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The moon hung still in the clear midnight sky, the outside world a pitch black emptiness. Fareeha sat at the kitchen table, the lights dimmed as she read her novel. Her fingers tapped at the table, restless. Angela had yet to drag her off to bed, which meant one of two things; either she was upset with her, or her wife was planning something from the dirtiest depths of her browser history. Both possibilities made her afraid. But, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen Mercy in the last few hours. Maybe she was lying in ambush.
Angela, on the other hand, jabbed the coals with her poker, the fire spreading nicely. She sat back in her lawn chair, the fire pit lighting up the backyard in orange illumination. Shoveling off the patio had taken work, sure, but it would all be worth it once she and Fareeha were eating s’mores by the snow. And beer. Angela had a cooler with more alcohol than ice for when Pharah could supervise her. All that was left was to drag her outside into the frigid night air.
Fareeha was sitting inside, having moved from the kitchen to the den, sitting on the couch with her book and thinking about how much she did not want to be dragged outside into the frigid night air. Unfortunately, the universe didn’t care about how well her reading of Beowulf was going, as Angela burst into the room at that exact moment.
“Sweetheart, want to come outside with me? The moon is beautiful.” Mercy grabbed her spouse by the wrist enthusiastically, pulling her towards the door. Fareeha remained in place via her rippling biceps, and gave Angela a look of ‘I’d rather die’ . Dr. Ziegler pouted, threading her fingers into Fareeha’s hand, holding it against her cheek. “Please? For me?” Pharah buckled.
“Dear fuck, it is really cold out here..” Fareeha wrapped her arms around herself tightly, shivering as she made her way to the modest fire. “Can’t we make it a little bigger?” Angela pressed a finger to her cheek thoughtfully.
“Well, city code restrictions tend to complicate things; it’s illegal to light a campfire unless you have an appropriately-sized pit. And this one is small.”
“Sorry, what was that?” Fareeha had taken several beams of lumber; ones left over from the construction of a toolshed the previous summer, and set them up against the sides of the cast-iron pit, the edges quickly beginning to catch aflame. Angela stepped back with an expression of fake concern, not letting go she had secretly hoped for this. Fareeha slapped the dust off her hands, admiring the beginnings of a raging bonfire as she sat down in a second lawn chair. “Much better.”
“Sweetheart, dear. Don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous?” Angela seated herself next to her stoic wife, popping open a bag of marshmallows as she warned her with all the monotone of an advanced biology college professor. “Want some marshmallows?”
“Gladly.” Fareeha jabbed one on the fire poker, making sure it was steadfast before plunging it into the depths of the fire. Angela gasped in horror, wide-eyed.
“What the fuck was that?! Your marshmallow is on fire! Was zum Teufel, Scheiße!” Mercy held the bag of sugary puffs against her chest defensively, looking like am offended mother as Fareeha blew the fire out, pulling the charred mallow off her stick and putting it in her mouth.
“Calm down, I just like having the outside burnt.”
“ Calm down?! You just murdered an innocent child! Do you even know how to cook a marshmallow?! Stay still and watch, you fucking lunatic.” Angela gently retrieved a marshmallow from the bag, impaling it on the fire poker before ever-so-skillfully brushing it around the edge of the fire, rotating it accordingly. In a few minutes, Mercy relaxed and looked at her masterpiece, a perfect golden-brown pillow of delight. “See, sweetheart?” Angela turned to Fareeha, who was in the middle of comically snoring into her coat. “Sweetheart.” Pharah snorted and opened her eyes, trying not to laugh as she stretched her arms.
“What? Is it morning already? Last thing I remember was someone trying to fry a marshmallow with all the precision of an archaeologist.” Angela bit her tongue, resisting the urge to slap a bitch as she bit into her carefully crafted piece of art. All the rage she ever had melted away as the sticky, sweet foam oozed into her mouth, her taste buds drowning in pleasure. Fareeha, in the meantime, was watching Angela as she ate; appearing to have an orgasm from pure joy. Pharah reached for the bag, mildly curious to try one of such mastery for herself, but instead was interrupted by the fire shifting, the flaming beams cracking before collapsing onto the patio in one apocalyptic swoop. There were screams.
“I told you it was dangerous, you pyromaniac!” Angela leaned over Fareeha lying on the sofa, tending to burns with a bottle of ointment. “Lookit what you did to yourself!”
“Pfft.” Fareeha shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad, just threw some snow on it and ‘poof’, it was gone.” Pharah winced painfully as Mercy rubbed her wounds, angry. “...So maybe it destroyed half the garden bed. But I can fix that.”
“You better.” Angela mumbled as she finished bandaging the injured arm, touching Fareeha with all the love of a worried child with an injured bird. “And you better get better to make things better, capiche?”
“Uh...yes.” Pharah agreed, in no position to resist. She blushed lightly as Angela crawled onto her stomach, tilting Fareeha’s head with a commanding hand on her chin.
“I need to check you entire body for injuries. ASAP.” Fareeha sighed in welcome surrender, her earlier hunch correct. The two laid on the couch until morning, sleeping until noon the following day, curled up in each other’s arms. Amari rebuilt the garden bigger and better the following evening, much to the delight of her wife.