Work Text:
one.
There’s a scrawny blonde boy at the park, a black handprint wrapped around his forearm, and Carson can’t stop staring. It looks like paint at first, but the more Carson stares, the more she realizes it's just the way his arm is, the inky color almost shining when the sun hits it. She watches from the edge of the merry-go-round as he digs holes in the sandbox; stands with her hands on her hips and watches him awkwardly swing on the monkey bars, dropping down a foot in front of Carson once he crosses.
“I’m Charlie. Do you wanna go swing?” He asks, wiping his hands on his pants and grinning at Carson, one front tooth missing and causing a slight lisp.
Carson nods but doesn’t say anything, just follows the boy to the swings and hops up into one, pumping her tiny legs to send her flying higher and higher.
“What’s your name?” Charlie finally asks as they work into a rhythm on the swings, Charlie flying backward while Carson flies forward, only crossing the same place for a split second every time. She remembers her dad and her mom and even Meg telling her not to talk to strangers, but she looks around and can’t see any of them watching, and anyway, Charlie already told her his name, so he’s not a stranger anymore.
“Carson,” she finally says, waiting for that brief moment they pass the same space. And then, “What’s on your arm?”
Charlie slows his swing and leaps off, moving closer to where Carson’s still swinging back and forth. “It’s my soulmark,” he proclaims proudly, sticking out his arm for Carson to see. It’s all a blur as she speeds by, but she slows her movements until she's still and he steps closer to the swing.
“What’s a soulmark?” Carson asks, her fingers tightening on the chain of the swing. She wants to touch it, see if it feels any different than anyone else's arm.
"It's like something God tells you,” he says, and Carson nods along like she understands. “Mine’s the first place my soulmate will touch me."
"Soulmate?" Carson asks, curious. Her family goes to church every Sunday, just like everyone else, but she doesn't remember anyone saying anything about soulmates.
"The person you're supposed to marry," Charlie says, and then he tilts his head, squinting at Carson like he's confused about something. "Don't your parents have them?"
Carson shakes her head. Charlie keeps looking at her, confused, but then he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Maybe theirs are different than mine."
"Does it feel weird?"
"Nope," Charlie says, sticking his arm back out to Carson. "See?"
Carson untangles her fingers from the chain on the swing set and reaches out. She doesn't think about Charlie's words, about the meaning, just places her hand across the mark. It's bigger than her hand, but it feels just like the skin on her own arm. "Huh."
Charlie smiles when she pulls her hand back. "Let's go slide," he says, tangling his fingers with hers to tug her off the swing, and she lets herself be dragged along.
two.
Carson's mom wakes her in the middle of the night, and Carson sees tears shining in her eyes from the dim light of the lamp on her bedside table.
"Mom?" She asks, sitting up, confused. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, Carson," her mom says, cupping her cheek and smiling at her wistfully. "Please don't ever change."
"What's going on?"
"I hope you can forgive me one day, sweet girl," her mom says, leaning forward to kiss Carson's forehead. When she moves to switch the lamp back off, Carson notices the swipe of blue across her jawline.
She doesn't fall asleep again, and the next morning, after Meg reads the letter left on the kitchen table, Carson doesn't say a word.
three.
Seventeen years old and fresh out of the shower after a baseball game, Carson's brushing her hair in the mirror when she catches sight of it, a barely there streak of red on her neck, just behind her jaw. She grabs a rag, ready to wipe away the dirt she somehow missed in the shower, but the red doesn't budge no matter how hard she scrubs. Her heart stutter-stops against her ribcage as it all slots into place and she feels the panic bubbling in her gut with the weight of what it means.
Charlie's touched her hundreds of times since they've known each other, but never there. Never brushed her hair behind her ear. Never wound his fingers in her hair as he kisses her goodnight, hands remaining respectfully to himself.
She takes a deep breath and finishes getting ready, sliding bobby pins in to keep her hair out of her eyes, but curling the ends of her hair forward, careful to hide the faint red streak across her skin. She stares at herself in the mirror, looks for anything that might give her away, and thinks of her mom, blue across the line of her jaw, obvious even in the dim light of Carson's room in the middle of the night. Brilliant blue, years after marrying Carson's father, years after having her and Meg.
As her hands grip the edge of the sink, she thinks of the way she gripped Charlie's arm all those years ago on the playground, her tiny fingers splayed across the black mark on his arm, and tells herself it's fine. She's Charlie's soulmate; she's sure of it.
She's just not sure if Charlie is hers.
four.
She tells herself she's following them because they have a map. They're dressed in baseball gear, they have a map, and Carson's never felt more out of her element than she does in this city, so it only makes sense to follow them. She chalks the heat she feels rushing up her neck to the excitement over being so close to living her dream. Tells herself there's no reason why she flinches away every time the taller woman (whose name she still doesn't know) gets close enough to touch her.
It comes crashing down that evening, when Greta calls Charlie her guy, the words washing over Carson like a bucket of ice water to the face, so she stutters out some excuse and stumbles back to her room, opening her worn notebook immediately.
Dear Charlie -
There's something wrong with me and you deserve better.
Her pen hovers over the next line, thoughts a jumbled mess, and she starts and stops and starts again before slamming her pen down in frustration just as Jo and Greta waltz through her door. They're drunk - Jo still clinging to the flask they've been passing back and forth most of the night - and rambling on about her hair, of all things. She pulls at it self-consciously, making sure it covers the mark along her neck, but she can't seem to muster up an excuse to stop Greta's offer to give her a haircut.
Jo makes herself scarce after that and suddenly Carson's alone with Greta for the first time since they met. Her breath hitches as Greta's hand comes up to shield her eyes from the mister, hovering just close enough for Carson to feel the heat from her skin, but she still doesn't touch. Carson freezes, her entire body tense as Greta buries her elegant fingers in her thick hair, fingers millimeters from her neck and... oh.
Carson's entire body warms, a fire lit under her skin, and she sucks in a shaky breath, causing Greta to pause her movements.
"You okay, chickadee?" Greta asks, fingers flexing in Carson's hair, fingertips brushing Carson's neck yet again, like she’s completely unaware that she's just tipped Carson's entire world off its axis.
"Mmm...hmm," Carson says, swallowing hard with a slight nod, afraid of what might happen if she opens her mouth. She can see a hint of the mark in the mirror, practically glowing, brighter than it was before, and she remembers the brilliant blue shimmering across her mother's jaw all those years ago.
"You sure?" She brushes Carson's hair behind her ear, meeting Carson's gaze in the mirror as her thumb brushes intentionally over the mark.
Carson feels her skin buzzing and leans into the touch, not sure of anything at all.
five.
Charlie comes back.
Jo is gone. Carson and Greta are... Carson's not sure. Not really. But Charlie is here, and she's Charlie's soulmate, even if Greta is hers.
She pauses in the doorway, presses her fingers into her neck, skin burning under her touch, and feels everyone's eyes on her from the living room. She's rooted to her spot, but then Charlie takes a step closer and she does too, collapses in his arms, sinking under the weight of the last twelve hours, and buries her face into his neck. Someone cries - Carson thinks it's probably Maybelle - and Charlie steps back, holding her at arms' length, just looking at her. There's something different in his eyes, but Carson can't put her finger on it.
She catches sight of Greta out of the corner of her eye and turns to see her hovering in the doorway. Carson can see the words on the tip of her tongue, so she looks back at Charlie before Greta can say them, asking him if they can get out of there. She feels like she's drowning, caught in a riptide that is the man whose soulmate she's supposed to be and the woman who is hers.
Charlie orders breakfast for the two of them and it's only then that Carson realizes she is starving, having run on adrenaline and pure anxiety since the evening before. They sit on the edge of the bed, not touching, not speaking, and Carson doesn't know how to break the silence. She's never had a way with words, and this is wholly uncharted territory. Unconsciously, she touches her neck again, feels the comfort of the heat pulsing below her fingertips. If Charlie notices, he doesn’t say.
When the food arrives, Charlie rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, the black handprint wrapped around his forearm now shining in shades of green.
“Charlie,” she breathes out, and suddenly that look in his eyes back at the house makes sense. She wonders if it's the same look in her own these days.
He scrambles to pull his sleeves back down, eyes wide and panicked, as if he’d forgotten. “Carson, I-”
“It’s okay,” she says, reaching across the table for his hand. One hand clasped in his, she uses her other to tuck her hair behind her ear, tilting her head ever so slightly and showing off the mark that’s only ever been seen by Greta. “Tell me about him.”
+ one.
“Can I ask you something?” Carson asks, breaking the silence they've settled into after. She blushes as she thinks about after what, fingers tracing mindless shapes across Greta’s sternum, brushing just under the edge of her silk robe, their skin still hot and sticky with sweat. Greta’s fingers scratch gently at her scalp, mindlessly soothing her. Her fingers occasionally dip down in their path, brushing over the mark and setting Carson’s skin ablaze everytime.
“Anything,” Greta says, shifting to press a kiss to the top of Carson’s head. “What’s on your mind, chickadee?”
“Do you, um,” Carson pauses her movements and tilts her head, looking up at Greta’s face. “Do you have one? It’s okay, I mean, if you don’t, it doesn’t… I was just…”
“Do I have- oh!”
Greta quickly slips from under her without a word and Carson rushes to cover, mentally kicking herself for opening her mouth. It wasn't even important, really, and Greta always looked a little bit like she was half a foot out the door; she shouldn't have pushed. “Greta, I’m sorry,” she says, scrambling to sit up. She clutches the sheet to her chest, suddenly feeling far too exposed. "It's really okay, I don't-"
“Relax, Shaw,” Greta says with a grin, cutting her off. She leans down, fingers gripping at Carson’s chin to pull her up, meeting her with a kiss. “I’ll be right back.”
Greta pulls back slowly, nose brushing against Carson’s before she fully lets go, and Carson feels her racing heart slow to a moderately normal speed with the reassurances.
She watches as Greta fiddles with her makeup bag, returning with a cloth and her jar of cold cream, sitting next to Carson. Without a word, she spreads the cold cream on her arm and swipes at her skin with the towel, foundation streaking away. Carson sees a hint of black appear on her skin, and Greta works until the mark is fully visible: Carson’s name, scrawled in messy cursive that looks suspiciously like her own handwriting. Indelibly etched into Greta’s skin, just inside the crook of her arm.
"Greta…"
She reaches for it, looking at Greta for permission. Greta just laughs and nods, and Carson traces her fingers over it reverently, the mark below her fingers feeling electric and alive when she touches it.
"I’ve had it since I was seventeen," Greta says quietly, and Carson can't help but wonder if their marks appeared at the same time, on opposite sides of the country. She wonders what Greta was doing when Carson's name appeared on her arm; wonders if she panicked like Carson did. "I used to hate it," she continues with a laugh, and Carson can't begrudge her that.
"I thought it was the universe’s idea of a joke. I never wanted to keep a man and here I was with Carson etched into my skin," she says, her fingers tangling with Carson's as they both trace the looping letters, over and over. "I learned to use it like armour when I needed it, though. People… suspect… less when a name like Carson is right there for the world to see."
She moves her hand, presses a finger under Carson’s chin and tilts her head up to look at her. “Imagine my surprise when Little Miss Farm Girl checked in at tryouts and said her name was Carson.”
"Not from a farm," Carson huffs.
"I know, but you're so cute when you're indignant," Greta says, voice soft and dripping with adoration. Her thumb smooths over the crease between Carson's brows, down the slope of her nose, and across her bottom lip before tracing the same path with her lips, featherlight against her skin. "I love you, Carson."
"I love you, too," she says, her words more confident and sure than they've ever been, like they've said this a thousand times instead of for the first.
When Greta kisses her again, Carson can taste the smile on her mouth and knows it won't be the last.