She takes a sip, then turns to retreat back to her table. She hears the tinkle of the bells tied to the front door over the 70s rock droning from the jukebox in the corner, and looks towards the sound.
And all at once there’s no air in her lungs and time slows, people around her moving as if through thick pools of molasses. There’s an uncomfortable flutter in her stomach and a burning in her chest and it’s because of the woman standing there, in the doorway, flurries of snow from outside slowly settling around her feet as the door swings closed.
Laura .
Her thoughts are racing yet her mind feels blank. And she’s staring, she knows it, but there isn’t a single earthly thing that could get her to stop. She looks beautiful, of course she does, in her elegant black coat, thick wool hanging to her calves and tied primly around her waist. Her hair is down, long and wavy and tucked behind her ears, flakes of snow clinging to a few dark strands framing her face. Bradley thinks she must have walked here, her cheeks rosy and the tip of her nose the slightest bit pink, a scarf wrapped twice under her chin. She always did love the snow.
Laura steps off to the side, still near the front door, and taps her boots free of slush, unravels her scarf. When she looks up, her eyes bounce around the room, searching, until suddenly they’re still, and Bradley finds herself looking directly into them. Scarf still grasped between gloved fingers, Laura stands near the “Please Seat Yourself” sign struck dumb. Everything fades to a dull glow around them, nothing quite in focus but the other woman’s face, the delicate rise and fall of her chest. In this moment, there is nothing but Laura, there is nothing but Bradley, and the wide breadth of space between them. They stay like this for minutes, maybe hours, until the jingling of bells and a rush of cold wind break the spell.
Bursts of laughter float through the air as the newcomers push their way in, forcing Laura to step back, melting into the crowd and obscuring her from Bradley’s view. She’s craning her neck, trying to track Laura’s movements as she floats through the room. But she’s lost her in the crowd now, can’t seem to pick out the deep red of her scarf or the glint of her raven hair under the edison bulbs, and it’s painful, having this connection between them severed so abruptly after so much time apart, and for no reason other than the natural ebb and flow of New York City foot traffic. Her throat is tight, and there’s a stinging behind her eyes. She’s holding her breath.
Damnit. God damnit.
She’s on her tiptoes, desperately searching, fighting a wave of tears she resents herself for even having when there’s a light touch at her elbow.
“Well, if it isn’t Bradley Jackson.”
Bradley jumps a bit at the nearness of that voice, low and rough and a bit breathless in her ear. A voice she’s denied herself the hope of ever hearing again. She turns to face her, gives a sad sort of smile.
“Yep. That’s me.” It comes out almost a whisper, breathy with disbelief, or maybe something like hope.
A calm silence falls, then, filling the arm’s length of space between them. Bradley’s eyes roam Laura’s face, still so familiar and dear after the passage of so much time. She takes in the familiar curve of her jaw, the blush gracing her high cheekbones, and the twin dimples on either side of her lips. Laura’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm beneath her layers of winter wool, and Bradley gets lost in the proximity of her body, the electric current crackling between them and the nervous energy filling her own stomach and chest. She can’t believe it, really, that Laura is there, in the flesh, just a breath away. She looks up and finds Laura gazing back at her, considering, analyzing, eyes soft and warm.
Bradley searches for words to string together, something appropriate, something neutral and safe to keep Laura standing there with her, something that isn’t I’m sorry or I’ve never stopped thinking about you or Do you miss me too? She settles for something simple.
“H-how have you been?”
And at that, Laura averts her eyes, looks down at her shoes, around the room, anywhere but Bradley’s face.
“Oh, you know. I’ve been fine.” She shrugs. “Busy.”
“Of course. Sure.” A pause. “Me too.” She tries for bright but it comes out a bit too shrill, a bit too tense for any of it to ring true.
How do you sum up months of your life to someone who used to know the every beat of your heart? How do you recap weeks when you never imagined going a day without them? Laura was there when her 3:30 AM alarm went off and was there to wrap her in flannel and hold her close as she drifted off each night. She knew what Bradley ate for lunch and the pitches she was working on with Gail and the color of the polish on her toes because she was the one who’d put it there. Now, standing there, they felt like familiar strangers, like the people they used to be were there somewhere in the same way a word is on the tip of your tongue but you can’t quite catch it, water slipping between spread fingers.
And they’re staring again, they both know it, but whatever they’re feeling, whatever is happening between them isn’t something either can put into words. There’s an urge to flee, run far to safety, protect their still fresh and tender scars from further injury, but even stronger is the need to stay, remain just inside the pull of the other’s gravity, hoping to resume a steady orbit somehow.
“Are you here with anyone?” Laura asks, glancing over Bradley’s shoulder.
“The TMS crew is at a table in the back.”
“Ah.” And something flashes behind Laura’s eyes at her answer. “Well…I wouldn’t want to keep you.”
And Bradley knows what’s coming next and knows she has to stop it, can’t let Laura turn in her designer heels and walk away from her without…trying. She learned that lesson once, she didn’t need to learn it again.
“It was nice—”
“What about you?” Bradley interrupts and she almost winces. Laura hates being cut-off. “Are you here with anyone?” And instead of a tight sigh, hackles up and furrowed brows, Laura smiles.
“Well, I was meeting a friend.”
“Was?”
“She just texted to cancel.” Laura holds up her phone as if for proof.
“Imagine standing up Laura Peterson ,” Bradley jokes.
“She wouldn’t be the first.” And Laura didn’t mean for that to be pointed, didn’t mean for it dredge up all that lies buried between them, didn’t mean for it to be anything, really, but once it’s out she registers Bradley’s flinch and the droop of her shoulders where the guilt has begun to settle in. She tries to change the subject, “I’ll probably just grab a drink and then head home.”
Bradley meets her eyes, searching for a short time. Then, tilting her head to the side, she gathers her courage and swallows down the bile rising in her throat and asks, “Would you, maybe, want some company? For that drink?”
Her face is bashful and rosy and hopeful and Laura can’t help but meet her question with a bright smile. “That sounds lovely.”
Bradley smiles back. “Okay. Great.”
There’s a pause where they’re standing there, crowd flowing around them like a river, smiling at each other like two teenagers with a crush.
Laura clears her throat, motions to the bar in front of them. “Can I…Can I get you a drink?”
Bradley smirks, gestures with her left hand, her voice soft, “I already have one.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Of course! Well then, I’ll just, well I’ll—”
And if Bradley didn’t know better, she would say that the flush on Laura’s cheeks is deeper now than it was a moment ago, that Laura is blushing, that Laura is flustered . The thought makes Bradley’s chest warm. Maybe this, the wreckage of what they had between them, the sharp and jagged pieces of it aren’t beyond salvaging. Maybe it’s worth it to try and pick the pieces up, risk cuts and bruises to search for them, collect them, and build something new, something stronger, less fallible. Maybe.
“Why don’t you find us a table and I’ll grab you a drink.” Bradley’s voice is warm and her free hand ghosts the side of Laura’s upper arm, reassuring, confident.
Laura tilts her head, questioning, a small smile plucking at the corner of her lips.
“But you haven’t taken my order yet.”
Bradley turns from Laura to signal for the bartender. “Sangiovese if they have it. Otherwise, a glass of the most expensive pinot they’ve got.”
Laura raises an eyebrow, smiles to herself. Bradley turns to look at her as the bartender makes his way over.
“What?”
And Laura smiles again, shakes her head. “Nothing. I’ll go find us somewhere to sit.”
There’s a gleam to Laura’s eyes as she turns to search for a table. Usually it’s Laura doling out instructions and showing off. Though, she muses, it’s been long enough that she probably doesn’t know Bradley’s “usual” anything anymore. This gives rise to a pang in her breastbone, melancholic and wistful for all the time they’ve spent apart, all the early morning cups of coffee and stolen afternoon kisses and late nights spent wrapped up in each other missed. Recently, Laura has realized that she’s been grieving not only their relationship, however brief and fragile it had been, but even more so her inability to remain a part of Bradley’s every day: cheering her on in her success, bringing comfort in her pain. The abrupt end to their relationship did not bring with it an end of her yearning to give Bradley a steady place to rest, safety she could trust. Laura knows what that’s like, to feel constantly off-kilter, to feel like nothing you do, no matter how hard you try, ever quite goes to plan, to feel like you’re going to jump out of your skin or maybe just disappear altogether, burn so hot and so fast that nothing and no one could save you. And Laura knows that somewhere, buried deep, she still wants to be the one to prove to Bradley that not only can she be saved, but that she is worth saving. And that actually no one needs to save Bradley at all. She can do it herself.
Laura finds an empty corner booth, the tabletop smooth and clean, the vinyl upholstery worn. She slides all the way in, untying her coat and wondering if Bradley will slide in too, if she’ll have a chance to shift closer, bump their knees together under the table, smell the whiskey on her breath.
“Pinot noir it is!” Laura startles as Bradley slips into the booth on the opposite side. “You should probably start frequenting more high brow places if you ever want to find that elusive glass of Percarlo.”
“Ah, but then I wouldn’t run into you.”
Bradley blushes in the dim light, sliding the wine glass across the table.
“What, you don’t think I could get into a swanky Manhattan restaurant?” She meets Laura’s gaze.
“Oh, I know you could,” Laura smiles. “Just isn’t your style.”
“Yeah? And what, exactly, is my ‘style’?” She puts air quotes around the word, leaning into Laura’s personal space.
“Well, if I remember correctly, your style is far more… fun than those stuffy Michelin star restaurants allow.”
Bradley laughs, rolls her eyes. “Cheers to that.”
Their glasses clink and they each take a sip. Bradley lets her drink linger near her mouth, not quite confident in where to go next. What do you say when the one person you’ve wanted to talk to for months is finally sitting in front of you in designer trousers and a sweater that looks so soft you want to reach out and grab the fabric hanging near her wrist and then never let go?
Laura is the first to break the silence.
“So, is the TMS gang celebrating anything in particular this evening?”
“Not really.” She shrugs. “It feels like most things deserve celebrating these days.”
Laura gives her a soft smile. “They do.”
There’s a pause. Bradley taps her fingertips against the side of her tumbler, weighing the risk of her next words. She keeps her eyes on her glass.
“I hadn’t heard you were back.” It comes out soft and low.
Laura can see the tension in her shoulders, feels a sadness tugging in her chest at the way Bradley can’t seem to meet her eyes. She wants so badly to reach over and touch her, smoothe her palm across her back in slow circles, maybe even apologize—for what, she doesn’t know.
“I haven’t been back long,” she says instead.
Bradley nods, her eyes still trained on the chipped glass of whiskey in her hand. “I’m glad. That you’re back. That it’s safe for you to be back, I mean.”
And now it’s Bradley’s turn to be flustered, to feel like she can’t quite string the right words together. And Laura can’t take her eyes off her. She can’t stop herself from reaching out, then. She touches Bradley’s pinky, wrapped tightly around her drink.
“Hey.”
Bradley looks first at Laura’s fingers delicately resting on her own, then meets her eyes.
“I wasn’t—I mean…,” Laura sighs. “I wanted to call. I just…didn’t know if that was something you wanted.”
And Bradley’s eyebrows furrow together, eyes big and wet staring back into Laura’s as she shakes her head, disbelief clear on her face.
“Call.” She said. “Call…anytime. Please.” And now she’s almost whispering, begging, “Please call.”
Laura peels Bradley’s hand away from her drink, holds it in her own.
“Yeah?”
Bradley nods.
“Okay.” Laura squeezes her hand.
Bradley purses her lips together in that way she has, trying to stifle something—emotion or words, it’s hard to say which—then laces her fingers with Laura’s, squeezes back. And it’s been so long since they’ve shared the same space, since Laura has been close enough for Bradley to reach out and touch that it’s intoxicating, here and now, holding her hand. And she can’t help but recall the last time they were together, really together, before public family outbursts and failed rehab stints and global lockdowns, Bradley had felt warm. Deep in her stomach and down to her toes, she felt it.
She had rolled over in Laura’s linen sheets and found an arm draped around her waist, heavy and soft, as the first timid rays of daylight poked through gauzy curtains. Slack fingers brushed bare skin at the small of her back with every inhale and Laura’s soft exhales tickled the tip of her nose. Still asleep, her face was peaceful, no creases of worry or the furrowed brow of deep and serious consideration. There were only smile lines and the shallow divots of crow’s feet and a single stray eyelash clinging to a high cheekbone. Bradley smiled, small and crooked and close-lipped, lifting a hand to catch it. Instead, she found herself cupping Laura’s cheek, holding her, thumb brushing back and forth just beneath the fallen lash. Then, a hand covering hers.
“Mmmm. What are you doing?” Eyes still closed, voice rough with sleep but gentle with affection.
And it was there she felt it again, the warmth, buzzing in her head and raising goosebumps across her arms. Laura laced their fingers together, her palm covering Bradley’s hand still resting against her own cheek, and slowly blinked her eyes open. She smiled.
“You have an eyelash,” Bradley said softly, thumb rubbing the side of Laura’s pinky.
“Okay,” she whispered back, grip tightening on Bradley’s hand. She smiled, lazy and warm, hazel eyes never leaving Bradley’s just a breath away.
There was a scoff from Bradley, an eye roll, and that warmth again, filling her every pore, every cell. She was full to bursting of a feeling she’d believed her entire life was a myth, a legend, a lie people told themselves to make it easier to settle for the type of life Bradley has been running from for as long as she can remember. And yet, there it was, sitting in her chest and tingling her fingertips and pumping through her veins.
Her eyes began to feel full and watery, and it was all too much, so she untangled her fingers from Laura’s and scooped up the dark and delicate lash from a rosy cheek. She held it out to her, like a child displaying the day’s craft from school, proud and smiling, waiting for a reaction.
“Go on then,” Bradley said. “Make a wish.”
Laura’s eyes moved between the eyelash offered up to her on Bradley’s delicately manicured finger and the playful look on her face. She couldn’t help but give a gentle smile, a contented sigh.
“You know, at present, there’s not much I need to wish for.”
And Bradley stilled at that. She didn’t flinch or tense, but Laura could sense that Bradley had slowed, her energy less buzzing and bright. And then she was staring at Laura, right into her eyes, almost as if she was searching for something—a hint of a joke? Sarcasm? Confirmation that Laura couldn’t mean those words earnestly, truthfully, not really. She was sizing Laura up with those big doe eyes, something Laura was used to watching her do to others, something she loved seeing Bradley do—cut someone to the quick with her steady gaze, uncover weaknesses and points of pride and common ground all in the span of a breath. But Laura wasn’t so used to being on the receiving end of that gaze, not like this, not anymore. Not in a questioning, disbelieving sort of way. Not in a please-don’t-joke-about-this-becuse-I-don’t-think-I-could-bare-being-the-butt-of-this-particular-joke sort of way. Not since Vegas had Bradley questioned her quite like this. So, Laura gave her softest smile and reached over to grab hold of Bradley’s wrist, tender and gentle, and guided the offered lash still on her fingertip towards Bradley’s lips, as if to say, No, you.
Eyes still trained on Laura, Bradley slowly shook her head from side to side, lips twitching at the corners, exhaling deep. Laura smiled, big and bright, and then Bradley wass suddenly flush against her, hands cradling her face, their teeth clicking against each other through a wet kiss, and then another, unable to stop smiling. Bradley nipped at Laura’s lower lip then, and the kisses shifted from playful to tender, a pot on low, simmering, just on the verge of boiling. They kissed long and slow, tongues dipping in and out of mouths, hands wandering but always in an attempt to pull each other closer, always closer.
Time passed and their rhythm naturally slowed, long lip locks becoming brief pecks, until Bradley brushed her lips against the corner of Laura’s mouth like the sweetest sort of punctuation mark, a cherry on a sundae, the first warm breeze of spring, and Laura smiled. Their foreheads met, resting firm against each other. Eyes still closed, a silence fell around them, wrapping them up in the moment like a gauzy blanket fresh from the dryer. Laura nuzzled Bradley’s nose. And it’s like she was on fire, burning from the inside out with this feeling she’s never had, doesn’t quite know what to do with. And she felt Laura’s breath against her cheek and the scent of her shampoo, rich amber and peony, wafting across the pillow and suddenly Laura’s fingers found hers amidst the tangle of sheets, soft and strong, and squeezed her own. She opened her eyes.
“Hi,” Bradley breathed out, a smile as soft as her whisper creeping up to her eyes.
“Hello.” Laura returned her greeting and her grin.
And the warmth of it all overwhelmed her, her eyes glassy again.
“I think…um…I mean…I think that…” She stuttered, then paused, suddenly flustered.
Laura leaned back, just a bit, giving herself enough space to take in Bradley’s expression. Her brows knit together. “What is it?”
The question was gentle and open in a way she’s not sure anyone has ever cared enough to use when asking her something. But that’s who Laura is. She’s gentle and open, passionate and so beautifully kind. She’s a caretaker in the way that Bradley is a fighter: naturally, inherently, completely. And Bradley had noticed that, lately, it had felt like she might not have to fight quite as frequently or as tirelessly against everyone and everything when Laura was around. And her spare moments were all full of Laura—early dinners in her kitchen over fancy French red Bradley tried to pronounce for the sole purpose of hearing Laura laugh; post-it notes left on the handle of the coffee pot for her to find each morning (Have a great day, honey. or Break a leg! or You’ve got this interview, Bradley. Go kick-ass. I’ll be watching.) ; Sunday mornings spent in bed with dark coffee and the crossword and sex so tender Bradley feels tears prick her eyes; texts between meetings (Good show this morning. You nailed that filibuster reform piece. Proud of you. xoxo or Do you have time for lunch between meetings? I was going to order in to my office if you’d like to join me. or I’ve never seen a turtleneck look quite so erotic.) ; nodding off with her head nestled in Laura’s lap on weeknights and the gentle way she always wakes her, long fingers combing through her hair, nails scratching her scalp just a bit, and cooing, “Honey, it’s time for bed.”
She’s a safe place for Bradley to land each day and shed her armor, a place to pause, however briefly, this losing battle she had adopted as her own (to rid the world of cruelty, to offer a voice to those ignored, and to protect everyone good from those that do bad, even if that means protecting them from herself). Bradley comes to Laura each day and lays at her feet, bare skin and soft edges, and is allowed, finally and blessedly, to simply be . And she’s never had that before. And maybe that’s why she never believed in this feeling.
“It’s just that I think that…”
And the rest came out in a rush, like she was throwing the words at Laura and hoping to god she’d catch them, wouldn’t drop them, wouldn’t let them fall and shatter like porcelain on the hardwood floor.
“I’m in love with you.”
She exhaled a small little laugh at herself, at the situation, at the timing, at how absolutely mundane this moment would look from outside when it is anything but.
“Oh.”
Laura was breathless, speechless. Her throat tight with an emotion she couldn’t quite place and her eyes wet as she reached for Bradley’s hand again, squeezed it tight.
“I love you. So much.” A tear fell down her cheek and then it was Bradley who couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
She pulled free from Laura’s grip and reached for her face with both hands, her palms soft and warm against damp cheeks. She brushed her thumbs back and forth, wiping Laura’s tears. They break eye contact only when Bradley leans in to press her lips against Laura’s, sweet and gentle.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against Laura’s again, eyes cast down, hands still cradling her jaw, and whispered through tears of her own, “Okay.”
“Okay.” Laura exhales. They both smiled.
And here, now, again, Bradley’s chest is heavy with that warm feeling. She’s probably never been without it, she realizes now, during the bleak months they’ve spent apart; she’d just buried it deep, in the same place she used to hide her career aspirations, where she still hides the guilt over killing a child, killing Hannah, not being enough to save her brother, guilt that should never be hers to carry but she shoulders anyway.
Laura squeezes Bradley’s hand one more time, then releases it, clears her throat.
“Another drink?” Laura asks, nodding in the direction of Bradley’s empty glass.
And suddenly Bradley is nervous, worried that the moment that just passed between them, that the hand holding and practically begging Laura to call was all too much, that Laura was only offering another drink in order to get away from her, even for the briefest of time. God, she was always coming on so strong, can never have a normal interaction without wearing every needy little emotion on her sleeve. It’s exhausting. So, she gives her an out.
“I’m not keeping you?”
“From an evening alone in my dusty apartment? Please.”
“Dusty?”
“Like I said, I haven’t been back long.”
Laura looks Bradley in the eyes then, and Laura doesn’t do anything by accident, takes only purposeful actions in work and life, so when she holds her gaze just a beat longer than expected, Bradley knows she is telling her something, knows she is saying more than the face value her words carry. She’s saying, Trust me. So Bradley does.
“Sure, another drink sounds great.” She smiles up at Laura as she rises.
“I’ll surprise you.” She winks and then she’s sauntering away, heels clicking on hardwood.
And Bradley is warm. Bradley is in love.