Work Text:
April R. Ludgate [11:03AM]
missed my lunch break because of ann
another arachnid emergency
a scorpio
i named it carlo :3
April R. Ludgate [04:47PM]
are we still having dinner tnt?
me [03:13PM]
Just got back to the hotel.
Wanda came along
Can't stand California anymore. These booktours are exhaustive
(↝missed my lunch break because of ann) Leave the scorpion there next time
(↝ i named it carlo :3) You brought it home, didn't it you?
Stop collecting insects you find at Ann's. And naming them.
me [03:50PM]
(↝are we still having dinner tnt?) Yes.
What do you want to eat?
April R. Ludgate [03:55PM]
hey ;)
hey wanda
(↝ Stop collecting insects you find in Ann's. And naming them.)
it needed a home and i have enough room in here.
and arachnids aren't insects
(↝ What do you want to eat?) i think i want japanese
how does it sound?
me [03:56PM]
Fine for me
(↝ it needed a home and i have enough room in here) At this rate
there won't be enough room for me the next time I stop by
April R. Ludgate [03:56PM]
don't be stupid barkley
there's always enough room for you in here
if not
we'll make it fit
me [03:59PM]
Idiot
April R. Ludgate [04:01PM]
;P
see you in 3 hours
“You're texting her, aren't you?” Wanda's voice cut through her thoughts, causing Jennifer to raise her head immediately. “She makes you smile too easy. It's scary.”
Her expression sours, and she throws a cushion in Wanda's direction. “Shut up.”
The other chuckles, catching the object and placing it on her lap. They sit on opposite sides of the room: one on the bed, the other by the couch under the window. “I'm not judging,” she raises a hand in surrender. “I should actually compliment your girlfriend for all the good mood–”
“–Not my girlfriend.”
She quirks a brow, unimpressed. “Are you still doing the 'no label' thing? Because you haven't had sex with anyone else since you went back to Indiana for her six months ago.”
Jen rolls her eyes. “I didn't go back to Indiana for her. We had a meeting with an editor.”
“A meeting you insisted on going in person.”
“We couldn't discuss everything through Meet. It was important to see them in person.”
Wanda shakes her head. “We're not having this argument again.”
“Good.”
This conversation has happened before — in Indianapolis, in Denver, in DC: Wanda had asked about April, and Jen had slipped through cheap loopholes. Wanda had found every sign and let her escape anyway — maybe because she knew Jennifer since college in more ways than others; maybe because she remembered how good her friend had always been at running. Jen had taken her chance to escape, and she shamelessly stood right there in plain sight — one step too close and too far.
“We're having dinner tonight,” she says, looking everywhere but the other. “Do not make it weird.”
“Okay.” She shakes her head slightly, leaning forward. “Video call?”
“Yes.” A beat. “We're having Japanese.”
“Jen-”
“Wanda.”
This conversation has happened before — in Des Moines, Santa Monica, Pawnee: Wanda had asked about April, about them, and Jen had offered negatives as periods. Jen had run. As an expert. As only herself could ever do — as the self Wanda met decades ago, she ran — but it was already too late: Wanda had already caught up on her symptoms.
The giggles, the absorbed humor, the changes in her calendar.
And maybe that's a good reason for Wanda to let it go most of the time.
“Japanese is nice.”
From the East to the West Coast, it's a good reason for her to let her use her loopholes.
“I have the number of a restaurant I like if you want.” She suggests. “Their fortune cookies always have the funniest phrases.”
Maybe that's a good reason for Wanda to just let her have it.
“That could work,” she turns to her. “Thank you.”
And maybe that's a good reason for her to believe Jennifer will give herself some time before realizing there's no way to run from Ludgate anymore.
“Of course.”
Brand new — it's a brand-new feeling.
Blooming within her without permission and taking over the empty rooms inside her, this terribly juvenile excitement — this unexpected juvenile sentiment she hasn't felt before — has developed dangerously close to her bones and vessels. Important organs. Tethered to heart, lungs, and encephalon — it's everywhere, hard to get rid of it.
Behavior, physiology.
In the way she brushes her hair to take a damn video call to the way, and how her each heartbeat echoes from scalp to toes. And how she makes sure to wear a t-shit she accidentally packed along with her clothes the last time she had been in Indiana.
In the way she times blinks and breaths — how her fingers touch the screen as she places the order, already thinking about the other's going to get for herself. And how she sways around the room to expel some energy, barefoot, and the way her voice sounds when her internal monologue starts to externalize itself.
“Compose yourself," she tries to steady her feet, but they're a force of their own. “Why are you nervous for this? It's a video call. With April. Just April.”
She checks her watch — 07:25PM, five minutes.
The statement doesn't sound right, but she insists. “It's April. Just April. Calm down.”
She sways — in April's tee. (The smell that once clung to the fabric is not longer there and, for a moment, a part of her mourns the absence of April's fabric softener. The smell of her soap and perfume — her sweat and skin.) And closes her eyes.
She moves around the room until she stops before the kitchen counter where her laptop is. The lights are, thankfully, golden bulbs hanging only a few inches from the ceiling. The room is warm, and the stool is decently comfortable.
Jen is about to check her watch once more when she hears the ring.
07:30PM.
She smiles.
Sits on the stool and looks at the screen.
✆ Incoming video call – April R. Ludgate ✆
Presses the green button and–
“God, you took forever.” April does her best to seem annoyed, but the left corner of her mouth is raised up. “It's already 07:01PM.”
Jen rolls her eyes, “I picked up, did I not?”
“Yeah. But you're late for our date. That's very rude of you, Barkley.”
She can feel the tug on her bones — it's everywhere. The hitch on the breath at that word being used.
“Oh, shut up, Ludgate. Last time you spent the first 20 minutes on your phone while walking back to yours because you were in one of your Ann's emergencies.” Her last words come out saccharine, but of course the other doesn't realize it.
“I picked up, did I not?”
The smugness in her tone makes Jen grind her teeth. She'd love to be there in person to kiss that little smirk off her face in two seconds — a hand on her neck and a bite on her lower lip.
God, it is everywhere.
“Hey, hang on a minute. That's the shirt that went missing!”
“Is it?” She feigns confusion.
“Of course it is! It's my Megadeth shirt.”
“I'm pretty sure you gave it to me, honey.”
“You borrowed it one night and then it vanished.”
“That's not how I remember it.” The corners of her lips rise, and she can see April's follow.
“That was my favorite.”
“Oh, poor you.”
April shakes her head. “You're vile.”
She crackles, and something warm burns inside her. Something minuscule starts crawling all the way up to her throat.
I'm not sure if I want to get rid of it.
“And you love it.”
The bed — that's where they end up. April on the right side, Jen on the left — the same spaces they'd occupy in person when sharing the same mattress.
It's past midnight, and the city lights penetrate through the curtains, reaching the ceiling in thin fluorescent stripes. (The leftovers of their dinner have been forgotten on the counter, and the two fortune cookies had been left for the next morning.) Jen won't stop yawning, and April can't stop talking about the mechanics of cremation and arachnids.
And, somehow, for some godforsaken reason, Jennifer still finds in her energy to look at the screen and pay attention to the other's ramblings.
She grabs a pillow. Cuddles it. Yawns one more time. Grins at the way the other rocks back and forth as she explains why she keeps the insects she finds at Ann's a certain way, and why she always gives them Spanish names.
“Hey, Jen,” April calls, and she responds immediately, raising her head. “Am I talking too much? Do you want to go?”
“No, no. Keep talking.” She smiles. Blinks slowly. “I'm tired because of the day I had, but I want to listen to you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Tell me more about Carlo.”
April grins.
And, okay–
Okay.
Maybe it's only fair to listen to her because she spent the first hour ranting about the booktour. Maybe it's the fact April looks adorable when she's this excited.
Maybe it's the time — it's past 1AM. Maybe it's the sound of her voice.
Maybe it's the thing tugging on her insides, crawling up her flesh. Maybe it's the brand-new feeling that transforms her inside out — that makes her pace, and hum; the thing that's everywhere, and everything.
Maybe it's the thing so hard to get rid of. Maybe it's just April — maybe Jen just wanted her there.
And with that, she falls asleep.
Without intending to.
Beside April.
Surrounded by her.
In April's tee.
Listening to her ramblings.
She falls asleep.
Hey?
Jen?
Baby?
You fell asleep, didn't you?
April comes closer to the screen. You look cute. A smile — one Jen wouldn't know about.
I'm going to leave the call on, okay?
I don't want to hang up without literally saying goodnight so I'll stay here.
A pause. A long one.
April moves around her bed. Turns out the light. There isn't much to see now, but the microphone's still close enough for the sound to come through.
I wish I were there.
Or that you were here.
When are you coming back, Jen?
When can I come to you?
I miss holding you.
There is more noise. Some time passes. The screen is dark.
Goodnight, Jen.
I hope you get enough rest
I texted in case the call drops
Sleep well
April R. Ludgate [01:50AM]
in case the call drops i'm still here with you
goodnight, jen
sleep well
sz
Fortune 1#: Somebody appreciates the unique in you
Fortune 2#: True love is on its way. Make room!