Chapter Text
The cottage on the edge of the Nevermore grounds woke up the way it always did: coffee first, then plants, then sarcasm.
Larissa had the coffee. She moved through the small kitchen in a silk robe, measuring coffee grounds, warming two mugs, straightening a stack of marked-up essays as if the essays might judge her if left crooked. She hummed under her breath—some old jazz standard that had gotten stuck in her head during faculty gala season and never left.
Marilyn had the plants. Barefoot, she padded in from the back door with a pair of pruning shears tucked into the pocket of a sweater that was definitely not hers.
“Good morning to my favorite caffeinated roommate,” she said, beaming. She toed the door shut and peeked at the coffee pot. “This is the good stuff, right? Not the tin in the back labeled ‘For Emergency Meetings’?”
“I labeled that tin for a reason,” Larissa said primly, “Today did not look like an emergency.”
Marilyn tugged the sleeve of the sweater over her fingers, cozy and smug. “Says the woman who graded twelve essays before breakfast.”
“Eleven,” Larissa corrected, then paused, because Marilyn was wearing the charcoal cashmere that only came out in October. On Marilyn it slouched off one shoulder and flirted with the idea of being a dress. “Is that mine?”
“It smells like you,” Marilyn said, as if that were a legal defense. “And the radiator in my room made a noise like a drowning saxophone all night, so I needed comfort.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m adorable.”
“Unfortunately, those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Marilyn grinned, victorious, and drifted to the little jungle by the window. She misted the philodendron and checked the soil of the rosemary. Larissa slid a mug onto the table beside her.
“Careful with the rosemary,” Larissa said. “It’s temperamental.”
“Of course it is,” Marilyn murmured, brushing her thumb along a sprig. “That’s why you and it get along so well.”
Larissa narrowed her eyes over the rim of her mug. “I am not temperamental. I am precise.”
“Mm.” Marilyn glanced up, “Precise about bringing me coffee every morning?”
“Someone has to keep you from watering the plants with Earl Grey again.”
“That was one time. And they looked thirsty.”
“They’re desert plants.”
“They were emotionally thirsty.”
Larissa smiled slightly. “Drink your coffee.”
They settled into their morning routine: Larissa reviewed the morning’s staff meeting agenda; Marilyn scribbled notes for a lab on carnivorous plants and ate half of Larissa’s toast without asking, because she always did and because Larissa always made an extra slice, pretending she hadn’t.
When the clock in the hall chimed, they moved together to the entrance. Coats, keys, folders, and most importantly the serious negotiation about the umbrella.
Marilyn: “It looks like rain.”
Larissa: “Then take mine.”
Marilyn: “We can share.”
Larissa, softly: “Of course.”
They walked to campus shoulder to shoulder, talking about everything and nothing. At the faculty lounge, they split—Larissa to a meeting, Marilyn to the greenhouse.
“Lunch?” Marilyn asked.
“Half past one,” Larissa said.
“With the scary headmistress?” Marilyn’s eyes sparkled, unafraid.
Larissa arched her brow. “Tell her I’m busy.”
“Perfect.” Marilyn grinned. “Don’t let them trap you in the budget segment for three hours.”
“I’m bringing a timer.”
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The staff meeting began, as all meetings do, with promises to be brief and bullet points that read like a grocery list that was way too long. Larissa sat at the head of the table with her usual calm, trying to make sense of some old white man’s utopic suggestions, smiling at the right times, nodding along as her mind started to wander to her lunch ahead.
“Final item,” said Mr. Finch from History, rifling through papers. “The spring fundraiser theme. I propose we defer to Ms. Thornhill’s judgment, seeing as you and your partner tend to coordinate decorations and—”
“My what?” Larissa said, and then, immediately, smoothly: “You mean Ms. Thornhill, who runs the greenhouse. But I agree; she’ll have ideas.” She clicked her pen and moved on.
Across the table, Ms. Novak mouthed partner? at Mr. Finch. He shrugged, bemused. No one pressed it. Why would they?
Down in the quad, Enid Sinclair watched Marilyn take a group of students across the lawn, her hands painting shapes in the air as she talked about sundews. Wednesday stood at Enid’s side, immune to the happiness, her expression puzzled.
“They’re so married,” Enid whispered, fond. “Like, peak domestic.”
Wednesday followed Marilyn’s line of sight across the grass to Larissa emerging from the main hall, the way Marilyn’s face did that small, involuntary softening—blink and you’d miss it, unless you were looking for it all the time.
“If that is marriage,” Wednesday said, “it appears to be the efficient kind. They share food, shelter, and presumably a calendar. Minimal ceremony.”
Enid nudged her. “Also feelings.”
Wednesday gave her a look that said don’t make this weird, which, coming from Wednesday, was rich.
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Lunch was scones in Larissa’s office with the door half-open. Marilyn perched on the edge of the desk, swinging one foot and telling a story about a child who’d named a venus flytrap Sir Chompsalot. Larissa listened, the way she always listened to Marilyn—she had her undivided attention, because Marilyn could talk about the most mundane thing in this world for all that she cared, as long as her eyes kept sparkling like they always did.
“Do you ever worry we’re raising an army?” Larissa said when Marilyn breathlessly finished the part where Sir Chompsalot ate a housefly and a boy in the back screamed like he’d witnessed a miracle.
“Of gardening nerds?” Marilyn asked. “Yes. Lovingly.”
Larissa reached absentmindedly to brush a crumb from Marilyn’s cheek. Marilyn went very still for a heartbeat, then smiled and leaned into the touch the tiniest bit. Larissa withdrew, clearing her throat. “You have a meeting with the vendors at three, don’t you?”
Marilyn hopped off the desk. “I’m bringing my charming voice and a PowerPoint transition that will make them see God.” She set a thermos on the corner. “I made you mint tea for later. You get mean after two; the tea keeps you kind.”
Larissa caught herself smiling at the closed door long after Marilyn left. She took a sip of tea she didn’t remember liking and thought: kind is overrated. But she kept drinking it anyway.
——————————
Dinner was a loose collaboration: Larissa chopping tomatoes with alarming precision, Marilyn stirring the pasta. Every so often their shoulders touched, and every so often neither of them moved away.
“Salt,” Marilyn commanded, holding out a hand.
Larissa placed the little saltshaker into it without looking. “You over-salt.”
“You under-live.”
The pasta turned out perfect anyway. They ate at the tiny round table under the window as they talked through the fundraiser, through a house repair, through Wednesday’s sudden interest in advising a student newspaper that would, “tell the truth without the burden of optimism.”
“Will you help her?” Marilyn asked, twirling spaghetti.
“Of course,” Larissa said. “I’ll insist she add commas. She’ll insist punctuation is overrated.”
Marilyn laughed, loud and uncontained, and something in Larissa's chest did a little flip. It always happened when she laughed, and if Larissa was honest with herself, Marilyn’s laugh was her favourite sound in the world.
When the plates were stacked by the sink, Marilyn rolled her sleeves and turned on the tap.
“You cooked,” she said. “I’ll wash.”
“I can—”
“You can sit,” Marilyn countered without looking up. “You carried the entire faculty through a budget today. Sit and tell me your worst line item.”
Larissa surrendered with a theatrical groan. “Paper. Always paper.”
Marilyn hummed a little tune as she rinsed and despite Marilyn's earlier protests, Larissa got up and took the towel. She dried each plate the moment Marilyn passed it. At one point Marilyn’s hip bumped Larissa’s and neither of them apologized.
Afterwards, they migrated to the couch. Rain tapped gently at the windows and the fire burned low inside the hearth. Larissa opened a book while Marilyn tucked her feet under Larissa’s thigh, stole the throw blanket, and rested her head against her shoulder.
Larissa would never admit it but this was by far her favourite part of the day. Being close to the woman she loves – platonically, but also ferociously – reading a book while the smell of Lavender lingered around her.
“Do you ever think we’ve got this down? Like—this. Us.” Marilyn asked suddenly.
Larissa hummed in agreement. “We are extremely efficient roommates.”
Marilyn snorted. “Sexy.”
“Efficiency is sexy.”
Marilyn tilted her head to look up at her, a smile threatening. “Not gonna lie, you’re kinda hot when you say things like that.”
Larissa stared pointedly at her book, which had become a very interesting collection of meaningless words. “Read your article, Thornhill.”
“Bossy.”
“Observant.”
“Tomorrow,” Larissa said, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from Marilyn calling her ‘hot’. “try not to convince the vendors to put carnivorous plants on every table.”
“No promises,” Marilyn said, eyes already dropping shut. “They’re festive.”
Larissa watched her for a second too long. But how couldn’t she? Marilyn was beautiful, and even more so when she slept.