Work Text:
The scent of coriander drifts through the open studio doors—someone’s lunch, left half-eaten on a folding chair—mixing with the sharp tang of sweat and hot stage lights. Dorothy wipes her palms against her olive-green slacks, leaving faint, damp streaks on the fabric, as she squints at Hepburn and Ball mid-rehearsal. Ball’s hips sway off-beat, deliberately exaggerated, just to make Hepburn laugh during the take. Marion’s fingers curl around Dorothy’s elbow, tugging her backward into the shadow of a prop column. Her grip is insistent but cuddly, the way she always touches Dorothy when she’s trying not to disrupt the set.
“Is something wrong with the script?” Dorothy murmurs, already thumbing through the pages in her other hand without looking down. The paper crinkles softly.
Marion shakes her head, close enough that her breath stirs the stray curls at Dorothy’s temple. “No, of course not.” She pauses, pressing her lips together like she’s fighting a smile. “But the deli on Sixth—their rye bread. I know we had it for dinner last night, but if we-”
Dorothy sighs, cutting her off by cupping Marion’s face between her hands. The skin under her palms is warm, slightly flushed from hours under the lights. “The things I do for you,” she mutters, but she’s already tilting Marion’s chin up, brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
Marion’s laughter bubbles up, unrestrained, as Dorothy shifts to press kisses along her cheekbone, the bridge of her nose, the delicate dip below her earlobe. Marion’s giggles punctuate each one, her shoulders shaking under Dorothy’s hold. Behind them, someone drops a cymbal with a clatter. Neither of them turns around.