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Carol is on dishwashing duty, as she is most nights since she delegated almost all of the cooking to Helen last year. She isn’t terribly fond of it, hates the pruning in particular, but it’s infinitely better than working away over a hot stove for hours at a time, and Helen happily agreed to the arrangement. So, she isn’t exactly in a position to complain about it.
She sets her wedding band — a sleek, silver strip of metal that finds residence on her finger only within the confines of their home — on the windowsill, and spares a glance into the yard. It’s thriving back there, thanks to Helen’s green thumb, and Carol’s total avoidance of the entire space (unless she is coerced into using the hot tub).
The water splashes up from the sink, leaving a deep blue patch of wetness on her tank top, and she lessens the flow with a groan. She dips her middle finger under the stream to test the temperature, and finds it warm enough to redden her skin, but not too hot that it really stings. Perfect.
She adds the dish soap, the green one that smells of aloe and sterility that Helen insists on, adds too much of it as she often does, then returns her gaze to the greenery just beyond the glass.
Her hands dip into the warm water, suds reaching up to her elbows.
After managing to get the worst of the residue off of a single plate, the sponge disintegrates between her fingers. She sighs, drying her hands off on a towel, and tugs open the cabinet beneath the sink, the one in which they store all of the miscellaneous household items. Her hands reach in blindly. The cabinet is a dark cavern of unknown, aside from the tall bottles of bleach at the front, and she never knows what she’s bound to find inside.
Something moves against her hand, plastic-y and hard, and she exhales in relief. Probably just a bottle of dish soap, already half emptied and shoved to the back in their haste to tidy up months ago.
She flattens her palm against the shelf, and runs it along until she makes contact with a… not sponge. It moves, runs, scampers, more accurately, across the backs of her fingers. Definitely not a sponge.
“Helen!” she exclaims, hands fisted by her sides as she takes a step back. “There is something in there.”
Helen comes rushing, reading glasses still perched on her nose, and has to stifle a laugh at the wide eyed panic that adorns her wife’s face. “What is it?” she asks, amused. She peers inside, and sees a startling amount of cleaning products. “We should clear this out.”
“I don’t know. Just… just something. Small-ish, hairy? Furry, maybe.” She shakes her head, inhaling sharply. “It touched me, Hel. Ran right over my hand, see.” Helen takes her hand, examining the faint red marks.
“Poor baby,” she teases, a smile gracing her lips as she presses them to Carol’s hand. “Mouse?”
“Fucking hope not,” Carol murmurs, still shaking her head.
“Better than a rat, no?”
At that, she retreats further towards the exit as Helen shoves her hand into the cabinet. She is so focused as she explores the cluttered space with her phone flashlight, and not an ounce of fear. “At least wear gloves,” Carol urges, gnawing at her bottom lip.
“Why?”
“What if it has rabies and it bites you?”
“Then it has rabies and it bites me,” Helen replies, shrugging her shoulders. “We go to the hospital and get me un-rabies-ified. No big deal.”
“Rabies can be fatal.”
“So can misery,” she says, eyebrow raised. God, she’s insufferable. And hot.
Not the time, she scolds herself.
“Cheer up, I’m dealing with it.” Helen is practically in the cupboard, now, ass and legs sticking out as her upper body is engulfed in darkness. Carol doesn’t understand how she can be so composed and fearless in the face of a mystery creature and a dark space, but she doesn’t voice her confusion. At least she doesn’t have to deal with it herself, she supposes.
It takes her a few minutes to locate the source of Carol’s annoyance (she refuses to label it a fear), but she manages. “A-ha!” Helen says, turning to Carol with a bright smile. Cupped in her hands is a mouse, small and brown, and squirming desperately in a feeble attempt to get away. “Our evil culprit, I believe.”
“Get rid of it.” Carol doesn’t look up, just swats her hand in Helen’s general direction. “Please.”
“What?” she asks, lips pursed into a teasing pout. “We can’t just get rid of him, he’s so cute.”
“Cute?” Carol scoffs. “That is a home intruder. Get rid of it.”
“He’s a mouse, Care. At least look at him.”
Carol shakes her head, retreating once more until her back hits the wall. “No. Nope, no way.”
“Oh, come on, he’s harmless.” Approaching Carol, she holds the mouse towards her, and Carol finally relents. It is kinda cute, she supposes.
Still, she can’t let a fucking cute-faced intruder charm her out of her stubborn distaste for scampering… things. “You won’t be saying that when you’re riddled with bites and fleas.”
“I will.” She coos over the little rodent, and, if any other situation, Carol would find it sweet, but that little fucker scared her half to death, so she just grumbles to herself.
“Take it outside,” she murmurs, after a few minutes of half-indulging in Helen’s softness.
“You have to take them, like, a few miles away or something, apparently,” she whispers, as if afraid to frighten the creature. “Something about them having really good navigation, but if they’re far enough away, they can’t find their way back.”
Her eyes narrow, flitting from her wife to the mouse, then back to Helen again. Maybe she’s bullshitting.
“Okay, so take the car.” She waves her off, and makes her way towards the couch. Her body collapses unceremoniously against the plush fabric, and she lets out a shaky exhale. She picks up the book from the side table, the same one Helen had clearly discarded there before rescuing her from their rodent problem, and opens it to a random page. She can’t focus on the words at all, but if she looks occupied enough, Helen usually leaves her to her own devices and sorts everything on her own.
Today, apparently, that is not the case.
“I can’t drive and hold this li’l guy, babe,” she says, and, if not for the teasing lilt in her voice, the same one that obscures enough of the whine in her voice, Carol would have caved immediately.
“I’m not getting in the car with that thing!”
Twenty minutes later, Carol sits in the passenger seat, scowling.
“Why couldn’t I drive?” she asks, looking over at Helen.
“You were shaking like a leaf, would’ve sent us into the Rio Grande.” Helen doesn’t look away from the road as she hums along to the radio. Either she doesn’t notice Carol’s discomfort, or she is choosing to ignore it for her own peace of mind.
“So I’m stuck with this thing on my lap,” she murmurs, gesturing to the plastic storage container in her lap. Helen made her poke holes into the top, for breathing, or some bullshit, before she was willing to close the rodent inside. “What if it escapes?”
“He won’t escape.”
The reassurance doesn’t calm Carol’s nerves, and she grips the container tighter. “What if it does?”
“He won’t,” she repeats. “Sunglasses.”
Carol hands them to her, watches as she unfolds them and slides them over her eyes, one hand still on the wheel. “You don’t know that,” she whispers.
“I do.”
“If it gets out,” she says, “I’m throwing the whole box at you, and we’re all going into the river.”
“Always so melodramatic.”
“I’m serious, Helen. If that thing touches me, I’m done.” She pauses, squeezes her eyes tightly closed as her hands tighten around the container. “I’ll throw myself out of the car.”
“I’m going ninety,” she counters, but, despite her words, she slows to eighty.
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll die.”
“Better than being stuck here with that… that thing.”
“Quit your whining, I can’t focus on the road.”
They drive in silence for a while, until Helen pulls over at a grassy clearing.
“Pass him over, baby,” she prompts, hands outstretched and waiting.
“Take it yourself.” She shakes her head, arms raised to clear the path from the container to Helen. “I don’t want to be near that thing for a second longer.”
So, Helen does. Because that’s what Helen always does. That’s the kind of person Helen is.
She sets it free on the edge of a field, and gets back in the car.
“Look, a petting zoo!” Helen exclaims on the drive back, grinning as she looks across at Carol. “Wanna go pet some bunnies?”
“I’ve had my fair share of touching little creatures today, thanks,” her wife huffs, and folds her arms tight across her chest.
“Suit yourself.” she shrugs, and flicks the indicator nonetheless. “I, however, want to go pet some bunnies.”
“You know it’ll look weird if two grown women show up to a petting zoo, right?”
“And?”
“Whatever.” She slumps down in the seat, and tries to focus on the blinking indicator, rather than the other option. Her hand still feels funky from that fucking mouse.
The rest of the drive is silent, and Carol can’t decide if she likes it or not.
The petting zoo is relatively empty, which, given that it’s two in the afternoon on a Wednesday, doesn’t come as much of a surprise to either of them. Helen is ecstatic that there will be no line for the bunnies, and Carol just stands behind her, face thunderous.
“An adult, and a petulant, middle-aged toddler,” she says, smile big and bright as she talks to the admissions guy. He shoots Carol a look, but rings up the tickets that way, nonetheless. “Thank you.”
“Tortoises are out of action today,” he murmurs, handing the tickets to Helen. “Alpacas, too. Getting their enclosure renovated.”
Helen just shrugs, mutters “I only care about the bunnies,” and walks towards the entrance.
“Keep up, grumpy,” Helen says, spinning a full three-sixty to face Carol, then return to her previous position. Not once does she stop walking towards the bunny enclosure.
“You got me a kids ticket.” Carol glares at her, but follows nonetheless. “A kids ticket, Helen. I’m pushing fifty.”
“And you’re acting like a child. Ticket guy clearly agreed.”
“He just wanted to extort you out of even more money. Kids tickets are, like, twice the price.”
“Worth it.” Helen bounds through the zoo with the excitement of a puppy, speaking in a baby voice to every animal she passes. It’s cute, Carol thinks, but keeps it to herself.
She trails behind, eyes narrowed as she takes in each of the enclosures. Miniature pigs snort up at her as she passes, and she rolls her eyes. The audacity. She passes by the goat enclosure next, the ponies, the donkeys, then stops in her tracks at the start of a long dirt path. Insects, the sign reads. Perfect.
She studies each sign, committing them all to memory. A million different methods of camouflage, different hunting tactics, and eating schedules all stuck deep in her brain, stored away for inspiration. Maybe they’d work for a Wycaro character. Some villain, or a new crew member aboard the Mercator. She isn’t big on fantasy characters as much as the settings, but she takes inspiration from wherever she can get it.
The handler approaches from behind as Carol watches a giant stick insect on a branch. “Her name is Poppy,” she says. “I can get her out for you, if you wanna hold her.”
“Does she bite?”
“No. Giant stick insects are harmless. You just have to be gentle with her.”
“Right. Delicate limbs.” She nods, then turns back to watch as the insect, Poppy, stands motionless, mimicking the branch she stands on. “Isn’t she sleeping? The sign says they’re nocturnal.”
“They are, usually. In the wild at least. This one, she’s awake for an hour or so during the day, because her previous owner would handle her all day.”
“She’s awake right now?”
“Yes, she’s just feeling a bit lazy.”
“Carol, look,” Helen says, beaming. She cradles a fluffy, white bunny in her arms, and presses a kiss to its fur as she turns. Carol isn’t there. She could’ve sworn she was right behind her a minute ago.
She cranes her neck, trying to spot her wife amongst the various enclosures and handlers that litter her line of sight.
No Carol.
“Hey.” She gets the attention of the handler, a tall man in his mid-thirties. “Did another woman follow me in here? Five foot four, ish, blonde?” He looks back at her, totally clueless, so she purses her lips, and adds, “constantly looks ready to explode.”
Something clicks for him at that, and he shakes his head. “Nah, she turned off down the insect path.”
“Fucking hell,” she murmurs, then shields the rabbit’s ears gently. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, she’s heard worse,” the handler assures, picking up another bunny. “Kid came in yesterday and called his mom a cunt the entire time.”
“Jesus.”
He shrugs. “That one you’re holding is Grape, this one is Carrot.”
“Nice names.”
“My kid picked them.” His smile is wide and bright, clearly proud that his kid can recite the name of a vegetable and a fruit. “He named everything after whatever was in his lunchbox.”
“That’s sweet,” Helen says, face softening as she buries her nose in white fur. “She’s so cute, is she always this calm?”
“Not when it gets busy.” He shakes his head, petting the brown bunny in his arms. “Grape’s usually only on for weekday handling, and she starts biting the moment she sees a middle-schooler. Carrot is our social butterfly.”
“Smart girl.”
By the time Helen is done with Grape (she starts to get fussy after thirty minutes, so she lets her down to eat, or whatever it is that rabbits do), she is suspicious of the silence. Carol, when left to her own devices for longer than five minutes, tends to cause a ruckus of some kind or another, and Helen is scared that there aren't any screams, yells, or blaring alarms.
She stalks down the path to the insect section, pokes her head through the door, and melts at the sight.
Carol sits cross-legged on the carpeted ground, with a stick insect on her arm. Her eyes are fixed on the insect, and she is silent, just studying it. She looks completely at ease. The lines that etch into her expression are smoothed out, as if every ounce of annoyance at the world dissipated the moment she sat down.
In silence, she watches her, a smile on her face.
This is one of her favourite versions of Carol, right in this moment. Calm, open, and softened. Readable, even to those with an untrained eye.
The handler nods at Helen. She nods back, doesn’t move.
“You liked that one?”
Carol nods, smiling to herself as she buckles her seatbelt. “She was interesting.”
“Maybe we should get one? Could put it in your office?”
Carol shakes her head, and leans across the console. “I’ll just come back here whenever I want to study her again.” She presses a kiss to Helen’s lips, chaste and featherlight, then pulls back. “Maybe you should get a bunny.”
“Nah. I already have my fair share of grumpy creatures.”
“Asshole.”