Work Text:
The first time you ever found yourself alone with Moira was fleeting, —but it’s a moment you’ll never forget. You were a new addition to her research team, still a newbie barely able to navigate the twisting halls of the lab’s building, a rather sudden replacement for a worker you’d heard had gone missing amongst the turmoil of the outside world. It wasn’t unusual given the chaos that waged on endlessly; but it was unnerving to fill their shoes.
Moira wasn't particularly sensitive to that, but she provided you with a sense of comfort, though she likely didn't know it. She was formidable in spite of her slender build, —a woman made of sharp angles with a stare that could turn enemies to ash. She moved with the kind of grace and precision you'd expect from a noble, always with an air of elegance about her that positioned her a cut above the rest. Her staggering height made her a sight to behold, with fiery locks to match her often scorching personality. Either you got along with her, or you found somewhere else to work. . . The laboratory was her castle, and it was in the best interest of everyone else to stay far out of her way.
You were particularly good at that. Matching her strides was an impossible feat, both physically and within a work setting, so you learned how to tiptoe around all of her imaginary boundaries. Though she didn't seem keen on acknowledging it, a part of you really liked to think she took note of it. . . Took note of you, like you were special.
She frightened you, but all the same, she intrigued you, —pulling you deeper into her waters with nowhere to seek refuge but in her arms. Maybe that's the way she wanted it.
Dancing around her proved to be the easy part. It wasn't until you were alone with her that you truly recognized how masterful a force she really was.
Moira often stayed late, even for days at a time, sneaking away to the break room for a few hours rest before others made their way to work. No one else on the team was quite so dedicated, —yourself included. You weren't opposed to working overtime, and you often stayed an hour or so past your typical shift to wrap up notes or finalize projects. But it boiled down to very little in comparison to Moira’s never-ending cycle of work and repetition. That night, overtime would have been an understatement. It was edging on midnight as you scribbled away, comparing a week's worth of well-taken notes, weighing formulated hypotheses against the true results at hand.
The lab had been empty for quite a while, even Moira nowhere to be found. You chalked it up to luck. When she arrived, however, you're not sure you would have ventured to call it unlucky. She stood in the entryway, her lithe frame outlined in the contrasting light from the hall just outside.
"I thought I might find someone else here," she said, —no discontent noticeable in her tone.
It was an observational statement more than anything else, but you couldn't help feeling that you were intruding on time never meant for you to take up.
"Sorry," you apologized, "I'll wrap up quickly."
Keeping yourself together was none too easy a task that night. Moira seemed indifferent to your presence on the surface, but you feared overstaying your welcome. Your heart thundered away in your chest, loud enough to make you think it was trying to escape your body. Loud enough to fear that Moira might hear it from several feet away.
"No need for apologies," she assured you, brushing your concerns away like they were nothing. "It's just not often I find someone else lingering in the lab so late."
You swallowed down another apology as it crept up the back of your throat, scared that repeating yourself would only prove to annoy her. If nothing else, you knew Moira was the type of person you'd much prefer to stay on good terms with; so the prospect of upsetting her was something akin to horrifying.
She continued as she made her way across the room in long strides, shoes tapping against the pristine floor in rhythmic clicks. Even the way she walked was entrancing, as if every step she took was perfectly planned. As much as she intimidated you, Moira captivated you all the same.
“Between you and I, I’d much rather you be here than any of them,” she said unabashedly, busying her hands with a half-filled beaker not far away.
This was likely the closest Moira would ever get to engaging in idle workplace chatter or gossip, though you struggled to call it the latter given her pointed delivery. She spoke like she was plainly uttering another lowly fact of the universe, not throwing subtle shade toward her fellow colleagues (you excluded, apparently.)
You said nothing in reply, but she didn’t seem to mind. Where others might have been uncomfortable with your silence, she simply moved along, plucking another test tube off the desk before her to examine it in her hands. Even the way she held objects was done with such an air of refinement. Her long, slender fingers wrapped around the glass with a surprising amount of care, those long, ever-purple nails jutting past the tips.
A prolonged period of silence followed, your eyes often drifting to the place she stood. It wasn’t the first time you’d ever noted her appearance, but there was something about her tonight that really stole your breath away. With her typical lab coat draped over the back of her chair, she was left in an ill-fitting white button up and a pair of tightly fitted black pants. Shirt loosely tucked in and the two top buttons undone, paired with hair slightly messy and much less styled than you were used to seeing her with, —you couldn’t help but gawk a bit. She was so effortlessly attractive that it made your heart throb.
Moira caught sight of your gaze, but didn’t seem perturbed by it. She made no mention of it, instead asking: “Do you mind if I light a candle?”
“No,” you quickly shook your head in reply, “not at all.”
Even if you did mind, it’s not like you would have said it. Still, she seemed pleased enough by your response and took you at your word.
“I prefer to work under the right ambiance,” she explained. “Scents that stimulate the brain and an atmosphere adequate for concentration.”
There was even something special about the way she lit the wick of the candle that sent shivers across your body.
“Violet and sandalwood,” she pointed.
The little flame seemed to move in time with her, as if even nature had no choice but to subjugate itself to her will.
You didn't say it, of course, but the idea that Moira would care about something as simple as the scents surrounding her came as a surprise. Such a mundane thing crossing the mind of someone so ingenious seemed. . . Jarring, almost.
Still, it was demystifying in its own right. Moira often came across as so robotic that you tended to forget she was even human, and subsequently, it often slipped your mind that she might pay just as much attention to the smaller novelties of life as anyone else. Her grand ideas often outweighed her sense of humanity, but in the moment, it was all too easy to catch a glimpse of her gentler, more everyday nature.
“It’s nice,” you said softly when the wafting scent began to properly fill the room.
For such a small candle, it was particularly potent. Hints of musk from the sandalwood were accented by the lighter scent of floral violet, creating a lovely harmony. It crossed your mind, if only briefly, that it was a nice allegory for you and her. . . Moira, perhaps a bit cruel at times; certainly the deeper of the two. Someone difficult to understand, but all too easy to be intrigued by. And then there was you, —not necessarily passive, but much more adaptable than the former. Softer and likely kinder, but a standout in your own right.
“I’m glad you think so.”
Really, Moira just seemed glad to be in like-minded company. All too often she had been subjected to the harsh criticism of others, —criticism of her personality, of her methods, of her appearance, even. But you looked at her like she was something to behold, and not in the monstrous way that she’d become far too accustomed to. She got the sense that you saw her for what she truly was: a woman of science. Nothing more, nothing less.
Working in silence with her was surprisingly pleasant. If she caught sight of the peeks you stole at her in between notes, she didn’t make any mention of it. It really couldn’t be helped though, —especially when she ran those long, slender fingers through her hair, pushing loose strands away from her forehead. God, she was so pretty when she moved like that, when she leaned over her desk and her back arched ever so slightly.
You stayed much later than you ever planned, gaze flickering between the work at hand and her. It was teetering on two in the morning when Moira finally stood herself upright again, announcing that she needed to tend to the live test subjects a few rooms over. She didn’t explicitly invite you to come along, but the implication was certainly there. . . Still, you didn’t have the nerve to follow, nor did you have the guts to ask her to stay with you in the main lab, as if sitting with you in majorative silence for another hour would really prove to be useful in the slightest.
You went home that night with a lot on your mind.
—
Moira invited you to drink with her a few weeks later, hoping to vent some of her frustrations over glasses of whiskey. The past few days had been none to kind to her, leaving her exhausted and a thread away from snapping. It was clear by the subtle bags under her eyes that sleep had been all but eluding her, and her brows seemed permanently creased that night as you sat across from her, listening to every word that spilled past her lips.
“It’s infuriating,” she practically growled, tipping her head back to swallow some more of the amber liquid down with startling ease. “I couldn’t care less if they like me or not, —but halting my work like this is making me think they’re all more trouble than they’re worth.”
It wasn’t hard to see why she was so upset. Conflicts were common in the lab, especially when it came to Moira’s methods, (which were admittedly unethical on a number of occasions) but nothing had ever gotten this bad. At least, not since you’d been working under her, anyway.
One argument had led to another, and before Moira knew it, she was being pulled aside by a number of the high-ranking personalities, all of which seemed to agree that she was the one in the wrong. And maybe she was, but you still couldn’t respect the underhandedness of your colleagues. In fact, you struggled to even refer to them as such in the aftermath, and your loyalty to Moira made you the target of hapless gossip amongst them rather quickly. For such well-educated individuals, they hadn’t a clue how to whisper, and it was frankly embarrassing beyond words.
“They’re certainly making a show of it all,” you quipped, taking a cautious sip of alcohol just to see what the flavor was like.
“You’ve noticed it too then?” Moira questioned, reaching out to place one of her steady hands on your thigh.
The touch was nothing more than a casual gesture, but it set your heart aflame. She was so painfully unaware of what she did to you, —how she made your pulse stutter, how she invaded your thoughts at the most inopportune times. Her heterochromatic eyes glistened under the pale laboratory lighting, her fine, white coat slipping off her angular shoulders.
“It’d have been more shocking if I hadn’t, honestly,” you answered. “The things I’ve overheard the past two days have been completely ridiculous, and I’m almost convinced they’ve wanted at least one of us to catch wind of it. Either that or they’re so completely incompetent that they probably shouldn’t be working here in the lab to begin with.”
Moira chuckled at your bold reply. It was the first time she’d ever heard you speak your mind in such an unfiltered way, —and she liked it. There was a certain zest to your annoyance, one that she sort of wanted to sink her teeth into just to see how far they’d go; like the fangs of some supernatural creature of the night.
You love it when she laughs like that, but it’s a sound you’re not often privy to. It’s low and leathery, if a little cruel from time to time, and it’s nothing short of music to your ears.
“It’s one thing to disagree with my methods,” she noted. “I’m not naive to the morals of most people, nor do I deny that I don’t tend to stick to the unspoken roles they set for us as people of science. But really, they’re grasping for straws at this point. Questioning what I do in my personal life is a bridge we need not cross.”
Your eyes widened. Of all the things you’d overhead, nothing had been speculation into Moira’s personal affairs. That was a dangerous line to toe, —even for you, and you’d venture to say you were on quite pleasant terms with her.
“I hadn’t realized they’d gone that far,” you noted. “Talk about inappropriate. . .”
Moira liked the way you don’t pry into the details of what they were saying, and swiftly rewarded you with the information she assumed you were itching for. It involved you anyhow, so she reasoned it as killing two birds with one stone.
“A curious rumor, certainly,” she said, “that you and I are secret lovers rendezvousing in the lab when everyone else has gone home.”
You couldn’t help the way your face dropped. Unlike Moira, you often wore your emotions on your sleeve, and if not for her being so out-of-tune with her own, you’ve long feared she just might have picked up on your little crush. She snickered a little at your reaction, taking another drink before she spoke again.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she remarked. “Is the idea of it really so sinister?”
She was joking with you, and you knew that. No matter what way this ended, —you were winning. But you found yourself looking away in shame, as if Moira could see right through you and into the deepest recesses of your mind where you’d agreed to bury your feelings for her the minute they began to sprout. Searching for a way to prolong the inevitable reply you’d have to muster up eventually, you tipped your head back and let the glass of whiskey she’d poured you slide down your throat.
“I was just surprised,” you said finally. “I hadn’t expected anything like that to come up in their conversations.”
Ever one for being cruel in subtle ways, Moira had to admit that she liked the way you squirmed around the question. She leaned in just a little closer, as if tempting you to make a move. You could have sworn you saw her gaze dip down to your lips for a moment before returning to your eyes.
“I was quite flattered, really,” she admitted. “It was nice to know they thought I could have managed wrapping someone like you around my finger.”
God, if you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought she was flirting. Your heart was left a throbbing mess, and in a moment of complete and utter weakness, —you kissed her.
It was quick and Moira had little time to return the gesture before you forced yourself away, realization washing over you like a tidal wave. You wished you’d had a bit more to drink, maybe to drown out the hurt from the rejection that followed, or maybe just to have given you the nerve to pull her back in for more.
“I-I’m sorry,” you stuttered, “I’m really sorry, Moira, I didn’t—”
You cut yourself off, uncertain of what to say. She didn’t seem angry and she hadn’t pushed you away, but you could feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over your lashes.
She cleared her throat, tugging her lab coat up and pulling herself to her feet.
“There’s some tasks I should be attending to,” she explained, although you didn’t really buy that completely. “I’ve got another bottle, so feel free to drink as much as you like.”
Watching her walk away was hurtful, but you couldn’t muster up the courage to ask her to stay. Even if you had, you’re sure the right words wouldn’t have come out anyway. You downed some more whiskey at Moira’s approval before making your way home, —fighting tears back the entire way.
—
Nothing much changed after you kissed her. If the taste of whiskey on her sweet lips hadn’t seared itself into your memory, you just might have convinced yourself it was a dream. Moira never broached the topic, and you were scared that doing so yourself might upset whatever semblance of balance you’d been able to find within your tattered relationship with her, —so you simply left it alone. Maybe that wasn’t the right way to go about things, but all you were really certain of at the time was that you didn’t want to lose her. And if that meant you could only love her from a distance and keep yourself at arm's length from her as a colleague, then you were going to have to learn to be okay with that.
That was a lot easier said than done, though. . .
She invited herself over to your quaint little apartment about two weeks later, insisting that comparing notes would make for a smoother transition onto the next stage of your largest project yet. You didn’t really understand why that couldn’t be done in the lab after hours, —but you didn’t feel you were in the position to be questioning her after all that had happened.
“Would you like some tea?” You inquired, “—Or coffee, maybe?”
You didn’t have much to offer in terms of snacks, unless she was keen on eating some (likely stale) saltine crackers or a (likely freezer burnt) frozen waffle. It wasn’t often that you had guests over, so your hospitality game was sorely lacking, but Moira didn’t seem to care much one way or the other. She declined your offers for a drink, instead making herself at home on your worn-down sofa, placing a binder full of notes on the cheap coffee table you’d purchased not too long ago.
As she waited for you to join her, she rested her back against the faux leather, crossing one long, slender leg over the other. Even doing something as mundane as sitting, she looked so refined and elegant, —like she was posing for a magazine photoshoot. Maybe you were giving her too much credit, but looking at her in that position made you yearn for her all the more, though you knew very well you couldn’t have her. Not then.
The best you could offer her was to light a candle, —so that’s what you did. It was the only thing you could do to make the impromptu meeting in your home feel less stuffy.
“That scent,” she said not long after, breathing in deeply to catch the rich undertones of the aroma, “is that violet and sandalwood?”
You were almost hoping she wouldn’t notice. Candles weren’t something you ever felt the need to keep a stock of back at home, but after she had lit that one of the same scent all those nights ago, you found yourself seeking out the feelings she evoked back then on that fateful night. Eventually, you invested in a few violet-sandalwood candles, and you’d burned up one within a span of three weeks, so they clearly weren’t going to waste.
“Uh, yeah, it is,” you nodded in confirmation. “If you don’t like it, I can always just blow it out.”
You reached for it preemptively, only for Moira to catch your wrist in her grip. It was a bit rough at first, but she quickly loosened it as if suddenly recognizing her own strength.
“I like it,” she assured you firmly, her eyes practically shouting out you remembered.
Moira wasn’t really one for sentiments, but that touched her. It made her already confusing feelings for you all the more complicated.
Her thumb glided gently over the skin of your wrist, —a silent apology for having grabbed at you so crudely just before. You practically gulped as she moved closer, thinking there was no way you weren’t misunderstanding something. But all your worries were put to bed the moment her lips captured yours, —so fervent and tender. It was so sudden that it left you delirious, but you didn’t dare to pull away. That first kiss with her had haunted you in a number of ways, but you could never forget the comfortable slide of her mouth as it fitted itself against yours.
In that way, Moira wasn’t much unlike everyone else. She had a gentler side that you didn’t often get to see, but when it briefly came out to play you liked to bask in every moment of the glory it waged.
When she finally pulled away, clearing her throat as if doing so would restart the moment entirely, she was back to her usual self. And you, as you so often did, found yourself being swept along by her ocean, letting her pull you out into the middle of her sea.
The sun had long since set by the time she felt you’d gone over enough for the time being. It was late, and you thought so sincerely about asking her to stay for the night, but the fear of pushing things too far and shattering the illusion left you clammed up, offering her little more than a small wave and a tiny smile at the door.
—
She was back in your apartment the next night, her hands all over you, exploring wherever they pleased. Moira regarded you like some kind of porcelain doll, —as if squeezing too hard might leave you in pieces. That was the gentlest you’d ever known her to be. Her lips trailed like fallen petals across your open skin, so warm and thoughtful. You’d been putty in her hands the moment you stepped inside.
And then you laid alone, Moira sat on the side of your bed. Her bare back bore the remnants of your excitement, and a part of you thought it might be best to apologize for marking her up like that, —but another couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad about it. If nothing else, it was proof that she’d been here, like this, with you. . .
You watched her slide her slim, lengthy arms inside her white dress shirt, fiddling carefully with the buttons before rising to her feet. Under any other circumstances, you’d have been sure to look away, but you couldn’t imagine she’d care much about what all you’d see of her then after what had just happened on your mattress. For the millionth time, reaching out crossed your mind. You considered the possibility that reaching out, pulling her in, kissing all the apprehension away, might ease her enough to let her sleep next to you (if only for the night.)
Yet again though, you couldn’t find the courage to go through with it. Despite what had just happened, you feared that the gap between you and her was gaping all the same, —maybe even more so now than it was before.
Resigning yourself to silence, your gaze traced along every curve of her body, memorizing every detail you could get your sights on. As you watched her fully redress, you thought about the sharpness of her, —in both body and personality. You thought about the softer nooks and crannies she had to offer, about how she’d managed to swallow all your anxieties whole only to regurgitate them right back into the festering pit of your stomach.
Words itched at the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken into the air. If you could just talk to her, everything would be okay. . . Right?
Somehow, you doubted it. Falling for her was one thing, but her loving you in return was another. And being in an actual, committed relationship with her was yet another. But fuck you wanted it, —wanted her late nights and her early mornings, every drowsy afternoon and hyperactive midnight. You wanted to catch all the murmurings just under her breath, wanted to be the only one at the lab who could slink up behind her and press kisses to her temple without getting ousted in a second.
You just wanted her to think you were special.
And she did. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have been there at all. . . But one night cut completely short just wasn’t enough, and you began to worry that nothing would ever be enough when it came to Moira. It’s not as if you could crawl inside her skin and be with her at all times, —but the thought of it was nice somehow. The idea that she wanted it just as badly as you was exhilarating.
Still, you remained silent as she ran her fingers through her hair. You sat up as if to get a better view of her in all that she was, holding your blanket up to your bare chest. Moira glanced back then, knowing all too well what you wanted to say. A part of her even yearned for you to do it, even if she hadn’t figured out how to answer it. She didn’t want to hurt you, —someone younger, smaller, and much less scorned. Roping you in would have consequences, and they were the sort of repercussions she wasn’t sure she’d be willing to let you face for her sake.
Even if you begged for it.
You were in her hands then, like one of her trembling lab rats.
“Moira. . .” you uttered softly, in a voice just barely loud enough for her to hear.
Please don’t go.
She looked your way, but avoided your eyes, as if she was scared of what she’d find there. She seemed nervous.
Please. . . Please don’t go.
In the end, you couldn’t find the strength to continue, and she didn’t press for a finish. Moira left without saying a word, the door closing softly behind her. Her kisses scorched your skin, invisible marks burning all across you in the wake of her absence. Maybe it was foolish to have assumed that she’d stay. . . Maybe it was foolish to have tried. But you suppose it couldn’t be helped.
—
It’s not that she’s been avoiding you since that night. No, she fills the same space she always has in the lab, —she speaks to you when it’s necessary, and you answer, because before anything else, you and she are scientists, and you know much too well that nothing matters to Moira more than her work. Not even you.
And you don’t expect her to care more about you than that. It’s her life’s work, —the craft she’s dedicated practically her entire existence to. She’s known you for three months tops, and just because you’ve come to feel so strongly for her in such little time doesn’t mean she’s in any way obligated to return it.
You’re a little hurt by the distance that’s plagued your relationship with her in recent days, but your feelings aren’t her responsibility. . . You know that. Still, you’d like the chance to just talk with her. Outside the lab, after hours, in a way that doesn't feel so forced and robotic.
When the rest of your colleagues have filtered themselves out of the office, you approach her. It’s clear you’re nervous by the way your hands shake, and while Moira would have found that increasingly amusing less than a week ago, it stings now in a way she doesn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” you say to her, voice low in spite of being alone with her, “can we talk?”
She knows what it’s about, but seeks to avoid it.
“No need,” she tells you, “your handwriting is neat, —leave your notes on the table and I’ll use them for further reference.”
“Moira—”
“I’m quite busy, actually,” she interjects, “and I work best alone.”
It’s a rare occurrence that Moira feels guilty, but her heart wanes at the sight of your dejected expression. She feels horrible for being the cause of this, but she’s just not ready. It’s only natural that you’d want to talk about it, but for once in her life, Moira’s at a complete and utter standstill. There are no alternatives, no ways of getting around this other than pretending it doesn’t exist, and for right now, that’ll have to do. She can only hope you understand her well enough to manage your expectations accordingly.
“Alright,” you mutter softly.
You’re gone before she has the chance to change her mind, like you’re running from the possibility itself. Holding back tears doesn’t quite go as planned, and you find yourself crying on the walk home. Evening winds nip at your skin, and when you reach your final destination, you decide you’re done trying to hold yourself together. Days of pent-up frustration, sadness, —even anger— burst forth, and you let it all wash over you. There’s almost something cathartic about it.
It’s your fault, really. . . Workplace relationships are a dangerous line to toe to begin with, and your silly little heart just had to go and choose her, didn’t it? The woman so devoted to her career that any relationship she’ll ever have will only prove to be an illicit affair. . . The woman who seems so intimidating, but is capable of caressing you in the way one might tread their fingers along novel pages in evening light. The woman who kissed you so deeply that it spurred your heart to new heights.
She’s horrible. And you’re in love with her.
Moira doesn’t find the sense of peace she’d been hoping for in your absence. The lab feels much too big now, —large enough to swallow her whole. It’s true that when it comes to love, Moira has often been indifferent to the ideal. Humans are curious, and she’s no exception. But you were so good at pressing all of her buttons, good and bad alike. You, with your innocent stare and that pleading look on your face, —the one she’s sure you didn’t even know you were wearing.
You, with the uncanny ability to slip under her skin and make her think about all the what ifs of her late night brooding sessions.
Burying herself in work doesn’t work quite go the way she’d hoped. Nothing stuck, and she avoided your notebook like a plague, worried that even seeing something of yours would throw her even harder off track. It was hours before she caved in, whipping herself around in spite of her better judgment. Edging on midnight, she sat herself down in your seat, —the one perfectly positioned for optimal Moira viewing throughout the workday. Ever the observant woman, she took note of such right away.
If you’d been there, she could only imagine the bashful look you’d take on, eyes flickering about, refusing to meet her own.
Your notes sit neatly on the table, but she disregards them for the moment, one arm covering the edge of the desk before resting her forehead against it. Moira was the type to keep her questionable decisions to a minimum, —but you were testing her patience.
“Grand,” she mumbles to herself, sarcasm dripping from her tongue.
With a heavy sigh, her keen eyes catch sight of something barely jutting out of your desk drawer. A candle, —violet and sandalwood— with a thin piece of twine wrapped around the top cover. A little gift tag hangs off of it, your handwriting scrawled along the off-white surface.
Saw yours was burning a little low. —Y/n
She didn’t have to ask nor wonder who it was meant for. Pulling it from the drawer, she twisted the covering off and breathed in deeply, nose barely nudging the wick. The exhale that followed was long, and all too sobering.
It’s late, but Moira has a sneaking suspicion you haven’t gone to bed just yet. Leaving her unfinished work for tomorrow, she places the candle’s lid back on, repositioning the twine and the tag before slipping it back into your desk, —closing the drawer fully this time. She thinks about what to say on the walk to your apartment, but by the time she stands in front of your door, all of the preparation has gone out the window and she resigns herself to the fate of winging it.
As she wraps her knuckles against the door, doing her best to keep it down, you perk up from inside. As expected, you’d yet to turn in for the night and were instead sitting on that worn-down sofa, nursing a pair of puffy eyes with a wet rag and sipping on some poorly brewed tea in between sniffles. The sudden knock left you flinching a bit, but you sat your tea on the coffee table nonetheless and made your way over to answer it.
Stealing a glimpse through the peephole, you knew that neckline like the back of your hand. In a way, you’d been expecting it to be her, but your eyes widened at the sight of her anyway.
“Moira. . .” you utter her name like a prayer when you slide the door open.
“Can I come inside?” She asks, and you all but stumble over yourself to make way for her.
It’s clear you’ve been crying, and she wants to apologize for being the cause of it, but the right way to do so eludes her. Now that she’s here, she’s not sure what to say.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she says instead.
“No, I. . . Wasn’t really able to sleep,” you reply.
“I see.”
Silence falls, and you yearn for her to break it. You consider reaching out to touch her, maybe crumple in her arms like you always seem to, hoping that loving her alone might be enough to bring her walls down all the way.
“You mentioned before that you wanted to talk,” she finally notes, “—I thought I’d stop by to give you the opportunity.”
It feels like everything is coming down on your shoulders again and you hate it. It isn’t fair, —but nothing is ever truly fair with Moira, you suppose. Still, all the emotions you’d been fostering in the hours prior burn like hot coals in your chest, spurring you on just enough to speak freely.
“This distance is killing me,” you say. “I don’t understand it, and I don’t understand you. It feels like you pull me close just to push me further away than the last time, and it’s driving me insane, Moira. I can’t tell what you’re thinking, can’t tell how you feel, and I just wish you’d turn me away and let me heal from this. Or at the very least, —I wish you’d just let me know that you don’t really want me so I can figure out how to cope with that.”
The way she stares at you makes you slightly regret your choice of words, but you make no move to take anything back.
“Who said I didn’t want you?” She questions in reply. “You made that assumption all on your own.”
Well. . . Yeah. You did make that assumption by yourself, didn’t you. . .
In your defense, though, it was a fairly reasonable thing to assume. When one thing leads to another and in the wake of it you’re seemingly pushed to the wayside, there’s only so many conclusions you can draw.
“You do then?” You question. “Want me?”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t go anywhere,” she responds evenly.
You sigh in obvious frustration. Moira doesn’t really understand why you’re so worried about this, but makes no move to leave.
“I’m just gonna. . .”
The words die in your throat, but you take in a quick, sharp breath, steeling yourself for whatever is to come after.
“I think I’m in love with you, Moira.”
Her expression doesn’t change much. She’d likely worked that out long before now, but you’re too high off adrenaline to feel embarrassed about it now.
“I don’t feel dissimilarly.”
That wasn’t exactly the love confession you’d been hoping for, but somehow, it felt better. You had to stifle a laugh, though whether at her roundabout speech or your own expense was another question entirely. Looking up into her eyes, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips, you reached out to tug at her dress shirt.
“Kiss me.”
It wasn’t often that Moira chose to follow the orders of others, but that was a request she could live with. Her hand finds its way to your cheek as she lowers her face to your height, pressing her lips against yours. You grip a little tighter at her clothing, like you’re scared she’ll disappear if you let go. Time seems to suspend itself for the two of you as you stand with her, holding your breath.
When she finally pulls away, you rest your head against her chest. Her hand smoothes over your hair.
“Stay,” you say, finally finding the courage to request it.
She does.