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Despite the fact that she has all the reason in the world to stay in bed on Sunday mornings, lingering on the very edge of consciousness with her wife’s arm draped warm and heavy across her stomach, Franziska always rises early. She can’t help it; she’s a woman of routine and always has been, ever since she was small. There are less inconsequential things she could carry over from her youth, she supposes, than waking with the dawn. No matter how tired and comfortable and safe she may be, her eyes open to the insistent tick of her internal clock, the first slivers of dawn reaching through the shutters to dance over her hair tangled with Maya’s on the pillow.
Maya has no such reservations when it comes to sleeping in; she will remain in bed as long and luxuriously as she likes. When she surfaces, groggy and yawning, she’ll wander through the house in her Steel Samurai slippers until she finds Franziska (who is often trying her hardest to look as if she wasn’t doing paperwork over the weekend). She’ll kiss her and say good morning and Franziska will say good morning back even though it’s typically past what one might consider morning, but she can forgive the temporal inaccuracy if it means Maya will smile and laugh that soft, breathless laugh of hers against her mouth.
So, on Sunday mornings, Franziska wakes. She rises. She extracts herself from Maya’s grasp, brushing her messy bangs aside so she can press a kiss to her forehead, the two of them protected still from the world outside, wrapped in soft shadow and the light of dawn as stars wink out and pearlescent dew forms on the tips of bowing leaves.
(And if she lingers there for a moment, tracing Maya’s lashes where they rest against the upper curve of her cheekbone, if she stays to watch the way Maya scrunches her nose while she’s dreaming, well, that’s her business.)
Maya’s dark hair spools and winds on the white pillowcases as Franziska leaves her there in the warm comfort of their bed. She washes her face, brushes her teeth with her toothbrush that rests in a cup beside her wife’s. As she leaves the bathroom she walks through the house on the balls of her feet, staying quiet despite the fact that trying to wake Maya is a feat no easier than waking the dead; Franziska knows well that the only consistent thing to rouse her is the smell of sizzling breakfast on the stovetop.
Franziska stops in the kitchen to ready the kettle before she heads for the laundry room. The basket is waiting for her beside the washing machine where she placed it the night before, her pencil skirts and slacks folded in with Maya’s jeans and robes and mismatched animal-print socks. She takes care to turn Maya’s graphic tees inside out before she puts them in the wash, separating lights and darks and colors even though Maya insists that the whole point of the Shout ColorCatcher is that they don’t have to separate their clothes (which is why Franziska does the laundry and Maya does not. Franziska does not trust a mere sheet not to ruin her clothes).
It takes two cups of tea and a few rounds of laundry for Maya to appear. As Franziska carries a basket of warm, dry clothes to the living room for folding, Maya slides behind her from the bedroom, slipping her arms around Franziska’s slender waist and burying her face in the nape of her neck. She murmurs something into Franziska’s skin, her voice low and scratchy with sleep.
“Good morning, liebe ,” Franziska says, adjusting the laundry basket on her hip. “Did you sleep well?”
She’s speaking softly, as if this is all an illusion she is afraid to break. But Franziska is no longer afraid of that, no; the simple truth is that mornings are made for soft voices. There is no need to be sharp-edged when the world is still waking.
“Mmhm,” Maya replies, and Franziska feels the very vibrations of it. “Dreamed about astronaut dogs colonizing the moon. They had carrot farms and apple trees and little straw hats and overalls.”
A smile tugs at Franziska’s mouth. Once she was surprised at how easily smiles came to her in the presence of Maya Fey, a strange and wild woman who has stared death in the face and met it kindly, someone so ferociously wonderful that Franziska cannot help but love her with everything she has to give.
Maya presses a kiss to the mole on Franziska’s left shoulder blade, and Franziska lets herself lean back into her warm embrace. “There’s tea in the kitchen, if you’d like,” she says, and Maya hums into her neck again.
“What kind?”
“Jasmine. I set out the chai for you, though.”
Franziska feels her lips curve against her skin. “M’kay,” Maya says. “Lemme go make toast and then I’ll come help you fold stuff.”
And then Maya comes around to kiss her, soft and sweet with her hand cupping the curve of Franziska’s cheek, her little finger resting along the line of her jaw. Franziska smiles, shifting the laundry basket so Maya doesn’t have to work as hard.
“Have you brushed your teeth?” Franziska asks, pulling away slightly.
Maya giggles sleepily. “No.”
Maya returns from the kitchen with a too-full mug, tea and frothed milk and copious amounts of cinnamon lapping at the ceramic edges, threatening to spill over. She sets the mug right on the coffee table, and then pauses as if she can feel the weight of Franziska’s stare though she isn’t facing her, and quickly slides a coaster under the mug.
“Thank you, liebe,” Franziska says pleasantly. She will not have tea-rings on her nice coffee table, no matter how much she loves her wife. She’s gotten halfway through folding already, jeans in neat squares and shirts laid out to prevent wrinkles, waiting for hangers.
Maya giggles. “Anything for you, babe,” she replies, flopping on the couch. She folds her legs up on the cushion, settling back. “Hey, did you water Charley 2 this morning?” She nods at the plant in the corner, across from the window. It’s a cutting from the plant Phoenix Wright keeps in his office, the plant that was once Maya’s sister’s, though it’s no mere cutting anymore. It’s grown wonderfully over the years, and Maya is very proud of it.
Franziska shakes her head, carefully folding one of her skirts. “No. I checked the soil and it’s still a bit wet.”
Maya hums her approval and scoops up the remote from the coffee table. Franziska knows what she’s going to put on before she even presses a button; the box set is still sitting on the coffee table. She adds her freshly folded skirt to the stack as the Steel Samurai theme song from the original show fills their living room, Maya humming along. It’s Maya’s laundry-folding show of choice as of late. Not that it hasn’t been Maya’s everything show as of… well, for as long as Franziska has known her, really. Maya knows it so well she can recite all her favorite scenes and even her less-than-favorite ones.
(Miles can, too, even though he would never admit that, even under threat of death.)
Franziska pulls one of Maya’s robes from the basket, the fabric dryer-warm and soft in her hands as Maya debates which episode to play. It’s the first season, Maya’s favorite, because she loves the tension between Will Powers and Jack Hammer as the titular Steel Samurai and Evil Magistrate, respectively.
“Their chemistry was never the same since they replaced the Evil Magistrate’s actor,” Maya often laments, and Franziska typically chooses not to remind Maya of the fact that they didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, really, considering the man was murdered.
“Do you want to watch the gay episode?” Maya asks now, glancing at Franziska.
Franziska raises her brows. “…Which one is that one, exactly?”
“Okay, yeah, good point. They’re all kinda gay. I’m still mad they made up the Pink Princess character to try and get people to stop shipping the Steel Samurai with the Evil Magistrate,” Maya says, frowning at the TV. “And I’m like, extra pissed that the Pink Princess was inspired by me, because it’s so fucking cool that I inspired a Steel Samurai character but not one that exists to support heteronormativity in kid’s shows, y’know?”
“It’s a pity,” Franziska agrees, tucking in the sleeves to Maya’s robes before folding it in half, then in half once more. A secret, soft part of her delights in the fact that their clothes smell the same, of the floral detergent that Maya adores, so that Franziska smells like Maya, and Maya smells like Franziska. It’s a simple thing as solidifying and real as the bands on their fingers, this intimate act of clothes washed together. She brushes her thumb over the purple fabric and wonders at all the memories this robe holds. She was wearing a robe like this when they met. Not the exact same one, as Maya has grown taller since and it was terribly long ago, but one similar enough that it brings a smile to Franziska’s face as she folds it with the kind of specific care she reserves for Maya and her things.
They lapse into comfortable silence for a while, Franziska folding and Maya watching the screen with rapt attention.
“I don’t want to fight you, Magistrate,” the Steel Samurai pleads from the TV. “ Not anymore. Not… not like this. This doesn’t have to be who we are, we can change.”
“I cannot change who I am now anymore than we can change the past,” the Magistrate replies. “ Perhaps, if the past could change, we would be living a different life. But there is no point to looking back on the way we once were.”
“Oh my god ,” Maya exclaims. “They’re just so—oh, wait, the part’s coming up! Fran, Fran, look!”
Franziska looks up from the laundry a moment too late, Maya pointing frantically at the screen.
“Shit, you missed it. Hold on, I’m rewinding.”
Franziska sets down Maya’s robes, looking patiently at the TV as Maya rewinds. She presses play on a scene picturing a frustrated Steel Samurai as the Evil Magistrate’s back retreats into the distance. The Steel Samurai clenches and unclenches his fists before he angrily kicks at his fallen spear resting on a grassy hill, screaming in anguish.
Maya grabs onto Franziska’s arm, still pointing at the TV. “Okay, see how Will kicks the spear? He actually broke his toe when he did that cause the spear is like, legit a spear and heavy and shit , did you know that? So he was screaming because he literally broke a toe and they just kept it in . Isn’t that wild ?”
“Yes, love,” Franziska says fondly. Maya tells her this every single time they’ve seen this episode.
Maya shifts on the couch, scooting closer to Franziska so the lines of their arms meld. “You know, once I told Will that I think the Steel Samurai and the Evil Magistrate should’ve kissed and he said, and I quote, who says they haven’t. Who says they haven’t, Franziska,” she repeats pointedly.
“Who indeed,” Franziska replies, pressing a kiss to Maya’s temple.
Maya’s tea sits forgotten on the coaster untouched beside Franziska’s own empty mug. Maya hasn’t folded a thing and likely won’t, but Franziska doesn’t mind. She’s content to listen to her wife point out all her favorite things about her favorite show (even those that Franziska has heard ten times before because she loves the sound of Maya’s voice when she’s excited), and once the laundry is done, folded neatly and put away, Maya will lace her fingers through Franziska’s and rest her legs in her lap, lingering in each other’s warmth.
And if their Sunday morning extends lazily into the afternoon, well, that’s their business.