Work Text:
It is a relief, Melanie King thinks to herself when she sees the familiar canary-yellow hatchback pull up to the chipped, mud-stained curb of Healing Horizons Therapy, LLC, that she does not have to walk home tonight. Not that it’s started raining just yet, but the sky overhead is already dark and heavy with the promise of April showers, and besides, what’s more important is that Melanie has been crying very heavily, mascara and eyeliner smeared down her face in great black rivulets like tar staining marble pillars, and the idea of anyone seeing her like this makes a hot flash of shame tug at her stomach, pulling at her nerves with all the fevered panic of a small child left behind by a neglectful parent. When that metaphor springs to mind straight away, she almost wants to laugh, because of course it would , of course therapy would dredge up all those nasty memories and emotions and make her think about her childhood, sad and lonely and full of immature anger that’s never truly been quelled, and then she starts thinking about the way the rage has stayed with her, maintaining her heart pumping and blood flowing, keeping her alive , and driving her all the way to the institute, to where she signed that stupid fucking contract, giddy smile on her face when she got out into the institute car park, stupid, naive girl finally believing her circumstances were looking up, that for a moment, the sun shone a little brighter for Melanie King, but of course it couldn’t, and it didn’t, and she was horrified and terrified and so, so bloody furious, and really, it could all be tied back to-
“Melanie!” The gentle trill of a well-loved voice calls from inside the car, and a manicured umber hand rolls the window down before the familiar smiling face of Georgie Barker pokes through, squinting at her girlfr- her best fr- her roomma- her Melanie through the misty weather. Georgie’s smile, however, quickly fades. Her pretty features knit themselves into a frown, and when she speaks again, there’s a pitying undertone in her voice that Melanie thinks is supposed to comfort her, make her feel safe, but instead just makes her feel more awful than she did to begin with. More broken.
“Melanie? Melanie, what’s wrong?” Georgie repeats, ushering the shorter woman over to the car with a gentle crook of her finger. The latter obliges, getting to her feet and shakily ambling her way over to the passenger door, pulling it open and sliding into the warmth of the car. Joy Division is playing faintly on the car radio, a favourite of Georgie’s since her uni days, and a staple of her Spotify playlists even now. There's thick grey cat hair coating the baggy black jumper Georgie likes to wear on chilly spring days such as this, left over from earlier cuddle sessions with the Admiral, no doubt, and Melanie feels a sudden aching pang of affection at the easy familiarity she’s just been welcomed back into, the ability to notice these details about the raven-haired woman in front of her and know the parts of her life they must link to. This sudden wave of emotion, of course, only sets her off again, and before she knows it she is wailing, head buried in her knees as she weeps pitifully. A soft hand finds her hair, and another one places itself on her back, rubbing Melanie’s freezing skin through the thin fabric of her own moth-eaten jumper.
Ian Curtis continues to whine over the speakers, a low, droning ballad that does nothing to help Melanie’s mood, but she pays the song no mind- all she can hear is the voice of her roommate/best friend/girlfriend/almost girlfriend/we kissed once and it was beautiful and wonderful and all I ever wanted was to feel her skin on mine but I drove her away like I always do/but you still sleep in her bed every night when you have bad dreams/but she doesn’t deserve to deal with my shit and I can’t let myself fuck her up as well/she wants you too, you idiot/Georgie soothing her, can feel her sharp nails tenderly scratching her scalp in the way she knows Melanie likes, the way she’s done countless times before, and Melanie allows herself to melt into the touch. She almost wants to rub her head against Georgie’s palm like the Admiral might do, let herself be pliant and soft and unthinkingly placid under the delicate touch of the one person she can trust to have that kind of hold over her, but she stops herself, pulling her face back up to look Georgie square in the eye and wipe away the black paint smudged around her own hazel irises.
“Sorry,” she stammers out hoarsely, scrubbing a hand over her tear-stained face. “I don’t- I don’t know where that came from.”
A lie. She knows exactly where it came from.
Georgie’s hands slide down from Melanie’s tangled hair and tense shoulders to grip her hands firmly, soft and warm fingers overlapping callused digits, and there’s no judgement in her mellifluous tone, only a profound and glowing sympathy.
“Shh, Melanie. Don’t apologise, love, it’s alright.” She squeezes the hand of the red-haired woman, touch feather-light yet rock-solid, and Melanie finds herself clinging to Georgie like she’s a boat in a storm and the taller woman is her anchor, keeping her buoyant form attached to the shore so she won’t float away altogether- your father was your last real anchor, wasn’t he? - no, no, don’t think about that, don’t think about that day in his office with the cold, smug voice and the dead stare that wouldn’t cease and the awful phantom pain of maggots crawling into your ears and out of your nose and eating away at your skin, rending bare flesh with impossibly sharp teeth and stripping it down to bone, don’t think about how nothing about this pain was phantom for your father and he really lived it, really felt that searing agony of his flesh tearing away from his weathered and kind face, god, what a kind face, and how it was your fault for putting him in Ivy Meadows because if you had just picked another care home, maybe a slightly nicer one, shelled out just a bit extra instead of saving it to spend on yourself like the selfish, spiteful little bitch you are, then this wouldn’t have happened and- and-
“Breathe, sweetheart.” Georgie coaches slowly, gently rubbing her thumb over Melanie’s racing pulse, anchoring her back to the present. Melanie’s skin is so pale, so thin and pallid and translucent with ill health that she can almost see the blood pump through the veins in her own wrist, and the sight simultaneously calms her and agitates her all at once, reminds her that she is still human, that the bullet is safely out and she no longer has to worry about turning into a rabid dog like Daisy, hunt-sick and canine teeth streaked with gore, or a creep of a human encyclopedia with ever-open eyes like Jon, or whatever it was from the Circus that scared the unshakeable Basira so much she still finds an excuse to change the topic whenever Melanie tries to bring it up. Reminds her that she is still human, that the bullet that made her anger feel justified for the first time in her pathetic existence is gone forever and never coming back, and now she is vulnerable once again, violence drained from her like sand through a sieve or water trickling through the gaps between her hands that she cannot catch or hold, and Melanie will forever be chasing the power- the comfort - that it gave her.
But instead of thinking about yet another loss of autonomy in the well-established history of control and entrapment that’s been her whole entire life, Melanie focuses on the repetitive motion of watching her blood flow, breathing in and out like Georgie tells her, and when her breaths have slowed enough to speak properly without stumbling or falling, she turns to the taller woman and opens her mouth.
“Don’t apologise,” Georgie cuts her off firmly, shaking her head before the other woman can get a word in edgeways.“Seriously, Melanie. Don’t you dare apologise. Not for anything or anybody, you hear me?” There’s protectiveness in her voice, tone tinged warm and fierce with unbridled affection, and it makes Melanie’s stomach do a stupid little flip, like it always does whenever she gets proof of Georgie’s concern. Attention seeking, her mother might’ve called it a long time ago, but that implies that she needs to beg for Georgie to pay her any mind at all, and that’s not true. Georgie has always been there to take care of Melanie, even when Melanie knows she doesn’t deserve it. Not after everything she’s put her through.
“O-okay,” Melanie responds, tremble in her voice that makes her cringe as she makes an attempt to forget her concern and just bask in the summery warmth of Georgie’s russet eyes. She lets out a long sigh, which quickly turns into an awkward laugh that rips through her sore throat harshly- deflection, another piteous endeavour to make her feeble demeanour seem less embarrassing, less openly vulnerable. Like a wounded fawn shielding its soft pink underbelly from the fanged, monstrous predators that circle the forest like vultures over carrion, Melanie has always known that to show weakness means to show defeat- even with someone as tender and true as Georgie, this sentiment has never truly abandoned the permanent post it holds within her fractured and beaten-down psyche.
“I didn’t mean to do that, I… I haven’t cried in a long time. Like, a year long, I think. God, maybe more.”
There’s a bone deep exhaustion in Melanie’s voice when she speaks, like the fatigue has been fused with her very core, and she isn’t quite sure where the ache ends and she begins.
“Did your therapist say anything to you? Because if she did, if she hurt you or belittled you, if she’s the one who made you cry then I swear I’ll-”
“No, Georgie, she didn’t do anything, it’s-”
“Was she just not that good at her job then? Because sometimes it takes a while to find a good therapist, you know, and we can always look for another, even further afield if we have to, maybe one who’s more suited to-”
“She was good, Georgie.” Melanie interjects, cutting her off with a small shake of her head. “Really good, actually. She was… nice.”
“Nice?” Georgie asks, raising an eyebrow sceptically. “Because no offence, honey, but you look like a wreck.”
“Yeah,” the other woman laughs shakily. “I… well. She didn’t do anything wrong, but, like always, I certainly fucking did.”
Melanie slumps back in the car seat, leaning her skull against the window and feeling the cool pressure of the glass press against her forehead, the pain serving as both punishment and comfort for her emotional transgression. She watches the rain pour down in slanted grey lines outside, like something out of a picture-book, and thinks about how easy it would be to let herself disappear into it, let the mist and fog envelop her and avoid having to have this awkward, lamentable conversation with the one single person whose opinion of her still even matters these days. Disappear and pull away, like she did after Cambridge Military Hospital and the trainyard and the crowds of people who poked fun at her distress, poking her and laughing at her like a dog in a fighting ring, deriving all their amusement from the gnash of her teeth and the curled snarl of her lips.
But deep down, Melanie is aware she doesn’t have to hide anymore. Doesn’t have to wrap herself in isolation and rage and call it armour. She can lay down weapons, call a truce with the veteran side of her still seeking battles after all this time, put down her sword of fury and trade her chainmail of destructive, defensive bitterness for comfortable jumpers and jogging bottoms borrowed from Georgie, two sizes too big and smelling of lavender perfume and cheap white foundation shoplifted from Superdrug. She can be open, and know that when she falls, her… her Georgie will be there to catch her with open arms, wrapping her in a loving embrace that nearly manages to make the past twenty-six years of never-ending conflict finally worth it.
“I just… I got scared, in there,” Melanie begins, and Georgie responds with an understanding nod, urging her to speak. “She was asking too many questions that I didn’t know how to answer, and I wasn’t even sure what to say to her, not really, because you know I hate all that bloody feelings crap-“
“Not crap, Melanie,” the other woman gently interjects. “Your emotions.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Melanie waves away her correction, hating the way Georgie has a point regarding the discomforting matter. She can unpack that later- or preferably never at all, if she can help it. “Point is, I didn’t know how to talk to her, and, well. That made it the longest hour of my fucking life, and I’ve had some pretty long hours to speak of.”
A pause- she sits up, suddenly incensed with passionate rebuttal of what was already a terrible idea before the paranoia and semi-public meltdowns today’s session brought.
“Not to mention, why should I even talk to her in the first place? How do I know she’s not secretly some… some monster?” Pausing, her expression darkens with shameful reminiscence. “She looked at me like I was crazy when I tried to check her office for tape recorders. I didn’t dare ask her whether she’d noticed any extra doors lately, or if the fog outside seemed just a little too thick to be good old British autumn.”
Then she sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. “She must've thought I was a total headcase, Georgie. I spent half the session patting down her office like I was in some bad crime movie, and the other half of it just squinting at her like she might suddenly grow an extra arm, or turn into plastic, or puke up spiders or some other supernatural bullshit.”
“And… did she puke up spiders?” Georgie asks, that familiar lilt in her voice that she gets when she thinks she might be close to unravelling a problem. Unravelling a person.
“No. She didn’t. She was perfectly nice, and perfectly normal, and not full of spiders or eyes or anything of the sort. Which made me feel even more stupid than I already did walking in, because of course I’d nearly ruin it by treating her like she was an enemy, the same way I always treat people these days. Of course I’d go and fuck it up, just like I do with everything, just like I’m doing with y-” Melanie stops herself with a jolt of panic, face falling in visible horror. She’d said too much.
“Forget it. It’s nothing.” She scrambles, trying to salvage any semblance of sensibility in the wake of the emotional landmine she’d just gone and stepped on.
“It isn’t nothing,” Georgie retorts, a pained expression on her round and perfect face. You caused that pain , the voice in Melanie’s head cajoles, and she doesn’t have the strength to argue with it.
“Melanie,” she continues softly. “Do you really think you’re ‘fucking me up’?”
“Yes- I mean no, I mean- I don’t know, Georgie,” Melanie blurts, digging her nails into her palms until ruby red droplets of blood begin to form, standing out against her pallid and sickly complexion. “Yes, yes, I do think I am. I think that I’m a fucked up person with a lot of baggage, I think that I’m messy and difficult and rude and I always, always manage to say the wrong thing. I’m too loud, too angry, too much altogether. I don’t- I don’t know how to be a person like everybody else does. I don’t know how to be anything except wrong . There’s… there’s something missing in me, I think. And if I could find it, if I could rip out all the anger and the trauma and the horrible awful selfishness deep within my core that makes me so hard to like, then I could be who you needed. Who you- who you wanted. But you’re good, and kind, and everything I’ve ever wished for, and you’re almost insufferably perfect in every way and no matter how much of a mess I make you still. Don’t. Leave. And you should leave! You really should… leave, Georgie. You should kick me out of the flat on my arse and go find someone who you deserve, someone who won’t be such a- such a- such a burden !”
At this, Melanie kicks the dashboard, sending a resounding thump through the car. There is a silence almost painful in its ability to deafen, and then she wrenches open the car door and stomps out into the rain, striding through the empty-ish streets of this London suburb with a renewed fire and rage- not at Georgie, never Georgie, but herself. Herself for losing control, for showing Georgie just how rotten she truly was inside, and proving that it could never work between them, not like this. Not when them being together would mean Georgie dealing with her every day for the rest of her life, always having to soothe Melanie and hold her tight and comfort her through the bad times- which, let’s face it, were pretty much always, these days- like a scared street animal, mangy and howling and rabid with a sickness no medicine could cure, so far gone that the only solution remaining is to put it down.
And Georgie didn’t need to take in another stray.
So, Melanie decided she would just go. Say fuck it to therapy, because her therapist already thought she was a nutjob and was probably researching ways to have her committed as soon as she left the clinic. Say fuck it to the institute- sure, she couldn’t quit per se, but she could sure as shit refuse to do anything to help it anymore. And say fuck it to Georgie, kind, sweet, wonderful Georgie, because even if the other woman doesn’t know it yet, she’s much better off without her in the long run. Georgie will save plenty of time and plenty of sleep, and will go on to meet someone she can actually be proud to be seen with. In a few years, Melanie will probably just be another old story, remembered only through faded photographs and mutual acquaintances- Do you remember that crazy bitch you almost dated back in 2018? Yeah, that one was a right headcase. Another bullet dodged for Georgie Barker. Another goodbye for Melanie King.
Another goodbye, she thinks, jaw clenched so tight her teeth ache with suppressed fury and hatred, and then a firm hand grasps her shoulder and spins her around, the other one coming up to cup her rain-streaked cheek and smooth away the salty tears mixing with the water droplets.
“Melanie!” Georgie exclaims, eyebrows creased in confusion. “Melanie, what- where are you going?”
Her hands keep Melanie in place, refusing to let her pull away again, and she stares down at the shorter woman’s face with pained perplexity as if searching for some form of explanation, some reason as to why she keeps that wall between the two of them stacked so high. And for Melanie, there are a million and one reasons as to why she can’t let herself be seen through, why she can’t just let Georgie love her, but unravelling this tangled emotional web pulls them all out into one long string of thought, frayed and worn from age and use: I don’t deserve things that are good for me. I don't deserve to be happy.
But Georgie is looking at her with nothing but longing and want, an ache in her gaze Melanie has seen reflected in the mirror countless times, and she’s holding her so gently, like she’s terrified of shattering her into pieces and watching her fall apart all over again. Like every night last year, when Melanie would wake from bloodsoaked dreams filled with mutilation and gunfire, sweating and panting and pale, and find herself padding into Georgie’s bedroom, curling up next to her without a word. Georgie never spoke during these episodes either, just wrapped her arms around Melanie’s waist and buried her face in the crook of her neck. They never needed to communicate about what the latter needed- it was like Georgie just knew how to handle her in a way nobody else did. And Melanie needed that, needed that reassurance that someone could understand her and actually care enough to take the time to do so. When Melanie had driven everybody away with her rage and her fury and her craving for violence that never ceased, Georgie still let Melanie crash on her sofa, eat her food, share her home. She didn’t abandon her the way everybody else had, not like Melanie’s other friends did when Ghost Hunt UK collapsed and her trainyard breakdown was plastered across the whole internet for people to mock relentlessly. Georgie stayed by her side, and didn’t ask for anything in return. Georgie wasn’t scared.
Melanie tilts her face upwards, staring back into Georgie’s warm, copper-coloured eyes. She watches the way her dark, soot-black lashes sweep against her full apple-shaped cheeks when she blinks, and thinks about how nice it would be to wake up to this sight every morning for the rest of her life.. And then her gaze drops to Georgie’s lips, bitten to the point of swelling and slightly parted, breath coming in short bursts from how fast she must’ve run to catch up, and Melanie feels for a moment as if someone is wrapping their hands around her heart and squeezing very tightly, cutting off her blood flow with a cold hard grip. Georgie is so damn beautiful and so damn gentle, and it’s not fair that Melanie keeps doing this to her, keeps making her worry and wait and hang around for the day Melanie is finally well enough to act like a normal girlfriend, instead of a responsibility or an obligation.
“I… I’m sorry for what I said,” Melanie finally responds for what must be the 20th time in about as many minutes, and then her face is once again buried in Georgie’s chest and she’s clutching at her jumper, the sharp nails she always forgets to cut catching on the soft fabric. Georgie pulls Melanie into a tight hug, gently swaying the two of them back and forth, slow-dancing in the steady thrum of the city rain like two teenagers on prom night.
“Nothing to be sorry about, I’ve already told you- and you’re not burdening me,” she whispers, silk-soft lips pressed against Melanie’s ear in an intimate whisper, despite nobody being around to hear them. It makes the words feel more personal, more piercing and true in the knowledge there is nowhere else for them to go but straight into her ears and down to begin the slow and laborious process of warming her cold and closed-off heart.
“I stay because I love you. I help you because I love you. Do you understand that? I love you, Melanie King. That isn’t about to go away just because you’re going through a rough patch.”
Melanie sniffles, voice still muffled from where she’s nestled against Georgie’s chest. “It’s not a rough patch though, is it? I’m… I’m just like this now. I’ve always been like this.”
“No, you haven’t,” Georgie reassures her. “You’re a lot of things, Melanie, and maybe you don’t love all of them or even notice them, but I do. I see you, okay? I know you’re more than this. You’re kind, and funny, and ridiculously knowledgeable on just about every bad slasher movie that’s ever released. You like animals, all animals, even the really ugly ones like monkeys and mole rats, and your go-to coffee order is peppermint hot chocolate topped with enough marshmallows to sink a boat even in the height of summer, and you never pass up an opportunity to call someone out when they’re wrong. You’re brave like that. Braver than most people. And you can’t sing to save your life, not in the slightest, but you do it anyway, no matter what people say, because when you love something, you never, ever give up on it. So now I’m not going to give up on you. We’re going to get you well again, okay? I’m going to get you well again.”
She plants a kiss on the top of Melanie’s head, feather-light and sunshine-warm, and when she pulls away the imprint of the contact still lingers in both the butterflies swarming in Melanie’s stomach and the outline of Georgie’s black lipstick she can feel sticking to her forehead. It brings a comfort to Melanie, like apricity in wintertime, and she wants to remain in the moment forever, but there are things that need to be discussed and issues that need to be voiced if they’re ever going to move past this roadblock and start to live like real people. Naively, Melanie had assumed that once she was no longer under the influence of the Slaughter, a simple pathway might open up for the two of them to move forward and out of the romantic limbo they were trapped in, the one shining light amidst the darkness that swarmed after the bullet was ripped out of her, but as she stares at Georgie’s furrowed brow and downturned lips, she knows in her heart that this isn’t the case.
“Look, Georgie,” she begins after a deep breath in. “I appreciate you… wanting to help me. Might shock you, but that isn’t something I hear from people very often.” Melanie tries for a laugh, but it comes out choked and pained, like something is pressing down on her throat with renewed intent to squeeze and silence. “It is… um, it means a lot, really. But you shouldn’t- you shouldn’t force yourself to wait around for someone who might never be ready. You deserve better than that, and I don’t want you settling for me because you pity me or something-”
“I don’t pity you, Melanie. Jesus Christ.” Georgie bursts, wide-eyed. “God, I don’t… we’ve been over this.”
“I know,” The other woman replies before another argument can break out. “But I still… I can’t shake that feeling. That feeling that eventually, I’m going to push you past the limit like I always seem to do with people, and you’re finally going to get tired of my shit. And what’s more is that I wouldn’t blame you, not in the slightest. I’d… I’d welcome you prioritising yourself, actually. I’ve always thought you don’t do it enough.”
Melanie thinks she notices a flicker of something in Georgie’s eyes- self consciousness, maybe, a comment hitting too close to home- but whatever it was is gone as quickly as it appeared.
“I’m prioritising both of us,” Georgie affirms, before she can think too hard about it. “What I want is for you to get better- for both of our sakes, alright? And I don’t care how long that takes- even if it’s the rest of our lives, I want to be with you throughout the process. Okay? I care about this. I care about you.” She smooths her satiny thumb over Melanie’s cheek, tenderly wiping away the smudged eyeliner accumulating under the latter’s deep-set eyes.
“Okay,” Melanie mumbles, wanting so desperately to believe this that she forces herself to hold back the lonely child within her core that craves never-ending reassurance and proof of care, swatting away its tiny hand when it tries to claw at her wrist. She slips her hand into Georgie’s, softly pulling it down from her shoulder to intertwine their fingers with a grip almost painful in its naked, unconcealed need- as always, their hands fit perfectly together, slotting into place like pieces of a jigsaw. There’s still one burning question on Melanie’s lips, though, a query that can’t be avoided like every other, and she swallows down the lump in her throat before she can lose her nerve.
“Georgie… what is this , exactly?” It’s a stupid question, immature in its simple yearning, and Melanie knows she’d cringe at herself for asking something so vulnerable under any other circumstances. But these aren’t her normal circumstances, and she needs to be at least somewhat open if she’s going to work through this- not for her sake, but for Georgie’s. If it’s for Georgie, then there’s not much Melanie won’t do, she thinks. She’ll go back to therapy, and maybe reach out to Andy or Toni again, make an attempt to rebuild burned bridges, and… and sort out the institute situation, if there’s a way. Any way at all would do at this point, but even without the Slaughter’s influence, she still thinks that the more violent her method of severance, the better. Anything to stick it to the Eye one last time. And she’ll sort things out with Georgie, too, which is what’s most important when it comes down to it, and that starts with asking the questions she isn’t even sure if she wants the answers to.
As this question hangs in the air like a guilty man from the gallows, Melanie waits impatiently for a response, worrying at her lower lip with the sharp points of her teeth. Georgie pauses, eyebrows creased in that ultra-cute way Melanie used to spend hours staring at when they’d work on cases together for collaborations, unable to tear her gaze away from how Georgie’s brow would arch upon reading about a particularly intense ghost encounter, or the way her plump lips would wrap around the end of a pen as she chewed in contemplation. Sometimes, if Melanie told one of her terrible puns- What kind of street does a ghost live on? A dead end! - she’d get to watch that perfect mouth curve up into a smile, entire face lighting up in begrudging amusement, because even Georgie couldn’t deny the appeal of a bad ghost joke, and it would make her own lips quirk into what could debatably pass for a grin, if one was measuring by Melanie King standards.
After this momentary lull in the conversation, Georgie begins to speak, tentative and slow as if stepping onto a frozen lake- one wrong move could shatter the tranquillity completely and send them both plunging below the icy water.
“It… doesn’t have to be anything, I don’t think. Not right now, that is. Not until you’re ready. We can just take it slow- be people, same as anyone else. We can just be Georgie and Melanie. No more, no less. You don’t have to commit to anything that doesn’t feel right.”
“And that’s… that’s enough for you?” Melanie asks her, a little thrown. She’s used to people expecting more from her than she’s able to give, and growing frustrated and impatient with dissatisfaction. Of course, by now Melanie has grown used to standing up for herself, and has no qualms about telling the people who would love nothing more than to suck her dry exactly where to shove it, but that doesn’t make her feel any less sick with self-loathing when she knows she’s let somebody down. She’s seen disapproval directed at her many times, and each time feels like yet another stab through what’s left of her tattered and battle-worn heart, no matter how much she might pretend to find pride in their critical jabs. With Georgie, however, the fear is even greater, ten times worse and twenty times bigger, because Georgie might be the one person who’s never asked for more than Melanie can give, never pushed further than what Melanie is comfortable with.
But that doesn’t mean she might not want to.
“Yes. It’s more than enough, Melanie, You are enough for me,” Georgie insists, and she squeezes her hand a little tighter. “In whatever form you let me have you, I want you exactly like that. Nothing matters- not labels, not status, nothing- as long as I know that you’re comfortable, the rest can fall away. I want you right now, not a girlfriend, or even a wife, or anything else for that matter, not ever if you aren’t ready. All I want is to know that you’re okay.”
The two begin to walk back to the car, hand in hand, Melanie’s head leaning on the soft arch of Georgie’s shoulder as rain batters down on their skin in harsh, rhythmic beats. Not that either of them notice the cold water soaking through their clothes into weary bones- too wrapped up in each other, hyper-focused on the small shred of tranquillity and reassurance they’ve managed to salvage for the time being. Melanie and Georgie don’t have to label what they are, they don't need to put a name to something that has existed between them since all the way back in that shitty flat-share with the broken lock and the spider-infested bathroom where they met six years ago. Even if they never establish exactly what this is, the fact remains that Melanie King and Georgie Barker are in love, and after everything the two have been through, the battles lost and won in the name of survival and self-preservation, they at least deserve to feel secure in that knowledge. Tonight they will go back to their cosy, tiny flat in the heart of rainy London, cook pasta together in the halcyon glow of the flickering kitchen light before curling up on the worn blue velvet sofa to watch old eighties horror movies on their battered relic of a VHS player, with Georgie’s head resting comfortably on Melanie’s lap, and The Admiral snuggled up on Georgie’s. Nothing else matters, not right now. Not ever, if they don’t want it to.
Streetlamps buzz to life as the two near Georgie’s car, yellow bulbs illuminating the smoggy blackness of the city skyline. The light streaming from them makes Georgie’s face look almost ethereal in the soft way it highlights the elegance of her hooked nose and the delicate curve of her upper lip Melanie has spent the past year aching to kiss just one more time. Their eyes lock as Georgie notices the way her companion is staring with well-worn longing, and the couple come to a halt under the brightness of the last lamp on the street.
“See something you like?” Georgie asks teasingly, playful smirk drifting onto her glowing visage as she tilts her head in the other woman’s direction.
“I…” Melanie begins, already knowing the particular shade of fuschia her cheeks and nose must be reflecting at this moment as she fumbles for the right words.
Eventually, she settles on a simple, cheesy but contrived: “I really want to kiss you right now, Georgie.”
There’s no surprise on the other’s face, but a flicker of concern can be detected briefly in the furrowing of her thin brows and the pursing of her lips. “Are you… sure you’re ready for that, Melanie? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I… I want to kiss you too, I have done for months now, but-”
“Yes,” Melanie interjects. “I am sure, Georgie. I am so, very, very sure."
And then Georgie is smiling- well, okay then- and reaching a hand up to entwine in Melanie’s damaged hair, other one resting firmly on the back of her neck, and Melanie loops her arms around the warmth of Georgie’s upper back. There’s a brief moment where they go to lean in and their foreheads bump together awkwardly, the sensation of their skulls knocking together making them both giggle with nerves, but eventually their lips meet in an embrace tender in its gentle unsurety, starting slow at first before increasing with both desire and want. Both pairs of eyes are closed, hands embedding themselves tighter in skin and hair as Melanie deepens the kiss with all the hunger of a starving man finally satiated, her tongue gently coaxing the other woman’s lips apart. There is a desperation in the way Melanie's breath hitches as their lips dance together, and she can feel Georgie's knee digging into her thigh as they lean back against the concrete wall separating the dirty, scuffed street from the cul-de-sac of pretty houses dotted neatly behind. A laugh escapes Georgie's lips, breathy and as restless as her heart as it thumps a frantic rhythm so loud it almost echoes within the uncharacteristic silence of this once-lonely night.
Melanie can taste the cloying, velvety combination of coffee and pomegranate lip-balm as it coats her tongue, the sweetness of new beginnings present in the magnetisim of their lips despite the bitter flavour, and the softness of Georgie’s open mouth makes a small exhale of contentment escape her throat. Her hands slide up to dig themselves into Georgie’s mass of curls, stomach tying itself in knots with the butterflies that swarm there like she’s fifteen years old and having her first kiss all over again in the cramped, bleach-stinking bathroom of her Year 11 Leavers. But this time, the moment is devoid of bad smells and closeted secrecy. There is only the rain and the light and the love, alone in a city full of people with no care in the world as to whether someone happens to witness their embrace or not. Georgie slides her tongue out of Melanie’s mouth slowly and begins to plant a trail of butterfly-wing-light kisses along her jaw, hands running through her hair and over her scalp with gentle love and care as Melanie leans into the touch with exhausted bliss, realising that she’d missed the feeling of her not-quite-girlfriend’s moisturised lips against her bare dry skin more than she could ever have known.
Eventually, they pull apart, heads resting together, and tears begin to fall on both ends, sliding down rain-soaked and kiss-flushed cheeks, relief and longing and pure, undiluted affection bringing the suppressed emotion tumbling out of the couple without restraint.
“Thank you,” Melanie breathes, just as Georgie stammers out “You’re so beautiful,” and then they laugh again, faces so close that their teardrops mingle together and run down into their still-open mouths, salt on their tongues doing nothing to quench the thirst this small taste of what their future might hold has brought.
There’s a pause where they both bask in the warmth of both the streetlights and the kiss, and then Melanie grins teasingly, some of her old cheer and spirit coming back in the way only Georgie can manage to dredge up.
“We should do that more often.”
Georgie laughs, toothy grin on her face as she slings an arm around her and begins to lead them both over to their waiting car, both their footsteps languid and slow with the comfortable, shared assuredness that they have all the time in the world to make good on that promise.
“Yeah. We should.”