Work Text:
When Carol stirs awake, Helen's side of the bed is empty. As always, it takes a while for her mind to register the fact that Helen has been gone almost two months now. More importantly, it takes a while to realise that it wasn’t Helen that kept her warm throughout the night. That it wasn’t Helen's arm that wrapped itself around her waist nor her hand that pulled her closer instinctively. But in the dead and dark of the night, and if Carol tried hard enough, it all felt the same.
She finds a long strand of dark brown hair on Helen's pillow and catches a whiff of vanilla and musk still lingering in the sheets.
Carol wishes she had been drunk when she had invited Zosia in and asked her to stay. But her mind has never been clearer, and her thoughts sober. Familiarity crept in and there really was no point in putting up her walls. It was Zosia after all. A halfway friend, a halfway something…
When Carol broke away from the hug, it was Zosia who broke the silence first.
“We missed you. We're glad we could be back again”, she said, almost whispering, her hand caressing Carol's arm.
Carol could not say anything back. Instead, her jaw tightened in an effort to hide the fact that Zosia's words had softened her just a little.
So she invited her in for a drink and made a joke about how Zosia had better not brought a grenade this time.
They didn't talk much after. Carol had never been more careful with her words, afraid that if she said the wrong thing, she would be alone again. So they drank. Zosia would spit out random facts here and there and Carol could not quite pinpoint if she’s just as uncomfortable with the silence. When night came, she rummaged through her closet, eyelids half-closed and hands Zosia a change of clothes. She told Zosia to sleep wherever she felt like but did not expect her to settle down next to her. Tired, drunk, and exhausted, Carol did not protest.
And now she has fully woken up and regrets the fact that any of Helen's lingering scent has now been tainted.
She gets up and finds Zosia cooking something for her in the kitchen.
“Where’d you get that?”
Zosia looks at her confused as stirs eggs on the pan.
“Who told you to wear that shirt?” Carol says, stern.
“We’re sorry, we don’t mean to upset you, but this was the shirt you gave us last night. Should we not wear it?”
Carol tenses up, and remembers to even out her breathing.
“It's fine. just… just be sure to not get anything on it.”
Zosia smiles in acknowledgment. Carol knows that they are aware of the fact that the shirt was Helen’s so why wear it? They can’t be too naive to believe that this would not anger her. One of them in her wife’s clothes.
Carol takes a seat by the dining table as Zosia lays out the meal she prepared for them. Avocado on toast, with eggs and bacon. She takes a bite and immediately notes how the bread is toasted exactly the way Helen would do it. A light layer of crunch and mostly soft all the way through. She laughs, insulted.
“You have no right. I told you her memories were off limits.” She drops the food on her plate.
“We’re sorry, Carol. We thought you’d like it. You always have this after a night of drinking. We just thought it’d cheer you up.” Zosia explains.
“Yeah, it’s all ‘we this, we that’. Her thoughts aren’t yours. She is not part of you. You do not speak for her.” Carol looks directly into her eyes, unwavering, her fist tightening against her fork. Zosia doesn’t reply and Carol hopes it’s because she’d know better than to do so.
“Why don’t you make things the way Zosia would, huh? How does she like her breakfast? Does she even cook? Give me something real. Something different.” It’s a challenge, and maybe a tough one to pose. Is there anything real about them? And would it really mean anything to get to know Zosia?
Zosia exhales and ponders about the first thing she should say.
“She eats light for breakfast. Prefers savoury rather than sweet. She doesn’t care much for avocado toast but she loves shakshuka. These are eggs in tomato sauce. Sometimes she loves having kanapka - a sandwich. She’d pick out ingredients she’d top it with, often cottage cheese and chives, and sometimes just a slice of cheese and ham.” She pauses, seemingly to gauge a reaction, Carol thought, but she doesn’t give her one.
Then she continues, “And she cooks. Zosia is of two heritage and often enjoys getting to know her culture through food. We could cook you something from her home country if you’d like that instead?”
Carol clears her throat, “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything”. She finishes the toast and observes Zosia as she eats and wonders if her mannerisms are calculated. The slow chew, the straight posture, and the way she instinctively wipes away the stray food at the edge of her mouth. Maybe Zosia comes out in moments like this. It doesn’t feel substantial but it feels real and Carol will take that any day.
It’s not long enough til the shift focuses on admiration. In the soft light of day, Zosia’s beauty is even more undeniable. Her warm brown eyes are ever so inviting. It would be a lie to say she had not thought about her in a different way. It’s more carnal than anything. At least that’s what Carol convinces herself. Just like the hive, there’s a part of herself that cannot lie. One that knows that this is loneliness masked as desire.
And if she just continues eating her breakfast, with Zosia safely in her peripheral, it would seem as if nothing had changed at all. That it would be as if Helen is the one sitting across from her. That it was just another Wednesday where they enjoy the brief time they have together before the day eventually starts. They’d share a kiss before parting ways by the door. Carol would go back to writing her draft and excitedly wait for Helen to get home later. She could pretend it’s like this for the moment. To live in delusion.
But then Zosia speaks. A fun fact about breakfasts around the world.
And the image shatters. Because her Helen would never say something like this. If she were to speak out of the blue, she’d tell her how much she loved her instead.