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Moth does not go to breakfast at Janine’s place. This does not stop Janine from inviting her, practically incessantly. Today is no different.
This particular morning, Moth wakes to the buzz from her phone. She squints, opening the text message with distaste. It’s from Janine, as expected.
‘Pancakes?’
As she starts to type her usual ‘fuck off’ a sharp pain shoots through her head. Her phone falls from her hand to the floor with a clatter as she covers her eyes with her hands, leaning back and swearing. Seriously? Right now?
Last night had been a good one, as far as her evenings went. After escaping some forced ‘bonding’ time with Reno and Janine, she’d retreated into her apartment to drink as many cheap beers as it took to knock herself out. She considered it a good night because, after about a pack, all those pesky thoughts and emotions had washed away into a warm, unthinking nothing.
This couldn’t be a hangover. Moth knows hangovers as one knows a frequent lover. The texture of this pain is unfamiliar, foreign. As her brain kicks back into semi-functioning order, she realizes what’s wrong. These feelings aren’t her own.
Her sensitivity to other’s thoughts and emotions has always been somewhat finicky. She can direct it, but sometimes it's like it has a mind of its own. It’ll pick up on the stray daydreams of a stranger on the street, the disgust of her coworker as she lights yet another cigarette in a poorly ventilated conference room, the primal fear of the cockroach hiding under her sink.
This particular emotion, a strange mix of regret, shame, and deep anger, must be coming from somewhere. She can’t seem to clear it from her head, so she’ll just have to follow the sensation to wherever it leads and murder whoever’s on the other end.
She’d slept in her clothes, so all she does before she leaves the apartment is shrug on her jacket and stuff a packet of cigarettes in the pocket. Whoever’s having a breakdown at eight in the fucking morning is close, she can feel it.
The pain worsens as she turns left down the apartment hall, but eases when she passes by Janine’s door on the way to the elevator.
Goddammit. There goes her murder plan. Clearing that with HR would be an even bigger headache than the one currently knocking against the front of her skull.
She could just leave. But then she’ll have to deal with this gross sadness sticking to her, much like a certain clingy alien. She runs a hand through her tangled hair, then turns around.
Moth knocks on Janine’s door.
She hears a clanking sound, muffled by the door, then a voice, “I’ll get it.” The door opens to reveal Janine, in a tank-top and sweatpants and holding a spatula. She’s looking above Moth’s head at first before she glances down, jumping a little in surprise when she sees her. She blinks those annoyingly large brown eyes down at her. “Moth? What are you doing here?”
Unfortunately for Moth, while she would usually assume that comment was some sort of slight against her, she knows it came from genuine confusion. The sadness swirling in Janine has calmed for just a second due to surprise. Fuck. Of course it would be her
Before she can answer, she hears Reno’s voice from inside the apartment. “Janine, can I eat the pancake mix box yet?”
Janine’s outward exasperation is contradicted by a warm affection in Moth’s chest directed towards Reno. Gross. “Not yet, just gimme a second to use the last of it!” She turns her back to Moth and heads inside. She follows. “I thought it was Joel at the door,” Janine comments, “I didn’t think you ate breakfast.”
Her cheery demeanor is throwing Moth off a little. On the inside, Janine is almost boiling over, but she hardly shows that on the outside, getting right back to making pancakes at the stove.
She realizes she’s been staring at the back of Janine’s well-muscled shoulders for too long and shakes herself out her reverie. Janine asked her a question.
“I don’t.” She sits at the table, lighting a cigarette. Reno, sitting opposite her, reaches for the box. Moth snatches it up, holding it above her head. The alien makes a sad keening noise but sits back in her chair, proceeding to grab a handful of toothpicks from their container and shove them in her mouth.
“I guess these pancakes are all for me then,” Janine says. It occurs to Moth now, with the slight buzz of the cigarette clearing her thoughts, that Janine is trying to distract herself. She’s not questioning why Moth showed up because Moth being here lets her focus on something other than whatever’s bothering her.
Well, if she wants a distraction, Moth is happy to provide.
Reno’s taken to leaning her chair back on two legs like a bored elementary schooler. With one small motion, Moth kicks the chair out from under her.
She goes down with a monotone “AAAAAAA.” The chair clatters to the ground, and Reno bounces until she hits the refrigerator with a wet slap. “What was that for?”
For the first time that morning, Moth smirks. That is, until a sharp anger pierces her skull. Janine turns, dropping the pan to the stovetop. Her fists are clenched.
Ah. She’s made things worse.
Janine takes in a sharp breath, closing her eyes. “Moth…” she opens her eyes, staring daggers. She’s got dark circles, Moth notes. “Why are you here?” Janine’s voice is flat, but she can tell she’s close to snapping.
Where did this come from anyway? Janine isn’t usually this easy to rile up.
If Moth thinks hard enough about it, she can think of one thing. Last night, Joel had brought over stacks of blu-rays and insisted they have a movie night. Moth had been about 3 beers in when they’d turned on Gravity, and she has the vague memory of Janine shifting uncomfortably next to her on the couch as the pre-movie ads came on.
There’d been an ad for a movie she can’t remember the title of, some bloody action flick that looked right up her alley if not for the romance she could already tell was going to be extremely forced. Janine had snatched the remote out of Joel’s hands five seconds in, fast-forwarding until it hit the intro of Gravity, but her shoulders had kept that tension the entire night.
It’s at this point Moth realizes she’s been zoning out. Janine is waving a hand in front of her face. “How much have you had to drink today, Moth?”
“Not enough, obviously.” Just seeing some movie trailer had upset Janine this badly? Moth had always known she wasn’t cut out for their line of work. And now, even though Janine doesn’t know it, she’s making that Moth’s problem.
Janine slams a hand on the table, looming over Moth in a way that she thinks is supposed to be intimidating. Strands of hair have come loose from her braid and fall into her face, and her brow is furrowed. How has she never noticed Janine has freckles?
All of the sudden, Moth has a very stupid idea.
She leans forward and kisses Janine.
Janine’s eyes widen, but it’s a few seconds before she’s able to gather her wits and push herself back, face completely red. Moth reels a little too. Janine’s emotions are going haywire, warm and bright and sparking. Compared to the sullen mood she’d just been in, it’s a nice change, but also a shock to the system. It had actually worked.
And in that moment, she feels the psychic connection between them snap.
Moth expects the fluttery feeling in her chest to stop. It does not.
Huh.
Reno’s head pokes out over the edge of the table. “I knew it! I knew there was something about you two—” Moth places a hand on her head and pushes her back down out of sight.
“Moth.” She looks back up at Janine, who is deliberately ignoring eye contact with her. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.” The statement doesn’t have as much bite to it as she thinks Janine intended it to. Her cheeks are still red.
She feels a grin forming on her face. “I thought we were having pancakes.”
For a second, Janine looks like she’s about to throw something at her. And then the smell of burning fills the room. Janine turns back to the pancakes, still sitting on the stove. “Shit shit shit—”
Moth takes that opportunity to leave. Not because she was told to, of course. She just doesn’t want to be around when the smoke alarm starts going off.
Anyway, she’d fixed her problem.
And if her heart is still fluttering, well, that’s her business.