Work Text:
Ava writhes in agony, balling herself up in the sheets. She whimpers as something inside of her seizes, and her hands go instinctively to her belly, just below the navel. Another spasm begins beneath her fingers, and it feels like Ava's insides are being twisted and wrung out.
Oh, my God, why?! she thinks desperately.
There's a sickening little stab in her stomach, and Ava bolts upright, ready to flee to the bathroom. She retches a bit, but nothing comes up. Ava’s breaths are ragged as she tries to swallow down the sickness. Her stomach contracts once and then, thankfully, relaxes.
Ava uses the momentary break in the chaos to take stock of her situation. The satin sheets under her are unfamiliar, as is the scent of cardamom in the air. Beneath that, there is a whiff of something else, something boldly floral, chased with a bite of spicy resin. Black Pashmina.
Memories of the night before fall like shooting stars through Ava's mind. Her and Deborah, sitting at the dining table with salads forgotten and a galaxy of notebooks, pens, and highlighters before them. Ava remembers laughter, productivity; whatever they wrote last night, she had felt damn proud of it.
Images come freely now, Deborah in one of her furs, her face framed by the night sky. The glow from the lit joint as Ava passes it to her, the sexy way she inhales and breathes out. She doesn't recall much after that; Ava certainly doesn't remember how she had ended up with her arms around Deborah’s waist, holding her as their lips crashed together.
Jesus. Ava's mind whirls with questions. What the hell happened? Did we…?
No. Ava closes her eyes, throws all of her concentration behind remembering. It all comes back to her in delicious little pieces: the slide of Deborah's tongue against hers, the way her body trembled, the swell of her clothed breasts and ass beneath Ava's fingers. Her hand stopping Ava's trailing up her thigh, the waver in her voice as she said, “Not just yet, honey.”
They had both agreed that Ava was far too stoned to drive herself home. When Deborah offered to let her stay the night, Ava assumed she'd be sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms. Instead, Deborah walked her to her room, handed her a pair of her pajamas to sleep in, and tucked Ava into bed next to her.
Gradually, Ava becomes aware of the soft whisper of breath at her right side. She turns, and as her eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees the outline of Deborah, her face placid on the pillow. She's sleeping so hard that she's begun to snore, a fact which prompts a small giggle from Ava.
Her muscles unclench as she laughs, and Ava feels a wet, hot rush between her legs.
No. Her pulse hammers in her ears, and as she reaches over to turn on the lamp, she says a silent prayer that what she thinks happened hasn't actually just happened. The thin light from the lamp floods the bedroom, and Ava looks down, slowly pulling the covers away to reveal…
An absolute horror show. She's stained from the front of her pajama pants all the way along the leopard print crotch. Ava's eyes move beyond her own body, taking a look at the bed. She feels sick all over again as she sees the sticky crimson puddle beneath her, slowly spreading from her pants onto Deborah's 800-million-thread-count sheets.
For fuck’s sake, Ava thinks as tears spring to her eyes. Deborah is going to fully kill her. These sheets probably cost more than Ava's entire net worth, and she's just obliterated them in a singularly disgusting way.
Ava's aching stomach sinks between her knees, and she begins shivering uncontrollably. She knows that she's on the edge of a panic attack, but there's nothing she can do to stop it. She can't focus enough to deploy any of her usual coping strategies, not when her entire world has shrunken down to the mess she's made of the sheets, the sheer degradation of sitting here covered in her own blood, the shame of her body's betrayal…
Ava sniffles as tears begin to fall and her nose starts running. She's so deep in the panic that she forgets to be quiet and lets out a trembling sob. It's enough to alert Deborah, who stirs groggily next to Ava.
“Wha…?” the older woman asks as she comes to. Confused blue eyes lock with Ava’s, and a frown deepens the lines around her mouth.
“Ava,” Deborah says, her voice husky from sleep, “What the hell is going on?”
“I–” the younger woman begins, but then she lets out a sob, shaking her head, “I'm sorry…”
“Sorry? For what?”
“I-I ruined it,” Ava chokes out.
“Ava, honey, what are you talking about?”
Deborah's eyes roam the length of the girl's body, stopping when she reaches Ava's lap.
“Oh, god!” Deborah gasps. She almost chokes as she registers the sight of the blood, the metallic tang of it invading her nostrils. “Ava, what the hell happened?”
She doesn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that's how Ava takes her words. The girl begins crying more freely now, her hands visibly shaking. Deborah says Ava's name gently, reaches for her, but she shrinks back, curling in on herself.
“I'm so sorry,” she repeats, her chest heaving as she tries to take a breath in, “Deborah, I didn't mean to…”
“Of course you didn't,” the older woman says. She scoots as close to Ava as she can without landing herself right in a puddle of gore, “Ava, obviously you didn't do this on purpose…”
“I destroyed your expensive sheets,” Ava sobs. Deborah concedes the point, looking down at the ruins of her linens.
“It's okay,” she says. She puts her hand on Ava's back, tracing soothing little circles up and down. The girl is trembling so hard she's practically vibrating, and her sobs are coming hard and fast. Deborah is at a loss, her sleep-addled brain casting about for the right thing to do.
It comes to her in a vision of herself months ago, in the midst of her very first panic attack, Ava by her side despite the viciousness of their fighting, refusing to leave her.
“Ava, sweetie. Tell me three things that you can see,” Deborah encourages.
With a sob, Ava looks down at the bed, and says, “Blood. Blood stain. Bloody sheets…”
“Okay,” Deborah says, rolling her eyes, “Why don't we just focus on your breathing, yeah? Here, take a deep breath in…” Deborah sucks in a breath, motioning for Ava to follow suit, “Then out.” She and Ava breathe out together, and Deborah prompts her to take another breath.
“In…and out. That's right, honey. In…out…”
Slowly but surely, Ava's breaths even out, and her tears slow to a drip before stopping entirely.
“That's better,” Deborah says, swiping at Ava's wet face with the back of her hand, “See, you're alright.”
Ava's cheek burns beneath Deborah's fingers. “I feel like shit,” she says, her voice thin and distant.
“Of course you do, sitting in your own blood,” Deborah replies, making a face.
She stands up from the bed, reaching out to take Ava's hands and pulling the girl up. Ava is pliant and passive as Deborah begins deftly unbuttoning the pajama top. She shivers as the older woman slides the fabric down her arms, her nipples hardening and arms breaking out in gooseflesh in the frigidness of the bedroom.
It's the first time Deborah has ever seen Ava without a shirt, but the younger woman is too devastated for vanity, and Deborah pointedly ignores her nudity. Her fingers are gentle but clinical as she slides them under the waistband of the pajama bottoms, peeling the pants away from Ava's bloody thighs.
Deborah rolls Ava's borrowed pajamas up into a ball, which she tosses onto the bed.
“I'll take care of that,” she says, “while you're in the shower.”
Deborah gestures toward the ensuite, nudging Ava in that direction. She takes the hint and disappears into the bathroom. The shower is fancy, with dual heads on each side so that the water hits Ava's body from both angles. She turns the temperature up as high as her sensitive skin can reasonably tolerate, and simply stands under the spray for a long time, allowing the water to pummel her aching back and pelvic muscles into submission.
She gathers some of Deborah's body wash into her hands, using her palms to slick the gel over her skin. The wash is cashmere-scented, and something deep and primal in Ava recognizes this as the mysterious third scent that always lingers on Deborah, below the Black Pashmina but just above the older woman's natural earthy sweetness. The aroma is delicate, but it still wraps around Ava, deep and comforting. It makes her feel like Deborah is there with her in the shower, which is soothing, until she remembers how pissed the older woman likely is.
Deborah hid it well, while Ava was having her little freakout, but she has no doubt that Deb will be waiting to confront her the second she's out of the shower. Not only did Ava bleed through an entire set of Deborah's pajamas, but she also destroyed her sheets. God only knows how much money Ava's just shed her uterine lining all over.
Maybe, she thinks hysterically, Deborah will sue her again to recoup the damages. She lets out a small, demented laugh, about to give in to the panic that threatens to overtake her when she hears movement in the bedroom.
Knowing that Deb can hear her forces Ava to get a fucking grip. She sucks up her tears, rinses the suds from her body, then gets out of the shower. She grabs the towel off of the rack on the door, carefully dries herself. Ava wraps the generously-sized towel about her body, and steps out into the bedroom.
Deborah is nowhere to be found. The bed has been stripped, the linens disappeared along with Ava's ill-fated pajama set. In their place, Deborah has left a box containing half tampons and half extra-large pads. The box and its contents both look old and faded, and Ava guesses they're from the last time DJ stayed here, God only knows how many years ago. Along with these, Deborah's left a modest satin pair of her own panties, and yet another set of pajamas, this one the same blue as Deb's eyes and featuring an oriental print of cranes.
Ava gratefully sticks a pad to the inside of the panties and gets dressed. After she's got the pajamas on, she moves the box to the bedside table and begins inspecting the mattress, going over her side of the bed for even a speck of blood. She is relieved when she finds nothing. At least she didn't ruin Deborah's entire bed.
There's a knock at the door, and Ava turns toward it.
“Are you decent?” Deborah asks from the other side, as though she didn't just personally disrobe Ava not twenty minutes earlier.
“Yeah, I'm dressed,” Ava replies. Her stomach sinks as the older woman enters the room, carrying folded linens under her arm.
Ava expects Deborah to be furious with her. She expects yelling, or possibly just a declaration of how much Ava owes her to replace both her bedsheets and her pajama set.
Instead, Deborah drops her burden onto the sofa at the foot of the bed. She goes over to the headboard, and begins pulling pillows off the mattress, tossing them carelessly to the floor. Then she returns to the sofa, grabbing a fitted sheet from the pile of linens and unfolding it. Wordlessly, she looks over to Ava, then tosses her the other side of the sheet and moves over to the bed.
They work silently, making the bed together. Once all the corners are neatly tucked and the pillows fluffed, Deborah slides between the sheets, motioning for Ava to join her. The younger woman bites her lip, sitting with her disbelief until Deborah asks, “Well, are you coming?”
Ava slips wordlessly into bed, and Deborah reaches out for her, pulling the girl into her arms and settling her against the generous curve of her chest.
“Are you alright?” Deborah asks, resting her chin atop the younger woman's head.
“I am,” Ava confirms, “I just…I really am sorry about your sheets, Deb…”
“Oh, honey, fuck my sheets! Jesus, is that why you were crying and freaking out?”
Ava lets out a sound that's half chuckle, half sob. “Yeah,” she says.
Deborah frowns, then sighs as she admits, “I guess I can see why you would have been worried. But please know, I wasn't thinking about anything but you.”
“I believe you,” Ava says. She snuggles into Deborah, but, just as soon as she's gotten comfortable, another cramp seizes up the muscles below her belly button. She groans and puts a hand to her stomach.
“Hurting?” Deborah asks, with a sympathetic wince.
Ava nods. “Cramps are pretty normal for me, but this month they're hellish.”
Deborah leans back against the pillows, pulling Ava with her so that her back is flush against the older woman's chest.
“Can I try something that might help?” she asks.
Ava nods without having to think about it. She trusts Deb, and she's so desperate for relief that she'll try just about anything.
Deborah's hands slide down Ava's sides, making the girl shiver with anticipation before stopping at her belly. Once there, Deborah braces both of her hands, palm-down, on either side of Ava's stomach, and then, with the lightest amount of force, she presses with the heel of her hand, moving over her abdomen.
Ava doesn't know how to describe the sensation. Her insides feel raw, like someone's taken a meat tenderizer to her uterus, so the pressure of Deborah's hands hurts a little, but in that tingly, good-pain way that you get from rubbing any sore muscle.
Her muscles spasm slightly as Deborah shifts her focus, moving her hands in circles over Ava's abdomen and digging her fingertips gently in. Deborah’s fingers find the area right above the girl's tormented womb, and she begins carefully, softly massaging there as Ava lets out a groan of relief.
“You're really good at this,” Ava moans, as Deborah finds a little knot just below her navel and begins working it gently.
“I used to do this for myself,” she replies, “I got absolutely debilitating cramps, but, you know, the show would have to go on, so I learned to do whatever I could to make it tolerable. This plus a nice, strong drink usually got me there. Usually.”
“It must have been rough, having to go through all this and still perform,” Ava says.
“It wasn't fun,” Deborah acknowledges, “I certainly don't miss it.”
“I can't even imagine,” Ava says, “All I want right now is to go full goblin mode until the bleeding stops.”
Deborah's hands pause on Ava's belly.
“Goblin mode?” she asks, frowning.
“Internet term,” Ava says dismissively, “Basically, it just means staying inside and being lazy.”
“Odd, but descriptive,” Deborah says, “And you're in luck; tomorrow's Saturday, so ‘goblin mode’ is a very real possibility.”
“Please never say that again,” Ava pleads, and Deborah nods.
“Happily,” she says with a chuckle. Ava shares her laugh, leaning her head on Deborah's shoulder and tipping back to look up at her. The older woman meets her with a smile, then bows her head to catch Ava's lips with hers. The kiss is brief, but heavy with affection, and Ava burrows deeper into Deborah as she continues rubbing Ava's belly, soothing her with her hands.