Work Text:
Sunlight bathe their skin, draws different shapes following the blinds mild movement, the way they twist under the sheets, too. Into each other. Victoria’s face sunk into the lukewarm crook of her mentor’s neck, a safe heaven in the midst of the cruel world. She's impossibly full of her, and yet it's not enough. Her, her, her. At what point should one stop oneself? Stop not to fade for the sake of taking and replacing with someone else's essence? She thinks she's never known herself like she does when Doctor Mckay’s big blue eyes stare into her. Achingly vulnerable. Wanton. Wet kisses peppering her exposed collarbone, and her fingers go cradle the other’s auburn locks, her cranium; encouraging. Take, take, take.
“What’s on your mind?” But the dream has fissures. One day, she exposes them with that question. Doctor McKay shifts uncomfortably, caught in the act, like a kid—ironic, isn't it?—and hides her eyes with the signature messy fringe. The first stab. “You can tell me. I won't-... I won't be upset.”
That's what she fears, isn't it? hurting her. Why does she insist on doing it, then?
She’s never bought a lottery ticket in her life, never believed in luck, maybe her mother had a say in that, but logically—to put your trust on a cheap piece of paper is… absurd. But if there were a lottery for love, Victoria’s certain she drew one with jagged edges—the kind of prize that cuts your palms, but since it's a *prize, you stubbornly hold onto it. It's loved by you. An adored possession, from then on. It's yours. Doctor McKay is hers, too, in all the ways that matter.
Five whole minutes pass by. Or maybe less. It could be her anxiety talking, and when she gets her answer—she regrets asking at all.
“Your mom. I think she knows.” Second stab. Her fingers find the hinge of the elder’s mouth, barely presses, but it's enough for her to move and kiss and then suck on the pad. Rosy lips she's nibbled all night, now trying to alleviate something… something she's not sure how to process. What is she supposed to say to that? What is Mckay expecting to hear?
( This is wrong—but it feels so good—I've never felt holier than I do when I’m laying on top of you. Chin brushing the dip of your navel. Devotion in my breath, then your pulse, as I kiss it. )
“What makes you think that?” Comes her distant voice, barely above a cracked whisper. She's suspected for longer than the other's known, but decided to swallow it down. Denial as second nature. As first call. She's in too deep, it feels so good, thus the mere thought to lose it sends her into a spiral.
Victoria spent her entire—short, but meaningful—life playing under rules. Some unspoken, some others not. Tuitions, medals, good grades—she’s done it all, she's honed what her mother called her finest attribute—and even if she was right, she found later in life, she had mistaken achievements for happiness. Applauses for warmth. Her mother was relentless. Victoria could not live up to that rhythm. She's burnt out.
She's been burnt out for a while.
Because of that, she thought her fate was sealed. Then she matched for PTMC, and her world expanded. The looming presence of her mother didn't extinguish the spark. She was breathing again. The strings pulled tight around her throat ceasing the bruising. It begins with a half-assed joke from Santos while she hands over a snack, Robby’s message of belonging, and ends in thick arms wrapped around her shoulders, cheek pressed on top of one. Fast to initiate touch. Air gets punched out of her lungs, forming a trembling, confused smile—palms landing on that broad back she thinks robs the spotlight when she's navigating the ER.
Those same hold her lower, at her hips, months later. Victoria asks for it to be mean. To which she receives a breathless laugh. Please, she insists, kiss-drunk and dizzy—she can't take any more hesitation, much less from whom she wants oh-so-fervently—and Mckay finally complies. Because what else is there to do?
Five months later, she says that, and Victoria wants to cry.
“I dunno…” She's searching for a softer way to put it, Victoria guesses easily. She always does that. Pull her punches. It's endearing, but it's vexing, too; Victoria’s already threadbare heart can't take more of that bullshit. “There’s a weird vibe.” Looking up, the question floats in the ocean of her eyes: Don't you notice it?
( Of course I did. I trained my entire life to analyze the room I'm about to walk in, because mom—Doctor Shamsi, made sure that each one of them were plagued with landmines. )
Their ‘meetings’ are scarce after that. Just in case, they lie to each other. To keep up appearances, Victoria tells herself—hot cheeks and a trembling lower lip—slipping away to the restroom when it becomes too much to bear, to spill her real feelings out.
---------------------------------
“You replaced me.” It's a harsh accusation, but what she feels is ugly, and so the world will have to accept it ugly. Her lilac sneakers are rooted to the painted cement of the parking lot, brown eyes focused on the taller figure of her, who whips around to look at her. Surprised, then her expression hardens into defensive confusion. There's sadness lurking, sadness Victoria is blind to. She swears bile climbs her throat with the next words. “I saw you, with that nurse.”
Doctor Mckay is wearing a canvas grey jacket. She looks tired, but still as handsome as ever. Victoria knows she always keeps a spare lighter in the left pocket.
“That’s not true. It was just banter.”
“Was it? Does she know that? Does she know we—” the back of her hand come up, wiping at the saline spill when she feels them cascade. Mckay can't help but to flick her gaze around the open space, cautiously checking for onlookers, and it kills Victoria, that they're not free.
“Vic,” That choice of nickname worsens the situation. And the realization is quick. Mckay closes the gap between them, grabs Victoria by the elbow and leads them to a corner, standing between McKay's old car and some dusty Honda that make hers look put-together and polished. “What you saw—it isn't—I wouldn't do that to you.”
“Wouldn't you?! I mean, you—you’re icing me out. Walking away when I look at you and avoiding to be in the same room as me.” Each word crashes against the next, she's always had that habit—talking too fast, when she's nervous, angry, and heartbroken. “You wouldn't have to hide if s-she was yours—t-there’s so much—you could do.”
Victoria remembers a boy from elementary school days, perfect target for what a girl her age was chasing after—everything about this crush was soft and innocent and harmless—he was clever, put up a fight unlike the rest, challenging, decently daring. She came to learn his interest ceased at the line of competitiveness, and upon realizing that, she felt stupid. Embarrassment sharp and burning hot. How could she think someone would ever reciprocate her?
Standing before Cassie Mckay, she's back in that empty classroom, small hands twisting at the sides, asking the same question she did back then: Why did you play with me like this?
Their answers differ, though. Pale hands make contact with damp skin, that touch transforms, angling her frame upwards; her thick eyelashes flutter, mapping the fine lines at McKay's eyes, the crow’s feet framing the fractured look she's giving Victoria.
( There's no love without sin. For sin is all the human being is good for. )
“Breathe, baby. It wasn't like that. I haven't stopped thinking about you. It's just—” I can't be with you. Can't ruin you. Except I already have, haven't I?
Victoria loves her. She feels the inner admission claw at the walls of her throat, sending shockwaves to the rest of her body she convinces is a biological response to that night's frigid air. Her face moves to the opposite side, losing the contact which fleetingly disappoints the older woman, but she's quickly pressing it against her clothed sternum.
The tears haven't stopped.
“Just what? You're doing this for the both of us? Is that what you say to convince yourself you're doing the right thing? You don't even realize this isn't about the nurse!” Hands grip the lapels of the jacket, pulling her impossibly closer, shaking and *messy with the force used. “I hate that you don't fight for us. When you found out—you pulled away. Why? Why won't you fight for us, if you want me?” Her breath is uneven, upset and raw. “What makes me so worthless to fight for? I don't give a shit if she knows about us! Fight! Cass, I need you to fight for this. For me.”
For once, selfishness is the door she reaches for instead of compliance, deciding this to be worth facing the looming shadow of her mother—but she needs the security that she won't be alone. Won't be for nothing. This woman holding her close—she’s lived on the edge for over half of her life, fearless and unapologetic, and Victoria needs that same fire to be lent.