Chapter Text
For years, Angela has hated storms, particularly those that come at night. The few people to whom she has confided in about this have assumed that it is the thunder she does not like, all too similar to the sound of artillery, but that is not quite it—certainly, she does not like that part, but she is used, by now, to the sound of a real weapon, is able to distinguish the two well enough that it does not bother her, any longer, and thunder is never quite bone rattlingly loud as the explosions she remembers from the Crisis, even when it shakes the very walls of her bedroom.
No, what she does not like is the sky. When the clouds block the horizon, it reminds her of the nighttime raids of her childhood, looking up to see nothing but machinery blanketing the sky, a void where there should have been stars.
But storms are unavoidable, particularly in Gibraltar. Often, they come, and she is left only to wait them out. The discomfort of evening rain is by now a familiar one, and for all that she dislikes it, except on the worst of days, it is only unpleasant, not something which truly troubles her, not anymore. She can close her curtains, close her eyes, pretend she does not know what the sky looks like outside, and force sleep, just as she has done for years. Never does she quite forget that it is raining, never does she quite fully relax, but it is bearable, and that is enough for her. Her past may never quite leave her, but it is faded, most days, to a low hum in the back of her mind. She knows that she remains firmly in the here and now. What more could she ask for?
Nothing.
Only this: “Stay?”
It surprises her, the request, even as it leaves her lips. She hates sharing a bed, the feeling of falling asleep beside another person, the awareness, always, of their breathing, their movement beside her, hates even more the lack of control she has over her body when she sleeps, the vulnerability of that position. The few times she has spent the night with Fareeha have almost all been entirely unintentional, the result of her having fallen asleep and Fareeha failing to wake her, and she has never suggested this, that Fareeha stay in her quarters.
That is, after all, a different thing entirely, letting another person into her space. Years have passed since the last time she allowed that, and for a time, she thought she might never be comfortable enough to do it again, would not be comfortable enough with herself to be so vulnerable, let alone comfortable enough with someone else to trust them so.
Yet she asked it, the question and her hand hanging in the air, wrapped around Fareeha’s wrist when she went to stand.
Fareeha is still, for a moment, half standing. Her expression, usually so open, is difficult to read when she asks, “Here?”
“It’s raining,” Angela says, half an excuse and half an explanation. With Fareeha curled up next to her on the couch, she had almost forgotten that fact, had not even had to try to push it from her mind, because Fareeha was so warm and solid next to her that she could not possibly feel the chill, again, of those cold nights spent running for shelter, taking cover where she could, or the bite of the rain on her skin, on many of the nights since. But that is, certainly, too much to say. She settles instead for, “I don’t want you getting wet.”
This is not untrue; whoever designed Watchpoint: Gibraltar clearly was not taking the climate into consideration. Many of the buildings have only open air walkways, and as a consequence Fareeha cannot make the walk back to her own quarters without getting at least a little wet—or more than a little, judging by the volume of the downpour.
“It’s only water,” Fareeha says, with a hint of amusement. “It’ll hurt me less than sleeping on the couch would.”
Normally, Angela might be amused by the assumption, but asking this sort of the thing does not come naturally to her, and so the whole situation feels far too precarious for any attempt at levity. “You can stay in the bed,” she corrects. “With me.”
Now, Fareeha turns to face her fully, seems to study her expression for a moment before responding, “You’re certain?”
“Just to sleep,” Angela clarifies.
“Well,” Fareeha says, “Okay. Lead the way.”
“Right,” Angela agrees, standing. She should do that. Never matter that Fareeha has been in her bedroom more than once before, passing through on her way to use Angela’s toilet, or that there is only one door that could possibly lead to the bedroom—it is still only polite. It feels better, anyway, to fall into the comfort of a social script.
“It’s a little messy,” she apologizes, regretting very sincerely that she did not bother to pick her clothes up off the floor after a pile of them slid off the top of her too full hamper, “And you’re going to have to use my toothbrush.”
“That’s fine,” Fareeha says, and then, “Can you show me where you keep your facewash?”
That is easily enough done. She points Fareeha to everything in the medicine cabinet, leaves her to her nightly ablutions, and goes to sit on the bed. The sky is visible, again, from there, and she feels the familiar discomfort begin to rise up, made worse now by the added anxiety of this, the situation she has invited herself into. A door away, Fareeha is in her bathroom, getting ready for bed—getting ready to come to bed, with her.
What if she has a nightmare? What if she talks in her sleep? What if she cannot even get to the point of unconsciousness, too acutely aware of the feeling of another person in her space? What if Fareeha mistakes her anxiety for discomfort, thinks herself to blame? What if she likes it too much, being so near to Fareeha, what if she crosses a line she is not yet ready to cross? Maybe, she thinks, this was a mistake. Maybe—
“All yours,” Fareeha says, exiting the washroom. Her face is clean, makeup gone, the beads are taken out of her hair, and she has her bra in one hand, having deemed it too uncomfortable to sleep in. As she moves past Angela to head towards the bed, Angela catches the scent of her own soap on Fareeha’s skin.
Maybe Angela would not mind so much if she did cross that line…
No, she concludes, splashing cold water on her face. Better not.
Still, when her breath catches, a little, at the sight of Fareeha waiting for her on the bed, it is not because she is anxious about having invited someone into her space.
That is not to say that anxiety, that fear of vulnerability, is gone away, exactly, because it is not, but being around Fareeha has a way of making her worries seem less pressing. Normally, she can hardly stand to sleep in the same room as another person can feel the tension in her body, the acute awareness of their nearness to her in space, but here, with Fareeha, she does not mind that they are in the same bed, and that usual sense of distance, of a person’s location relative to herself, feels less like a burning and more like an ache.
Despite the boundaries she has set, she wants Fareeha closer to her. On any other day, it might feel like crossing a line, but there is a peel of thunder, outside the window, and she can see it, the dark sky, and she thinks about Fareeha’s warm arms, so different from the chill of the air back home, all those years ago, and the smell of her, and the gentleness of her breathing, knows it would be an anchor. On another night, she might worry about things going further—about herself pushing them that way, not Fareeha—but tonight, she knows she only wants comfort, nothing more.
Often, however—often, when Fareeha holds her, she is acutely aware of how fine the line is between the intimate and the erotic. They are in a relationship, more or less, but Angela is hesitant to let things progress too quickly, stopped pursuing sexual relationships with other people for a reason, several years ago, and is not certain she is ready, yet, to take that step again. She wants to, wants Fareeha, but is afraid that too much too soon will end in disaster, and Fareeha is far too important for her to risk ruining things by being impatient. Eventually, she knows, she will be ready, but until then… it is enough for her to be vulnerable enough to ask for this.
“Hold me?”
And Fareeha does.
Outside, the sky is dark, and the rain is coming down, but Fareeha’s embrace is gentle enough to shelter her from anything.