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The bed is soft, but not too soft. The blackout curtains are doing their job beautifully. She's taken her melatonin.
And yet.
The problem is, the walls are thick enough that she can't hear Debbie snoring. And if she can't hear Debbie snoring, then she might not hear it if someone came for her in the night. The door has a chain, and Judith made sure she put it on, but there are ways to defeat that. There are also the balcony doors, with shitty little locks - she should mention that to the management. The air vents could fit a smallish person. Redback would've fit in those vents. And Debbie is still too trusting. If someone knocked on the door pretending to be staff, she might well open it.
"Fuck it." Decision made, she swipes a pillow off the bed and goes to knock on the connecting door.
Five minutes later finds her sitting on the floor, embroiled in a staring contest. "Judith. Just get in the fucking bed. Or I'll go sleep in your room and lock the door." She’s stuck. There aren't many sane reasons, and even fewer heterosexual ones, not to share a bed with your best friend of twenty-five years. She's already being odd. So she gets into the bed, but can’t resist pointing out “I can pick locks, you know.”
Debbie just chuckles. “Goodnight honey.”
Everything is burning. She has to get to her, to save her, but she can’t move. She tries to struggle, tries to scream, as a figure moves into her view. Suddenly she regains the power of movement, lashes out with all four limbs. She blinks. The fire is gone, replaced by darkness. Then a lamp clicks on, and light fills the space. She turns towards the source, eyes locking on to Debbie’s face. “It’s okay,” she reaches out, laying a hand on Judith’s shoulder. “You had a nightmare.”
“I know,” she answers, automatically. Slowly reality filters back in, even though her heart is still pounding. “I’m sorry I woke you.” This is why she should’ve pushed harder against getting in the bed, but at least she can fix that now, and Debbie will understand why.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Or not.
“Sleep on the floor,” she explains, then, because maybe it’s not clear enough, “there will be more.”
“Every night?” Her eyes are wide with concern.
Yes. Of course. “A little worse, since …” she trails off, because there are so many ways to finish that sentence. Worse since I shot Ana. Worse since I almost lost you. Worse since she locked me in a furnance to live.
"Come back to bed."
She shakes her head. "I'll be fine." She always is. She's survived much worse than a couple of nightmares.
"Judith," her tone forces Judith to meet her eyes, at once both stern and incredibly soft. "I won't wake you, if that's better." She should protest, but she's too exhausted and wrung-out for a battle of wills right now, so she nods and slides back under the covers.
She's fourteen again. The woman, who she knows to be her adoptive mother, but whose face isn't quite right, reaches out a hand to slap her. She tries to react, to cover her face, but her limbs refuse to cooperate. "Why would I keep you?" She laughs. "Why would anyone ever keep you?" Her face shifts, becoming younger and crueller, hair straightening and darkening. Her voice has a light accent now when she says "you're a killer."
Then the room starts to fade. She's younger now, much younger. Being rocked to sleep by someone who loves her.
She's surprised how rested she feels when she wakes. There's something pleasant lingering on the edges of her consciousness. A good dream.
She bypasses "her" room that night, and gets in beside Debbie without fanfare. It still doesn't feel safe, leaving her alone, and she knows she's no more likey to win the "I'm fine to sleep on the floor" argument tonight than she was yesterday. And then Debbie stretches out her arm, pats her shoulder like she's inviting Judith in for a cuddle. Her brain short-circuits. "What?"
"You stopped having a nightmare when I rubbed your back last night. I think being touched helps, so come here." She says matter-of-factly, blowing right by the revelation that she rubbed Judih's back last night. She joggles her arm impatiently. "Come here."
Judith has incredible powers of restraint and endurance. It turns out, however, that she's much less capable of resisting something she wants. The best she can do is a petulant "fine," as she shuffles down on the mattress so that she can rest her head on Debbie's shoulder. She's fully intending to only stay there until Debbie nods off, but then she puts an arm around her and she feels so unbearably safe and loved. Her eyes start to grow heavy. The last conscious thought she has is how comfortable this is.
The next morning they pack up and board another train. She's still working whatever contacts she has left, trying to find out anything she can about who sent the people to attack them in London. There hasn't been a whiff of danger since, but she won't be able to fully let her guard down until she knows. And in the meantime, it's safer to keep moving, never stay in one place for too long.
But this was supposed to be Debbie's grand adventure, so she tries to make it feel like a holiday. Once they've checked into their hotel in Rome, she spots a food delivery driver, and offers him 500 euro to use his motorbike for the day.
It's the perfect way to the see the city, as well as novel to use this mode of transportation for pleasure. And it is pleasant, Debbie's arms encircling her waist and her appreciative 'Oh wow's in her ear at the sights. One of the many things Judith loves about her is the way she enjoys things with her whole being. She, in turn, takes great pleasure in finding things for her to enjoy - decadent gelato, fragrant pesto, the perfect Roman sunset.
She was able to get them a room with two beds that night, so she's momentarily speechless when Debbie climbs in beside her after coming out of the bathroom. "What are you doing?"
"Did you have any nightmares last night?"
"No." She admits finally. She slept beautifully.
"Well, then this is how we sleep now." She announces, her tone making it clear she won't accept arguments. "Come here."
Judith wants to, and she doesn't. It's not Debbie's job to do this for her. Judith doesn't deserve this kind of tender care, and she does deserve the nightmares. She earned them, several times over. But if she says any of that out loud, Debbie will just make her book a phone session with Dr. Sharon, so instead she makes a disgruntled noise and settles in.
I'm not telling you to get a man," God forbid. That's the last thing Judith would want her to do. But she wants Debbie to be happy, and she saw how confident Debbie was after Bodhi. How she glowed. She wants that for her. "Just something casual," is what she says. "Let's play a game. Who would you go for here? I'll go first." She's aware that this is less than safe territory she's deliberately leading them into, but she's no longer dodging bullets on a regular basis. She's got to live dangerously somehow. "Mmmm. Him, definitely," she decides, spotting someone unloading boxes outside a restaurant, skin gleaming. Maybe she should, she thinks. Something casual would't be bad for her either. It's been a little while. She shakes herself, and turns her attention back to Deb. "Your turn."
On her third turn, she glances around the square, and her eye catches on a beautiful woman seated on the edge of the central fountain, a yellow and pink sundress hugging her curves. She almost moves on, but her therapist has been encouragigng her to reveal this last truth about herself, and every time she's tried to come at it head-on she's had to abort. So she points and says "there," as if avoiding the pronoun means Debbie magically won't realize she's pointed at a woman.
Debbie is, understandably confused, so Judith points again, then adds for clarification; "her."
Slowly, Debbie turns. "Did you just come out to me?"
She laughs lightly, like she's only just realizing what she's said. "Oh, I suppose I did." Then she adds, "It's not new," trying to emphasize that this is in fact not a big deal. But it is, and she braces herself. Can't help but remember the first time she got caught kissing a girl. She'd been terrified to face her adoptive parents after that, but her mum had just shrugged and said well, at least we don't have to worry about you getting pregnant. She'd felt so lucky, so relieved. And then, two months later, they'd sent her back anyway. Her therapist says it's normal that the memory still haunts her, even though she knows now that there's nothing she could've done differently because it was all fucking pre-ordained. Apparently that doesn't change it being a foundational narrative.
She drags herself back to the present because Debbie is still staring at her, mildly bewildered. "It's only that there aren't any men worth my time wouldn't have worked any more, if you knew women were an option." That is, in fact, most of the reason - she doesn't have to tell the other part. Regardless of what Dr. Sharon thinks.
Debbie still looks upset, though, or something close to it. She's incredibly accepting, has owned a 'proud mum' shirt since Gemma came out first five years ago, so Judith knows that isn't it. To her, this probably feels like another lie. "I am sorry I didn't think to tell you earlier. It just never came up." She rambles, hiding her lie with more lies. "I don't think of myself with any particular label. It's like that line from that Canadian TV show Gemma made us watch - I like the wine, not the label." That part's true at least. She did like that line.
"Okay." Says Debbie, finally. Judith waits for more, and is caught off-guard by what comes next. "Do you think you're going to find someone now that you don't have to follow their rules anymore?"
It's a logical question, she supposes. She turns to look out at the square, let Debbie think she's eyeing the girl by the fountain again so that she can't analyse her face when she says "I don't think so. But you never know, I suppose." If Debbie ever got married again - to someone good, someone who could be a real partner to her - then, Judith might try to find someone. But then again, probably not. It would be a rotten thing to do to a person. She has enough sins to her name without making someone be her consolation prize.
Over the next couple of days, there are moments when she thinks she catches Debbie behaving oddly after Judith has interacted with a woman - looked too long at a stranger in a swimsuit, been a little flirty with a waitress or a bartender. But then the next moment everything is fine and normal and she's treating Judith the same as always, so she puts it out of her mind. And every night, Debbie still invites her into her bed.
Judith hasn't slept so well since she can't remember when - maybe since she started at the academy, her body exhausted from long hard days and her mind satisyingly filled with purpose and belonging. It's been a long, long time, at the very least.
This morning she's even managed to outsleep Debbie, who is nowhere to be seen. But, she hears the shower running, so that's not a mystery. She rings for breakfast before choosing clothes for their day of winery tours - a blousy cotton shirt and loose linen shorts.
She's just about to have her first sip of tea when Debbie steps out of the bathroom in a dress she hasn't seen before, summery and sprinkled with little flowers. It's still modest, as is her trademark, but dips into a low v, and makes her look heartbreakingly soft and pretty. "That looks lovely on you." She says it because it's true, and because she wants to, and because David never told her enough how beautiful she is, and she deserves to hear it. She looks surprised, proof she's not nearly accustomed enough to receiving compliments, and does an adorable little spin to show it off.
Winery tours sounded like a wonderful activity when she booked it. Less wonderful when they get there and she realizes that; apart from what looks like a mother and daughter pair, and for some reason she can't fathom, a family of four with two teenage children; everyone else on the tour is couples. She distracts herself from how romantic it all is, and how lovely Debbie looks, by sticking close to their guide and asking questions, absorbing herself in learning how grapes grown on the north versus south sides of a hill differ, and so on. Thank goodness she has a natural talent, honed by years of training, to find almost anything interesting. A good thing, seeing as she can't even take the edge off by sampling the wares, because she had the brilliant idea to rent a car and book several stops.
When they're driving to the chateau where they'll be staying for the night, she puts on a big-band playlist. Singing along with Can't Take My Eyes off of You and The Way You Look Tonight is a safe way to vent some of her emotion, as long as she keeps her eyes on the road while she does it. But then Debbie goes and says "you've got such a beautiful voice," and she has to look into the setting sun to hide her blush.
The guesthouse and complimentary charcuterie spread do not dissapoint, and neither does the wine. They're into their second glasses when she realizes that Debbie, who didn't need to concern herself with being sober enough to drive, is more than a little tipsy. So she starts preparing bites of crusty bread smeared with jam and soft cheese for her to help soak up some of the alcohol. Twice, Debbie takes them directly from her hand, and she has to remind herself to breathe as Debbie's lips brush her fingers.
It's all quite a lot to be getting on with, and then Debbie reaches out to touch her cheek, and leans in.
She is going to die. What world-class assassins, the bloody Albanian mob, and Interpol couldn't manage, her best friend is going to achieve. By trying to kiss her.
Summoning every ounce of willpower she possesses, she reaches out to stop Debbie. "What are you doing?"
"Trying something. Why not?" God help her, Debbie leans in again.
No," she says, as gently as she can, then adds, "Not tonight, at least."
"Why not?"
Because it'll kill Judith if she doesn't mean it. Because there's no world in which Judith deserves this. "Because you're drunk," she answers finally, which has the benefit of being both unselfish and objectively true. "And this isn't…" isn't how Judith wants their first kiss to happen, if it's ever going to. "Let me take you to dinner, tomorrow night." She suggests, almost a plea. "Then you can kiss me, if you still want to." Unlikely, she knows, but the option's there.
"Okay," Debbie agrees easily, and she's almost disappointed, but it's for the best.
Debbie goes to hold her again that night, and she's powerless to say no, but she's acutely aware of her arm thrown over Debbie's middle, of keeping it rigidly, chastely in the safe space between ribcage and navel. She falls asleep, willing herself not to actually believe they have a date tomorrow.
She doesn't know how to bring it up, or if she even should, the next morning. Certainly not when she brings Debbie a hangover remedy in bed. Definitely not when she emerges from the bathroom, wrapped only in a plush white robe.
In the end, she doesn't have to. "So, do we have plans tonight?"
Her heart leaps into her throat. "Yes. Unless you don't-" please don't say you don't want to.
"No. I do."
"Okay." She manages, pulse racing. "Good."
When they get to the hotel in Paris, she asks for two rooms for the first time on their trip. Unless something goes terribly wrong, they won't be using both tonight, but she wants to do this properly. Wants it to feel like a date, not any other night they've gone to dinner together. Which means picking her up. And flowers. Yes, she's definitely got to get flowers.
But first she needs to find something to wear. After saying goodbye to Debbie (and securing a promise that she'll check in every hour, because they are still technically on the run from mysterious pursuers), she heads to a boutique she knows will have things long enough for her that should suit. She spends an age circling the store, picking up dresses then putting them back. An eager-to-please young man trails her, offering to hold her selections. Finally, she selects a couple of cocktail dresses and one floor-skimming number, just for good measure. When she tries them on, though, despite the sales associate's effusive praise, nothing feels right.
The problem, she realizes, is that it feels like she's dressng for work. She never has an occasion to wear cocktail dresses and evening gowns in her personal life. The only formal event she's been to in a personal capacity, more or less ever, was Debbie and David's twentieth anniversary party. And even then she hadn't worn something like this. Debbie liked to say that the reason she hadn't had bridesmaids at her wedding was that she hadn't met Judith yet, and so she had spent weeks scouring charity shops for an authentic y2k bridesmaid dress. She'd ended up in an awful lavender taffeta halter dress. Debbie had loved it.
She takes one last look at herself in the strapless red number she's got on now, and sees only Whiptail. A femme fatale with a revolver strapped to her thigh. Absolutely not. She strips it off, resisting the urge to ball it up and throw it into the corner.
She goes into and out of three different shops full of women's suits without finding anything to, well, suit. Most of it feels too corporate, or just not her. She's almost ready to scream in frustration when she spots a pinstriped set in darkest charcoal on a rack at the back of the third boutique. The pants are cropped and the sleeves are a slouchy three-quarters, softening it out of power-suit territory, but the colour makes it something that might work as eveningwear. Snatching her size, she heads to the fitting rooms.
She adjusts the jacket with her back to the mirror, crossing her fingers before turning around. Yes, she thinks. This will do. She looks like Judith, but polished. With something soft and low-cut underneath, it'll be perfect. She hopes, at least. She looks at her watch and almost swears. With all her dithering, it's past five, and she still needs to get flowers before going back to the hotel to get ready.
She high-tails it to a flower market nearby. As she passes stall after stall of fluffly carnations, jewel-bright tulips, and roses in every colour imaginable, she remembers a February evening some years ago.
"He remembered. I'm almost impressed," she nods her head at the vase of roses and baby's breath on the table. "Would be nice," she can't help but adding, "if he also remembered what your favourite flowers are."
"It's the thought that counts," Debbie protests loyally. But a little while later Judith catches her staring at the flowers, looking wistful.
Finally, she finds what she's looking for, and, immensely pleased with herself, heads back to get ready.
As she gets out of the shower, she catches herself humming, and has to remind herself to not get her hopes up. She has no idea, not really, what Debbie's thinking. No idea what this means to her. Even if she is really attracted to her, there's more than that. She still has trust to earn back. Has to prove that she's worth the risk. That's the other reason she couldn't let Debbie kiss her last night. She needs to go into this, if she does at all, clear-headed, in full control of her faculties. She has to want Judith (not that should) while sober, warts and all.
She tells her hands, sternly, to stop shaking as she pulls her hair back, applies mascara, puts on a pair of long, sparkling earrings.
Finally ready, she checks the clock. 6:57. Conventional wisdom might say it's better to be fashionably late, but she'd rather show Debbie she's reliable than be cool. Wiping her palms on a towel, she picks up the flowers and goes to knock on Debbie's door.
It takes her a moment to regain the powers of speech when Debbie opens the door. She's a vision in royal blue, her hair softly falling over bare shoulders. She's always lovely, but right now she takes Judith's breath away. "You look beautiful," she finally manages, before producing the sunflowers and thrusting them at her. "For you," she adds unnecessarily.
But the clumsy presentation seems to, thankfully, escape Debbie's notice. "You remembered," she breathes, eyes glimmering up at Judith.
"Of course I did," she smiles. And then, because she can't help herself, "I've known you for twenty-five years, I know what you like." Not only did David never, ever deserve her, he also had the audacity to nearly get her killed by the Albanian mob. Judith thinks she can be forgiven for a little pettiness.
Judith also never deserved her. Judith also nearly got her killed. It's a sobering thought, and she's so caught up in it that it takes her a moment to realize that Debbie is tense beside her as they walk to the restaurant. "Are you alright?"
"It's just nerves."
"We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Judith assures her, mentally kicking herself for not realizing Debbie would be nervous about that. She's never been with another woman before, let alone anything else. "We don't have to do anything. If you're uncomfortable-" then she trails off, because she realizes Debbie is also talking, a mile a minute.
"-look like that and it took me over an hour to find somewhere that even had a dress that fit and it's probably ridiculous on me and I'm wearing a strapless bra for goodness sakes and I don't know why I thought-" Oh. Oh.
Judith steps in front of her and takes both of Debbie's hands in hers. It's an effort to not laugh in relief, and at the sheer absurdity that Debbie could think there's any world in which she could disappoint Judith. Any world in which she was somehow inadequate. Fuck David, sincerely. "Debbie. Do you not understand what's happening here? All of this?" She makes a broad, all-ecompassing gesture, "I'm trying to woo you." She meets Debbie's eyes, tries to convey how very much she means every word. "This dress is absolutely lovely," for good measure, she gives her an appreciative once-over, "but you could've worn a flour sack and I still wouldn't be able to take my eyes off of you."
"Oh." Debbie's eyes widen and Judith sees her start to understand, cheeks darkening prettily.
She reaches out and gently catches a strand of her hair in her fingers, smoothing it away from her face and making sure Debbie's eyes are on her when she says "You don't have to worry about making me want you, love. You did that without trying."
She pulls out Debbie's chair for her when they get to the table she reserved in a quiet corner of the restaurant's terrace, and Debbie looks up at her like she's hung the moon. Judith doesn't deserve her, she knows that. But she decides then and there that if Debbie wants her, well; she's dammned sure going to do everything she can to make her happy. This is just the beginning.