Work Text:
She has a kitchen of her own now. A bedroom the size of a monastic cell, with more than enough pillows to make up for it. A bathroom with a previously-leaky faucet she attacked with the full force of lesbianism and her new toolbox (housewarming gift from Dan). A living room that fits a refurbished couch, a flea market table, and maybe five people if they squeeze together. A tiny garden, still a work in progress, in need of a lot of love, perfect for someone like her, someone ready to put in the work to make things bloom out of cracked, dry earth.
Wooden floors—a little worn, but homey. Lava lamps and pictures of her friends, her team, Stephanie. Her diploma framed on the wall, because she worked hard for it and a little pride is not a full sin. A crucifix, dwarfed by the abstract art hanging next to it (a Pollock-y, vaguely vulvic creation presented to her by a straight-faced Andrew, of dubious origin but suspected to have been painted by the man himself). Curtains lovingly sewn by Betsy from fabric they shopped for together. Knick-knacks gifted, thrifted, and crafted cluttering every available surface, because minimalism is overrated.
The house Renee (neé Natalie) was born into was never her home, the dorm was nice but shared, hard to personalize. Her new place is not much, but it’s all hers. It is no easy task, making things your own—your name, your faith, your scars, your house—but there is no more worthy endeavor.
In the dead of night, after she’s burrowed back under the sheets after a bathroom trip, she closes her eyes and sighs with delight. Her bedroom door is open, the house is quiet. It smells like her. She smiles. She drifts off again.