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It's sort of eerily quiet when Clare is pulled from the chemical subjugation by Yelena Belova. She's somewhere in England with five other girls, preparing an assassination against government officials threatening Dreykov. But Dreykov is dead.
Yelena tells them to live their own lives. Clare doesn't know how to do that. She’s been in the Red Room since she was six years old. Twenty years of someone else in her head, no choice to herself. Twenty years of murder and slaughter and fighting she never wanted to do. She has no idea who she is outside of the Red Room.
The girls she’s with decide to stay in their safe house until they can adjust to their new lives. Clare, Nancy, Liane, Mira, Viktoria, and Georgia. The six women find ways to exist outside of their training and trauma and the red they inflicted.
Clare can't escape it easily. She knows it’s the same with the other girls, based on the dark circles under their eyes and the scars on the palms of their hands from clenching their fists too tight. Memories of the pain she caused haunts Clare’s dreams and nightmares.
The first thing she buys with the money she gets from her first job working as a bagger in a Tesco is a comfortable grey sweater. She wears it everywhere.
She and Georgia become close. Well, closer. They were friends while still under control, and it’s nice to know it was real and not another thing Dreykov chose for them. They share the same room in the four-bedroom safe house, and spend many nights staying up to talk, or curled up in the same bed, shaking, as the guilt eats them alive.
After two months of living in the safe house, Georgia approaches Clare at breakfast.
“I found a cheap apartment about an hour away,” she says. “I can't afford it on my own, and you're my closest friend. And… I’m not ready to be alone.”
Georgia fiddles with her thumbs and looks down. Her long brown hair falls in front of her eyes and she tucks it aggressively behind her ears.
The first thing they do in their new home together is cut Georgia’s hair. Widows had their hair cut short to keep them focused if they needed it based on what Dreykov believed was good for them. Georgia’s hair is nearly waist length, and she hates it. She sits criss-cross in the middle of their one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a London building as Clare cuts it evenly to her shoulders.
Clare smiles as Georgia laughs, shaking her hair out to test the feeling. She presses the scissors into Georgia’s hands, and her wavy dark blond hair is cut to her shoulder blades. They take their cut hair to the empty parking lot behind the building, and burn it as they squeeze each other’s hands.
They help build each other up from their trauma. They start from scratch.
Two single beds take up the small bedroom. They learn what food they do and don't like, and fill their fridge. Books line shelves so fast, they may never get through everything. A small, shitty TV sits in the corner of the living room, only able to broadcast a single news network. They never watch from it.
Clare adopts a nickname, the sound of her own name now too triggering. It grated her brain for years as teachers and trainers screamed at her, berated her, drove her insane as she failed and tried and cried. Georgia calls her Dream as a silly pet-name, and she begins to only answer to it. Georgia smiles every time she says it.
It figures, after so long having weird friendships that were barely real, that Dream and Georgia wouldn't see anything strange in theirs. Holding hands and cuddling on the couch, sharing their single beds, and eventually selling them for just one double. They don't see anything weird in sitting pressed against each other on the couch, kissing each other slowly to experiment with how it feels. They don't see anything wrong with touching each other and watching how they react, finding what feels good, spending nights bare, in bed, fingers grazing and pushing and touching as they whisper about anything that crosses their minds. Like it’s a casual thing.
The morning after their first time, Dream wakes up unusually warm. She frowns; this must be what getting sick feels like. She was sort of hoping to avoid ever getting sick, but outside of the chemicals, she can't anymore.
Georgia opens the door. Dream looks up and something inside her leaps.
“Hi!” she says excitedly.
“I can smell you from outside,” Georgia says, leaving the doorway to crawl onto the bed. Her eyes are wide and almost possessive. Dream is drawn to it. “You smell really good.”
“Oh?” Dream asks, frowning. “Like… how?”
Georgia pulls a leg over Dream’s thighs to straddle her. Her hand finds a small spot on Dream’s neck, and pressing her fingers into it makes Dream’s head tilt back.
“Like a margarita, honestly,” Georgia says, smiling, “but sweeter.”
Something burns inside of Dream. “Is it good?”
She wants Georgia to say yes. No… needs. She doesn't fully understand why.
“It is,” Georgia says, smiling.
A hot flash suddenly hits Dream and she groans, leaning against Georgia’s shoulder. “I think I’m getting sick,” she whines.
“Oh no,” Georgia mutters. "Do you need anything?”
Dream groans again. A strong smell of mocha and honey hits her nose, making her head woozy for a moment.
“Are you making coffee?” she asks.
“We both hate coffee,” Georgia says. She lifts Dream’s head with her hands cradling her jaw, staring softly. “Dream, are you okay?”
“‘M just getting sick,” Dream says. “I’m fine.”
Georgia doesn't seem entirely convinced, but brings her to the kitchen and makes her drink two tall glasses of cold water. She guides Dream to the bathroom afterwards to help her into the shower.
“You should join me,” Dream says, smiling teasingly.
Georgia narrows her eyes. “Maybe another time,” she says. “I don’t want to get sick too, idiot. Then who would take care of you?”
Dream sticks her tongue out at Georgia as she closes the door, giggling.
The cold shower Dream has is the nicest she’s ever had. Her skin is only getting warmer, and the cold water feels heavenly. She spends far too long standing under it, and her fingers are pruned by the time she exits.
She wraps herself in a fluffy bathrobe she bought not long ago, and shuffles to the bedroom to slide her feet into the matching slippers. Georgia is in the kitchen when she comes back, smiling as she stands at the elevated counter.
“I made you breakfast,” she says. She motions at a plate beside her.
Dream steps forward. White toast with butter, scrambled eggs, toaster hashbrowns, and Irish breakfast sausages. A mug of hot chocolate sits next to it, a squirt of crappy canned whipped cream on top.
“Thank you,” Dream sighs, feeling her chest squeeze. She knew Georgia cared for her, but still, having it affirmed feels warm.
Or maybe she’s getting hot again.
After she finishes her food, she presses a greasy kiss to Georgia’s cheek and seals herself in the bedroom. Georgia leaves for work as she sleeps, window open and ceiling fan whirring. She sleeps in just her underwear over top of the blankets.
She wakes up, head spinning and she’s craving. She feels frantic. Her fingers slide over the landline phone, dialing the only phone number she knows by heart: the one that belongs to a phone plugged into Georgia’s desk.
“Hello, this is Georgia with Ar—”
“Georgia,” Dream gasps. “Come home, please, something's wrong.” She slumps against the counter as her head throbs. Her stomach hasn't stopped cramping. “I’m in pain and I’m still so hot, and I need you so badly.”
“Dream?” Georgia mutters. “Dream, I can't come home, my boss will kill me.”
“Please,” Dream begs. The counter is cool against her cheek, but it does nothing.
Georgia sighs. “Um… okay, I’ll see what I can do. Will you be okay for an hour?”
Dream whines, but agrees. Georgia hangs up with the promise to be home as soon as she can. Dream lays on the couch, writhing uncomfortably. She tries anything to feel better; a hot water bottle, ice, a hand-held fan, painkillers, but nothing works.
She’s half-asleep on the couch when she smells mocha again. She sits up hurriedly, so fast her head spins.
“Georgia,” she says, loudly.
The locks on the door slide. Dream tries to push herself up, but her legs give out and she lands back on the couch. She watches the door with heavy eyelids, breathing in a smell she can only associate with Georgia.
And Georgia rushes in, slamming the door behind her. Her things are discarded on the ground as she hurries to Dream, slumped on the couch.
“Oh, Dream,” Georgia says, lifting Dream’s jaw.
Dream blinks up at her happily. She nuzzles against Georgia’s hands, suddenly feeling much better now with Georgia here. She feels safer, loved, home.
“I don't know what’s wrong with me,” she says softly. She stares up at Georgia. “Do you?”
“I think I do, actually,” Georgia says, brushing a stray curl from Dream’s eyes. “I think you’re going into either heat or rut.”
Dream’s eyes widen. “Like, I have a subgender?”
Georgia smiles, tight-lipped. “That… place… whatever they did to us, it suppressed our presentation. And when we graduated… we lost our ability to bear pups, and I thought the ability to actually go through what you’re going through right now, but, I mean, you’re going through it.”
Dream groans and doubles over. “No shit.”
Georgia rubs her back slowly. “I don't know if this will work the same as other people, since we’ve been physically traumatized. Our first few cycles will probably be brutal after having never had them.”
“You mean you’ll go through this too?” Dream asks, looking up.
Georgia winces. “I think I already am,” she admits. “I’ve been feeling kinda warm the past few hours, and my head has been spinning since I walked in the door. I think your scent brought it on me.”
“My scent?”
Georgia giggles. “Oh, Dreamie,” she says. “Come on. Let’s go to bed. We can help each other with whatever we need, and we can figure out what each of us is experiencing. When we’re done, we’ll have some studying to do.”
Dream follows Georgia on shaky legs to their bedroom, where they peel off their clothes and wrap around each other.