Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Greta,

Hey!

Well. It’s a start.

Carson chews the end of her pencil.

I hope you’re doing okay. Good, even. I hope you’re doing good.

She debates adding an I miss you to the end of the sentence. Decides against it.

I’m in Kansas City at the moment. It’s good.

It feels stilted somehow, trying to write to Greta. There’s so much she wants to say. Where she is, what she’s doing, that she misses Greta, that she stopped by a pizza restaurant and thought of her the whole time. That she thinks of Greta day and night, waking and sleeping. That she counts down the days until they’re back together next season.

I was in Minneapolis for a while, then outside of Des Moines, but I got here about two weeks ago. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. I was waiting to get a more permanent address, let myself settle down a bit, all the stuff we talked about. It’d be nice to hear from you though, if you want, that is.

She sighs heavily, drops her pencil. It’s like she’s writing to a cousin she’s never met, or some distant school friend. It’s Greta, for God’s sake.

I should be here for a while. It’s nice, the boarding house has a huge park a few blocks away, so I’ve been able to get some practice in. There’s a girl here who played baseball as a kid - not the same as being with the Peaches, but at least she knows the game rules. Some practice is better than none, right?

She pauses again. Why is this so fucking difficult?

She knows why. Both her commitment to herself and the looming idea that she wouldn’t hear back have been keeping her from reaching out for weeks. Starting a letter only to talk herself out of it, toss the paper aside and move on out. Waiting for the right time, for the jumpiness to settle. She still isn’t sure that it has; her recent divorce had taken a toll, her finances are in a mess as a result of it, she only knows two people in Kansas City and one of them is the landlady. But she has her freedom, properly this time, and that has to mean something.

Sorry. I know I’m not a great writer. A lot has happened, but it feels almost like nothing has, do you know what I mean? As if I’m just putting it all in a box and leaving it there. Charlie divorced me - it’s been kind of stressful, if I’m being honest, but now that it’s done, I feel a lot better. It made things harder financially, but I have an ad-hoc library job in Independence, so I can make it work. It’s usually two or three shifts a week. I like it. It’s nice to have the quiet, especially in the city. I’m learning Spanish there, they have a lot of language books. I don’t think I’m any good yet, but I enjoy it, and I think Esti will be happy to have someone else who understands her, even if it’s only a little bit.

Anyway. I’ll stop talking your ear off now. Or writing your ear off, I guess. Writing your eyes off?

Well. Anyway. Do let me know how you are. I can picture you in New York, seeing shows on Broadway, going out for dinner, in and out of taxi cabs with your heels clicking on the pavement. I hope you’re happy.

All my best,

Carson

She drops the letter at the Post Office the next day, gripping it so tightly the whole way that she manages to tear the envelope, having to buy another one. On a whim she puts a tiny heart in the top corner, so tiny it looks more like a smudge, and hands it to the clerk before she can second-guess herself. The clerk gives her a strange look, and Carson realises she hasn’t moved, eyes following the letter until it’s dropped in a mailbag. She coughs, excuses herself, and ducks back out into the street, wringing her hands as she begins to walk.

A letter drops into Carson’s pigeonhole with the evening post nine days and twelve hours later - not that she’s counting. The writing on the front is familiar, the New York City postal stamp shining boldly against the envelope, and Carson races back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, tearing the envelope open with trembling hands the second she gets back to her room. Her eyes are welling up before she’s even started reading; just the concept of something from Greta suddenly overwhelming in its presence.

Dearest,

Minneapolis, Des Moines, Kansas City, wow. Moving on up, huh? From farm girl to city girl. I’m impressed.

It’s already just so perfectly Greta, as if she were standing in Carson’s room and speaking the words aloud to her. Carson can practically hear her voice, picture her stood leaning in the doorway, hair cascading over her shoulders and eyebrows raised. A piercing stab of want hits her square in the stomach, as if all of the feelings between them have dropped on her at once, mind empty of everything except for red lipstick and soft smiles.

Of course I’m happy to hear from you. I certainly am doing okay - good, even. It’s wonderful to be back in the Big Apple. I have seen a few shows, yes, and been to plenty of restaurants. I’d love to show you the sights one day. I have an apartment out here - Jo came to visit a couple of weeks ago. It’s private, if you catch my meaning - tucked out of the way in Red Hook, near Brooklyn. If it’s a clear day, I can see the Statue of Liberty from the roof. Costs a fortune, but it’s worth it.

Oh, to be in New York, standing in Greta’s apartment staring across the bay together. She longs for it, more than she’s ever longed for anything.

I trust your soul-searching through the Midwest has gone well for you? We both know you’ve always had the strength to do it, and now, the courage - though I suspect you’ve always had that as well, whether you knew it or not. Next time you’re at your library job, pick up Orlando by Virginia Woolf. Rumour has it she’s one of us - I think you’ll enjoy it. Think of me as you’re reading it. I thought of you the whole time I was.

I can’t help feeling you aren’t telling me everything. About Charlie, I mean. That must have been difficult to go through - I’m sorry you had to do it by yourself. Please tell me honestly how you are. I believe that you are strong, but I also know that it isn’t always as easy as being strong.

Well. She should have seen that line of inquiry coming. Greta’s always known her far too well, right from the beginning.

I do have one request of you. Could you send me a picture? Of yourself? Because I assume you’ll need another haircut by the time I next see you, and I’ll want to know what I’m working with. And I’d like to have one, for other reasons I’ll leave unwritten. You can use your imagination.

With all my love,

Greta

PS: You can write my eyes off whenever you fancy. Idiot. x

Carson reads it over and over, tracing her fingers over the words and revelling in the faintest whiff of Greta’s perfume, until she falls asleep with the paper still clutched in her hands.

Dearest Greta,

Oh, I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear from you. Please say hello to Jo next time you write - I’m glad things are feeling better between you. Time heals, I guess - it’s helped me, at least.

Thinking of you looking out at the Statue of Liberty makes me smile. It sounds as if you’re really at home there - it suits you. You’ll have to tell me all about your job, too - I totally forgot to ask. We have so much to catch up on. I’ve put a picture in, like you asked. I don’t really like pictures of myself, they always feel awkward somehow, but if you have one of you then I’d love to have it in return.

I did read Orlando, and I did think of you the whole time (how could I not? I don’t think of much else these days). It did feel like it was one of us writing it, as you put it - the way Virginia describes Orlando, there’s so much love there, but it feels more personal than the average author. I wonder if she has someone in her life that Orlando was based on?

I don’t know how much “soul searching” I’ve been doing, exactly, but I don’t feel like I’m so weighed down anymore, and that has to count for something right? Charlie - if you insist on hearing the truth - has been difficult. I can’t really blame him. But things were said that hurt - really hurt - and of all people I just never thought I’d hear them from him.

He doesn’t seem to have told anyone about me being, well, you know. So at least there’s that. He got my letter - he pretended he didn’t, but I found it in the hotel room, I can’t remember if I told you. At first I was angry, then just relieved, I guess? Guilty, stressed, scared, a ton of other things, but you were right. It needed to be sent, and we at least got to talk. At the time I tried to smooth it all over, but when I told him I wasn’t going back with him, that was that. I don’t really know how to sum it up - it was just messy, and difficult, and I ran out of money pretty fast, as everything’s in his name still. I’m a week behind on rent, but the landlady is a decent sort.

Putting pen to paper, the reality of it all seems to be finally sinking in. She writes as if she’s in a trance, thoughts she’s been suppressing for the past months raining down around her. The ache she feels for Greta has been growing by the day, a pain she carries around and nurtures quietly by herself. In many ways, the time has done her good - she’s established her independence, her sense of self, her freedom. But Greta’s right - it hasn’t been easy.

She takes a deep breath.

I miss you. I miss you so much that it hurts. I never had a problem being by myself until you - now, with everything goin g on, the mess with Charlie and the money and all of it, I just feel so frighteningly alone.

I’m sorry to end this in a low place. I’ll be alright, I’m sure. Fifty-four days until the season starts, that’s all.

Still. I wish you were here.

Yours, with all my love,

Carson

Greta’s response arrives five days later, via a sharp knock at the door announcing a same-hour priority telegram. Carson’s never received one before, thinks for an awful moment that it’s about Charlie, not even making it halfway up the stairs before tearing it open. She’s only ever known priority telegrams to contain terrible news, notifying relatives of wartime deaths or sudden dreadful illnesses, and the one in her hand was stamped as transmitted a mere forty-five minutes ago, adding to the sense of worry.

But she doesn’t see news of a tragedy, or an accident, or Charlie. She practically slams her bedroom door shut behind her, scanning the words over and over again, something taking hold of her heart and squeezing it tight in a way that makes Carson feel like she could explode in joy. She flops down on her bed, telegram held against her chest, staring up at the ceiling with a dizzy smile, feeling all of a sudden like she could cry as the realisation settles over her.

Dearest,

You’ve never been alone.

I’ll be on the midday train to St. Louis. See you tomorrow.

Yours,

Greta

Chapter Text

It’s the longest day of Carson’s life, waiting for that evening train. 

She’s been up since half past four, unable to sleep in a cloud of excitement. If she’s guessed right, Greta will be on the 11:27 arrival from St. Louis that night, leaving Carson with an entire day to fidget, wait, wonder. She’d hardly expected Greta to drop everything, take a day and a half journey across the country for her, but she knows Greta wouldn’t be talked out of it, not once she’d set her mind to something. She pictures Greta on the train, staring out of the window at the passing scenery, reading a book or a magazine, doing her nails to pass the time. The reality of Greta in her city, her room, her life - none of it has quite sunk in yet. 

She’s on tenterhooks all day, jumping out of her skin any time the door to the library opens, dropping books and stamping return dates at a multitude of odd angles. She goes for a run around Blue Valley Park, pitches ball after ball against the wall of a parking lot, trying to work out her nerves. She cleans her room three times over, bedsheets ironed, clothes folded and hung up, everything in it’s place. She stops at the bed for a moment, blushing at the idea of Greta in her silk pyjamas (or, ideally, in nothing at all), imagines the two of them under the sheets together. She informs the landlady of Greta’s arrival, accepts the offer of borrowing a guest mattress to keep up appearances, knowing full well it’ll stay propped up against the wardrobe the whole time. Going through the motions, just about keeping it together as the clock ticks by, each second agonisingly slower than the last.

By half past eight she’s had enough, too jittery to sit still even a minute longer. It’s a long walk to the station from her lodgings, two hours if she keeps the pace up, but she’s glad of the exercise, passing the time with her calves burning and her mind absent of anything that isn’t Greta, Greta, Greta. In a different time, a different life, Carson would greet her with a kiss, hold her so tightly wild horses couldn’t drag them apart, tell her openly how she’d missed her, how she’d longed for her. Instead, she tries to plan how to be affectionate while keeping it casual; a hug, a greeting, a surface-level conversation on the bus ride home. They’ll have time, she tells herself, in the privacy of her room, away from prying eyes. 

She turns onto East 18th Street, checking her watch. It’s barely nine-thirty, almost two hours before Greta arrives, but it’s doing her the world of good to be in the fresh air, lungs burning as she speeds down the sidewalk. Union Station is another hour away yet. She wonders what Greta is thinking - if she’s on the edge of her seat just as Carson is, if Greta is picturing the two of them as she looks out over whatever town she’s passing now. It’s only as Carson finally approaches the station, still an hour early, that her nerves morph from abstract jitters into a more centred, prominent anxiety. Seeing Greta, after all this time - it’s all she wants in the world, and the intensity of the feeling is terrifying. She finds a bench on the platform, manages to sit there for all of three minutes before she’s up and pacing again, walking the length of the platform a hundred times over as the minutes slip by. 

The train is late - of course it is - but at 11:43 the Firefly suddenly looms into sight, pulling to a stop with a piercing screech as Carson’s heart jumps out of her body. The platform comes alive, carriage doors swinging open as passengers and porters swarm. Carson stares through the throngs of people, eyes scanning for red curls, pushing her way through the crowd like a woman possessed. Her thoughts are in a frenzy - what if Greta isn’t on this one after all? If she missed it, or decided to stay in New York, or–

“Good to see you, Shaw.”

Carson spins on her heel so violently she nearly falls over, stumbling into Greta, who catches her effortlessly. Carson’s mouth is dry, eyes scanning over Greta’s face, drinking in every inch as a wide smile overtakes her. Greta’s opening her mouth to say something, but Carson cuts her off, lunging forwards to pull her into a crushing hug as Greta chuckles. 

“I missed you.”

It’s nowhere near enough, but it’s all she can muster, feeling Greta sigh contentedly into her hair. 

“I missed you too.”

“I can’t believe you came.” 

She feels Greta smirk, pressing a quick, covert kiss to the top of Carson’s head, eyes no doubt roaming to make sure nobody’s watching. “You needed me,” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Now,” Greta continues, eyes sparkling as her mouth quirks up into a smile, making Carson’s insides melt. “Fancy showing a pretty girl the sights?” 

“Yeah.” Carson grins up at her. “The bus is–”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll get us a cab.” 

“Are you sure? They’re pretty pricey this time of night, and the bus only takes forty minutes if the traffic is–”

But Greta winks at her before she’s even finished her sentence, picking her suitcase up and grinning. “I don’t want to wait that long.”

They barely speak in the cab. Carson feels like she’s on fire.

There are countless things she loves about her relationship with Greta, on every level, but the energy between them is always exhilarating, an exquisite tension that makes Carson feel as if Greta has set her ablaze, all too content to lie with her in the ashes. Their fingers brush together as Greta’s hand moves between them, and Carson feels electricity in her veins. It’s only with Greta that she truly understands what people mean when they talk about sparks, about fire, about the kind of passion you couldn’t control even if you wanted to. It’s an agonising ride home. Twenty minutes of longing glances in the darkness, hands on the seats between them, just close enough for a feather-light touch. Greta asks easy, simple questions; Carson pretends to care about the answers she’s giving, far more interested in eyeing up Greta’s legs.

Even after the journey Greta is immaculate - of course she is. When is she ever anything else? Carson lets her eyes roam over intact curls, delicate eyelashes, cherry-red lips that quirk into a smile as she realises Greta knows full well Carson is eyeing her up. Their eyes meet in the darkness, an intensity building as Carson realises they’re just a block away. The nervousness is back as they turn the last corner, pulling up outside her boarding house. Greta pays the fare with a dazzling smile, Carson takes her luggage, and finally, finally, it’s just the two of them.

“I’m, uh, upstairs. Third floor.” She stumbles on her words, suddenly conscious of the peeling paint on the walls, the faded carpet under Greta’s shiny shoes. She’s never been one to feel inferior, but it seems suddenly so important that Greta likes it here, that she isn’t regretting her decision as they head up the creaking staircase.

“This is me.”

She sets Greta’s suitcase down by the door, stepping aside to let her in. Greta smiles. “It’s a lovely room,” she says, and Carson lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. It’s basic, but she’s put enough effort in to appreciate the compliment. A small single bed, a bookshelf, a desk, a wardrobe, and a green rug on the floor hardly compares to the glamour she’s sure Greta lives in, but it doesn’t matter, not when Greta is running a finger down the front of A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, proudly displayed on the top shelf.

“Told you you’d like it.”

Carson wraps her arms around herself, glances down at the floor and back up again. “Yeah. Reminds me of you.”

Their eyes meet. Greta crosses the floor in three strides, takes Carson in her arms, and the dam finally breaks.

Greta’s hands are everywhere - her hair, her back, her arms, their kiss is beyond passionate, it’s desperate. Kissing Greta is just as intoxicating as it always was, all soft, breathy moans, roaming hands, the way Greta gasps as Carson’s hand tightens in her hair. They stumble across the room until the backs of Greta’s knees hit the mattress, Carson wasting no time in straddling her waist, kissing her fiercely, so fiercely she can hardly breathe. Greta’s hands find the buttons of her shirt, waiting for a nod of consent before she continues. Carson’s whole body is shaking as she wrestles with Greta’s blouse, visible to the point of Greta pulling away for a moment, checking in. “You okay, Shaw?” She’s not, not really, but she can’t stop now, not until the aching hunger within her is finally sated, the loneliness of the last months banished for good.

“I need you.” Her voice is raspy, desperate. “Please. Please, Greta.”

Greta bites her lip, studies her for a moment, but Carson isn’t having it. Not tonight. Tonight, she needs to revel in Greta’s desire, to let herself want and be wanted in return after so long. She nods, whispers that she promises she wants this, and Greta’s hand moves back up her thigh, slipping under her skirt and flipping them over, pinning Carson to the mattress. Clothes are torn off and thrown carelessly to the side, shoes kicked to the corner of the room, and Greta leaves a trail of bright red lipstick as she moves down Carson’s body, pressing kisses as she goes. 

Greta slips her underwear off, tracing her tongue down Carson’s left thigh and nipping at soft flesh, and it’s already so perfect that Carson has to slap a hand over her mouth to stop herself crying out. Greta dips her head to lick a broad stroke through Carson’s folds, moaning gently, the vibrations making Carson squirm, toes clenching. “God,” she whispers into the air, feeling more than hearing Greta’s chuckle.

“Not quite,” Greta murmurs, hand moving to slip two fingers into wet heat, keeping the pace on Carson’s clit as she does, sucking gently as Carson feels herself already climbing higher and higher. Greta sets a punishing rhythm, reducing Carson to wave after wave of muffled gasping, reaching a hand down to tangle in Greta’s hair. It’s all so much, the feeling of being surrounded entirely by Greta, the weight of her pushing Carson down into the mattress, carefully-hairsprayed curls in her fist. She feels the wave building, bites down hard on her tongue as it crashes over her, Greta kissing her deeply as she fucks her through it, swallowing down Carson’s moans as her legs tremble beneath them.

It’s only as she comes down from her climax that Carson realises she’s crying.

After many tears and much convincing that it’s the intensity that’s getting to her, not regret, they’re curled up together, Carson’s head tucked neatly under Greta’s chin, who in turn hums an old Glenn Miller song soothingly into her hair. “Do you wanna talk about it all, or wait until the morning?”

Carson presses a kiss to Greta’s collarbone. “I don’t know what to talk about, not really. I think– I don’t know. I think I just missed you more than I thought I did.” She pauses, leaning her head back to look Greta in the eye. “And now you’re here, and I’m so happy I could explode. But all the feelings of missing you, they’re still there. I’m not sad, it’s just–”

“A lot to feel?”

“Yeah. A lot to feel.”

Greta hums in agreement, pressing a kiss to her hair. “It is a lot. But it’s okay to feel it all, y’know? I’m glad you told me.”

“Yeah.”

“We can talk about the rest of it after we’ve both slept, if you want to.”

Carson nods, wincing. “Yeah, God, sorry, I forgot you’ve been travelling for, uh, days now. Sorry. You need to rest–”

“Hey.”

Carson meets Greta’s eyes again, deep brown reflecting the moonlight through the crack in the curtains. Greta brushes Carson’s hair out of her eyes, presses a kiss to her forehead as she strokes a hand down her cheek. “I’d stay up all night with you if it helped. But we’re both exhausted, and I think you’ve processed enough for one night.” Greta kisses her then, soft, gentle, smiling as she pulls away. “So for now, we’re gonna get some sleep, and in the morning I’m gonna buy you breakfast and sort your hair out. How does that sound?”

Carson feels like she could cry all over again - the softest, gentlest side of Greta is reserved for a very, very select few, she knows; the realisation that she’s one of them as comforting as it is overwhelming. “Yeah,” she manages, drawing Greta into another deep kiss. “Sounds perfect.”

They lie clasped so tightly together that Carson barely knows where she ends and Greta begins. Greta plays with her hair as they sink into each other, the silent intimacy feeling reverent in the moonlight. Carson lets her fingers dance across Greta’s back, running down her spine and back up again, tracing patterns as Greta sighs contentedly, pressing her lips to Carson’s forehead. “Thank you for telling me,” Greta whispers, so quietly Carson thinks she’s imagined it. “How you’ve really been, I mean. Thank you for trusting me.”

Carson’s hand stops moving, settling on the small of Greta’s back. “Thank you for letting me trust you.”

Waking in Greta’s arms the next morning is the most natural thing in the world. Greta’s nose is buried in her hair, an arm tightly around her waist, barely a centimetre of space between them as the sunlight filters in through the curtains. Greta is still asleep, soft, even breaths against Carson’s back. A glance at the clock tells Carson it’s already nearly ten, hours after she’s usually up, but she’d rather eat her arm than move out of Greta’s embrace.

She lies there for easily another hour before Greta begins to stir behind her. Carson grins to herself, feeling Greta stretch her legs out, pressing a kiss to the back of Carson’s head. “Sleep well?”

Carson nods, turning in her arms so they’re face to face. “I love waking up with you,” she murmers, and Greta grins widely at her in return. While her usual red lipstick makes Carson weak at the knees, seeing Greta like this, bare-faced, hair tousled, eyebrows not yet drawn on - it’s Carson’s favourite version of her. She reaches forwards to move a fallen strand of auburn out of Greta’s eyes, leans in for a kiss. It’s soft, gentle, both of them adjusting to the morning. 

“I’ve been waiting to do this again since we left Rockford.”

Carson smiles at her, kisses her again, a hand tangling in Greta’s hair. “Me too.”

“And we don’t have to worry about anyone walking in?”

“I’ve got the only key.”

“What did you tell the landlady?”

“That my cousin from New England is visiting.”

Greta grins. “Perfect.”

They lay there smiling at each other for another few minutes, Greta’s hand idly tracing up and down Carson’s arm. There’s plenty more to talk about, Carson knows that, but right now she just wants to exist in their little world for a while, revel in Greta’s presence, trade kisses as the sun climbs steadily higher.

It’s midday before they finally drag themselves out of bed, giggling like teenagers as they bump hips while they brush their teeth, making silly faces at each other in the bathroom mirror. Greta hops in the shower as Carson draws her a heart in the steam on the glass, trying to keep her laughter down as Greta pulls her under the water with her, kissing her in the warmth. Carson’s hand slips between Greta’s legs, grinning as she bites Greta’s lower lip, enjoys Greta’s breathy gasps as she works her over under the water. 

Greta cuts her hair afterwards, wearing nothing but a towel around her own hair to dry it off. Carson thinks of the first time as Greta carefully snips off her split ends, remembers how fraught with tension the air was, a direct contrast to the tender way Greta runs a comb through her locks now, pressing the occasional kiss to the back of Carson’s head as she works. It feels infinitely better to get back to the shoulder-length flick she’d gotten used to, and Greta’s pride in her work as she finishes off is visible, prompting a smile as Carson admires her handiwork in the mirror.

They walk down to the bakery by the park for a late breakfast, sharing a croissant in the wintery sun. Greta teases her about the amount of sugar Carson puts in her coffee, nudges her foot under the table, and Carson doesn’t know that she’ll tell Greta just yet, but she does know that she is absolutely, irrevocably, unashamedly in love with her.

Carson makes good on her promise to show Greta the sights, taking her to the Blue River that runs through Blue Valley Park, teaching her how to skip stones across the water. Greta picks it up surprisingly quickly, managing four hops on one and nearly hitting a bird with it. They spend time walking along the river, talking about Greta’s life in New York, her job, her apartment, how Jo is, everything under the sun. Carson has a million questions, by the time they’re all answered she has a million more, and Greta pauses for a moment as they reach the edge of the park. “I only have a few days of leave from work.”

Carson’s heart stops. “Right. Yeah, sorry, of course. You don’t have to stay, I’ll–”

Greta stops her by placing a finger on her lips, half-smiling. “Shush. Let me finish.” Carson nods, trying hard to resist pressing a kiss to Greta’s finger. “I only have a few days of leave from work, so I have to be back home by Friday. But, uh. I thought, maybe this time– Well. I got two tickets back to New York. So if you want, you can–”

“Go with you?”

Greta breaks eye contact, suddenly shy as she looks down. “Yeah. I’ve got my own apartment, the one next to me is empty.” She steadies herself, looks up, confidence returning to her eyes at the sight of Carson’s widening grin. “And,” she half-whispers, “I’ve got a double bed, so there’s plenty of space.”

Carson pretends to think about it for all of about five seconds. She’d been grateful for the time apart from everyone, glad she took some space to get to know herself again, but she’s not about to repeat it - going back to a life without Greta isn’t an option anymore; that is, not an option she’s willing to explore. She nods, almost frantic in her acceptance, and Greta meets her smile. “It’s a long journey,” she warns her.

“I know.”

“I’ll be at work most days.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“It’s just a big city. For a farm girl, that is–"

“Shut up,” Carson grins, and Greta can’t hold her laughter back, that same teasing look in her eyes. 

“I just wouldn’t want you to get lost, y’know. Without the sheep, and the wheat, and, uh–”

“The corn?”

“The corn.”

“How am I gonna know when it’s gonna rain if there aren’t any cows?”

“You’ll have to look at a newspaper, I guess.”

“Wow,” Carson nods, feigning seriousness. “Progressive.”

They round off the afternoon by going to the Nelson-Atkins Museum, a spring in Carson’s step at the realization that for the next fifty-two and a half days she has Greta entirely to herself. She’s never been much of an admirer of art, not having had many opportunities to visit the sprawling city galleries she’s read about, but she finds herself seeing the paintings and sculptures as Greta does, nodding along as details are pointed out that she hadn’t caught herself. 

“Do you spend a lot of time in galleries? In New York?”

Greta hums. “Yeah, kinda. There’s a lot I haven’t been to yet, but I went to the Met a few days after I got there. It’s huge, but gorgeous. Jo never had the patience for galleries, and I’ve only ever been to the city with her before, so they’re all still new to me.”

Carson nods as they turn the corner, looking through a collection of Chinese pottery the museum had recently acquired. “I went to the Boise Art Museum when it opened, back in ‘37. Took half a day to get there, and Charlie was bored by the time we got to the second floor, but it was the first time I’d ever been to a gallery. Sounds stupid, but I didn’t realise what a huge industry art is, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs, staring up at a huge canvas in front of them. “Like– there’s paintings, and sculptures, and they’re from all over the world, huge and small names alike, and somehow they ended up in front of me in Idaho, of all places. I guess the war has stopped a lot of imports, but, I dunno. Just seemed amazing. Seems amazing.”

Greta’s looking at her with a visible fondness, nodding gently. “It is amazing.” She looks around, dropping her voice to a whisper. “So are you.”

Carson blushes, glancing at the floor. “Take the compliment,” Greta chides, nudging her with her hip. “Still no better at that, huh?”

They wander through the various collections, sorted by location. Greta is taken with the renaissance pieces from Europe, taking time to look over various portraits by John Smart. “I like imagining what their lives would have been like,” she explains, eyes not leaving the different paintings. “I know the fact they were even painted means they were pretty rich, but I mean their daily lives, their personalities, what they liked, that kinda thing.”

Carson nods, leaving her with the oil paintings as she forges ahead into the more contemporary watercolours and sketches. She likes the vibrancy more than the muted tones of the grey-backed portraits Greta’s admiring, takes her time wandering around the display of charcoal and pencil sketches alike, gravitating towards the portrayals of unnamed women. They seem so human, so inviting, and she feels like she properly understands Greta’s fascination with knowing about the people behind the portraits she’s so taken with. She wonders about the women in front of her, how they knew the artist, why some of the sketches seem so personal and some so distant. 

Greta catches up to her just as she gets to the last piece in the sketch collection, a naked woman with bright red curls and a patch of dark hair between her legs. She’s beautiful, standing in front of a dark green plant, red lipstick painted on her lips, and Greta’s heart jumps. “She looks like you,” she murmurs to Greta, who smiles, surprisingly bashful.

“It’s just the hair.”

“No,” Carson shakes her head. “It’s her. I mean, yeah, she’s got red hair and lipstick. But she looks so confident, even standing there without her clothes on being drawn for the whole world to see. Her eyes are vulnerable, though, y’know? You want to know more about her, even though you don’t know her. She’s beautiful, obviously, but it’s like she’s reaching out for something. That’s what you’re like. That’s what it was like when I first saw you.” Greta is silent beside her, long enough for Carson to turn to her and see tears welling in her eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Greta smiles, tucking a strand of Carson’s hair behind her ear in the empty gallery. “Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you.”

“Oh, you have me, do you?” Carson teases.

“Don’t I?”

She wants to kiss Greta’s vulnerability away, settling instead for letting their fingers brush together. “Yeah.” She smiles up at her, waiting for Greta to return it before she continues. “You’ve always had me.”

Chapter Text

Carson finds her last shift at the library surprisingly sad. It’s become somewhat of a safe haven since she got to Kansas City, the routine keeping her grounded during the messiest parts of her divorce. It suits her, and she knows she’ll miss it.

Her colleagues get her a leaving card, which Grace, the young blonde who showed Carson around on her first day, presents with a flourish. Carson’s touched by the gesture; she’s only been working there for a little over a month, but they’ve never been anything but welcoming. Grace has drawn a little peach on the envelope, and Carson grins at the messages of good luck for the upcoming season in the card. She knows when she gets to Greta’s that it’ll find a spot on a windowsill somewhere, proudly in view, and she’ll take it with her when they head back to Rockford. She doesn’t know that she’ll go back to Kansas City - a tiny, locked-away part of her is hoping that she’ll spend the whole of the next off-season with Greta - but it’s nice to know she has a link here, somewhere to go if need be.

Her shift finishes at four, and Greta unexpectedly shows up as she’s reshelving at half past three, running a finger suggestively along the spines of the History - Habsburg Dynasty section as she makes her way through the shelves to Carson, who grins widely at the sight of her exaggerated swagger. Greta’s evidently putting on a show for her in the privacy of the shelves, and Carson’s all too happy to play along, letting her eyes roam over Greta’s figure as she approaches. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Greta smiles, glancing around them before reaching out to squeeze Carson’s hand. “I know you’re not done yet, but I wanted to surprise you.”

Warmth settles in Carson’s stomach. “Yeah, I’m done at four. But you can take a look around, if you want? I gotta say goodbye to everyone, so I might be a few minutes later.”

“Sure. Got anything from the Jazz Age?”

“Fiction or history?”

“Fiction.”

“Eight-thirteen. Back up there and three to the left.”

Greta winks at her as she turns, putting an extra swing in her hips for Carson’s benefit, who blushes, grinning. She watches as Greta picks up Zelda Fitzgerald’s Save Me The Waltz, walking over to one of the big couches by the window and flipping it open, and Carson wishes beyond anything she had a camera to hand, wanting to preserve the image of Greta forever. The way her hair glints in the sunlight, the delicate cross of her ankles, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips when she’s focussing. She’s glorious. Carson’s mouth is dry, shaking her head quickly to snap out of her reverie as she pulls the book trolley behind her towards the History - Australasia shelves. 

However much she wants to spend time with Greta, it’s still sad when the clock ticks around to four. Carson pockets her name tag and a postcard of the library to take with her, hugging her colleagues and promising she’ll come by whenever she’s next in town, knowing full well it’ll be at least another year. Greta lets her have the time by herself, content in her little window nook as Carson makes the rounds. She’s stopped at the end by Lillian, an older woman Carson probably knows best out of the staff, who takes her aside, out of earshot. “You know, you can always bring your girl back to visit with you.”

Carson swallows nervously as Lillian nods over to Greta. “She’s not–”

“My lady would love to meet her.” 

Lillian doesn’t break eye contact as she waits for the penny to drop, and Carson feels her eyes visibly widen, glancing at Greta and back again, who is blissfully unaware of her panic. Lillian smiles warmly, squeezing her arm. “She’s beautiful, by the way. You make a lovely pair.”

Carson swallows the last of her fear at Lillian’s kindness, feeling her cheeks redden. “Yeah. She’s breathtaking.” She gathers herself, looking over at Greta as she speaks. “Sometimes I can’t believe I got so lucky. All of the time, really.”

Lillian gives her a knowing smile, nodding. “I’m the same about my Maud. Hold on to her. It’s a victory for all of us when two of us find each other.”

Carson finds herself dangerously close to tears, pulling Lillian into a gentle hug. She writes down Lillian’s phone number on a bit of scrap paper, promises to call once they’re back in New York, and Lillian promises to come to a game if she can. Saying goodbye to the rest of her colleagues again, Carson meets Greta by the door, catching Lillian’s eye and nodding at her as they leave, wishing more than anything she could take Greta’s hand as they walk.

Greta insists on taking her to an early dinner before they start packing. They get the bus downtown, and Greta checks a bit of scrap paper for directions, leading Carson down to the Westport Room. She feels underdressed, but Greta glides through the space with ease as they’re led to their reserved table. It’s early enough that they’ve got the corner of the restaurant pretty much to themselves, and Greta smiles across the table at her. “I asked where the best food in the city was, and this was the most common answer. It’s on me.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Greta looks around before answering, dropping her voice, seemingly more out of bashfulness than subtlety. “Thought I should at least buy you dinner before asking you to move in.”

The enormity of the fact that they get to finally have a normal relationship milestone isn’t lost on either of them, whether they can hold hands across the table or not. Carson finds herself blushing for about the tenth time that day, lips curling into a smile as Greta’s eyes roam across her face. “I guess it is a pretty big deal, huh.”

“You’ll have to rearrange all my books by that library system.”

Carson smiles. “Dewey Decimal? You’ll have to give me a while, there’s hundreds of categories.”

“I’ll test you. What’s three ninety-three?”

“Death customs in folklore.”

“Five forty?"

“Chemistry.”

“Four eighty-five?”

“Grammar in classical Greek. Or post-classical Greek. One of those two.”

“Damn,” Greta raises her eyebrows, leaning back in her chair as she takes a sip of wine. “I’m impressed, Shaw. Guess those game-card skills transfer, huh?”

Carson grins. “Just means I get mad when people put books back in the wrong places. Like, someone today put a book on the Assyrian Empire in the landscape architecture shelf. How do they even get there–”

“You’re so weird.” 

Greta’s foot nudges hers under the table as the waiter brings their menus, and Carson falls just a little further in love with her.

Polishing off a bottle and a half of wine between them before packing to move probably isn’t the best of their ideas, but it’s definitely one of the most fun, as Greta throws a sock across the room to hit Carson square in the forehead. “Greta,” Carson whines, balling it up and throwing it back. “You’re on clothes, I’m on books.”

“And?”

“So you need to keep the clothes over there.”

A second sock follows the first, and Greta collapses in a heap of giggles on Carson’s bed, kicking her feet up as she goes. Carson lasts all of four seconds before practically skipping across the room to join her, lying down with half her body leaning off the end of the tiny mattress. Greta turns on her side, slinging an arm across Carson’s waist, who presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I can’t believe you’re coming back with me,” Greta whispers, so faintly Carson almost doesn’t hear her. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t last time–”

“No,” Greta says firmly, looking up at Carson. “Don’t be sorry. I know why you didn’t.”

“I wish I had, sometimes.”

Greta gives her a watery smile, settling her head on Carson’s chest and sighing deeply. “Me too. But you’ve grown so much. I’m so proud of you.”

Carson runs her fingers through Greta’s hair, playing with soft curls as she hums. “Yeah. I think I have. I feel different, I guess.” She pauses, looking down at Greta’s wistful expression. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you every minute of every day.”

Greta presses a kiss to her sternum, settling her head there and breathing deeply. “I missed you too.”

Carson pauses, biting her lip. “Have you been with anyone else? Since the season ended?”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in the air. “A couple,” Greta answers honestly. “Nothing serious. They were both married, looking for a bit of fun. Didn’t hear from either of them again, but then, I didn’t want to.” Silence falls as Greta’s fingers trace up Carson’s arm. “Have you?”

“Once. It just sort of happened. It was fun, we had a nice night, but, I dunno–”

“What?”

“I thought of you the whole time,” Carson replies frankly, feeling Greta’s lips twitch into a smile through the fabric of her blouse. 

“I thought of you, too. With both of them. I thought it’d make me feel better, and sure, we had fun.”

“But?”

Greta exhales deeply, sitting up, hands taking hold of Carson’s as she fiddles with her fingers. “I’m just so tired of being an experiment for women that are bored with their husbands. Someone they can fuck and throw away when the fun’s over. You make me feel so seen. Like I matter to you, in a way I don’t to them.”

“You do matter to me. More than anything.” Carson leans forwards, resting her forehead against Greta’s, who takes a shaky breath. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s some other force, but she presses a gentle kiss to Greta’s lips. “I love you. I really love you.” She kisses her again, lightly, softly, feeling a tear on Greta’s cheek as she does. “I think I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

Greta’s lip is trembling, sudden tears threatening to spill over as she raises a hand to gently cup Carson’s cheek. “Do you really mean that?”

Carson brushes Greta’s hair out of her eyes, stroking lightly down her face as she smiles, kissing her again. “Yeah. I really do.”

Greta’s sob catches in her throat, Carson gently sweeping away a tear. It hits her that this is likely the first time anyone’s said this to Greta since Dana, since it all went so downhill, and she pulls Greta into her arms, laying them back down and rubbing her back soothingly. “You’re brave, and funny, and breathtakingly beautiful. You make me feel like nobody else in the world ever has, and I love you,” Carson murmurs, tracing patterns down Greta’s spine as she cries, other hand coming to rest on her waist, arms circling her. “I don’t care if you’re not ready to say it back, or if you need time. I just want you to know.”

Greta nods against her, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I do love you, though,” she says through tears, lifting her head just enough to look Carson in the eye. “I’ve loved you this whole time. I think I’ve loved you for longer than I even knew I did.”

The admission hangs between them, a welcome presence as Greta’s sobs slowly turn to sniffles, then to gentle breaths in Carson’s arms. There’s more packing to do, their train leaves at eight the next morning, but Carson already knows they’ll get up early instead of sacrificing tonight. “You were never just a bit of fun to me,” she says quietly, stroking over Greta’s hair. “Even back at the beginning. You always meant more than that.”

“I think that’s what scared me,” Greta admits, nestling her head under Carson’s chin. “You were different. To any of them. It still scares me.” She pauses, and Carson stays silent, sensing she’s not done yet. “But the idea of being without you scares me more.”

“Well,” Carson smiles, kissing her hair. “Good thing I’m all yours then, huh?”

It’s a long journey back to New York, one that Carson spends the majority of either staring at Greta or at the passing scenery. She’s too excited to sleep, all too content to let Greta doze off on the Chicago, Peoria, and St. Louis line the following night. They have a compartment to themselves, Greta’s treat to break up the second of their three trains, and Carson had immediately closed the blinds and locked the door, pressing Greta gently up against the window and kissing her deeply. It should be alarming, how difficult it is to keep her hands off Greta even for just a few hours, but as fingers tangle in silky curls, hands roam over waists and hips, all she cares about is how good it feels when she does get to touch her. Greta sighs softly into Carson, cups her cheek with her hand, and it’s only when they rattle over a bit of broken track that they’re forced apart, practically gasping for air. Greta grins at her, suggests they get comfortable, and despite not quite having the luxury the sleeper cars provided, they make do with Carson leaning back against Greta, nestled between her legs and Greta’s arms strongly around her waist.

She can’t work out if they go past Rockford in the darkness, not wanting to risk opening the blinds and having to extract herself from Greta, but as they finally approach Chicago she feels a spark of excitement at the realisation that they’ll be back on the field in under two months. She wakes Greta gently, presses a kiss to her forehead and smiles as Greta grumbles for five more minutes sleep, never having been an early riser. There’s a couple of hours before their train to New York, enough for Greta to locate a café near the station, bleary-eyed and somewhat concerned at Carson’s lack of rest, no matter how much Carson insists she’s okay. Their New York train will likely be busier, but Greta shrugs. “Sleeping on a friend after a long journey shouldn’t raise too many eyebrows,” she says through her coffee, and, well. Who is Carson to deny that offer?

The final leg of the journey is entirely uneventful, save for Greta pointing out when they cross a state border, or when a landmark is visible in the distance. Carson sleeps for most of it, waking up a couple of times when they stop in major stations along the way to stretch her legs, but the sixteen hours feel like they last forever. Greta reads the same book three times over as Carson daydreams about the next two months, wondering what to get Greta for Christmas. Even in the tediousness of the journey, being able to spend the time with the woman she loves - the woman who loves her back - is hardly an unpleasant way to pass the hours. 

They finally arrive at Grand Central that night, pulling in at a little after midnight. Greta gives her address to the first cab they find, and Carson is beyond grateful, far too tired to even consider offering to get the metro, especially not with five suitcases between them. It’s a forty-five minute journey even in a taxi, and Carson nods off again about halfway through, waking up to Greta lightly shaking her shoulder and murmuring that they’re finally there. Greta’s apartment building looks magnificent in the dark, on the end of the street facing Governor’s Island, and mercifully has an elevator, which Carson is increasingly grateful for as she learns Greta lives on the fourth floor.

She barely takes in her surroundings, letting Greta lock the door behind them and drop their cases, immediately leading Carson through to her - their - bedroom, not the slightest thought given to the guest room by either of them. Carson knows she’ll admire the decor tomorrow, but for the time being is all too content to let Greta pull her into soft cotton sheets, stripping themselves of their clothes. Greta moves to get some pyjamas, but Carson catches her wrist, shaking her head as Greta concedes with a smile, leaning to turn the light out as they curl up together, stark naked under the sheets as the throbbing in Carson’s head finally starts to ease.

She doesn’t know how long they sleep, knows only that she falls asleep curled in Greta’s arms and wakes exactly the same way. She can only assume they’ve slept solidly round the clock, closing her eyes again and nestling back against her girlfriend. Greta is still unconscious, and Carson soon joins her in falling back asleep, pulling the duvet back up and over them both. It’s nearly two in the afternoon by the time they finally drag themselves out of bed, Carson thoroughly enjoying having Greta making them a late breakfast in a silk robe as she explores the apartment. It’s minimalist, sleek contrasts of white, red, and black, decorated with little details that feel so distinctly Greta that Carson reckons she could have guessed who lived there with her eyes closed. She starts back in the bedroom, eyes roaming over Greta’s cluttered vanity, smiling to herself as she counts nine bottles of nail polish in the exact same shade of red. A picture of Greta and Jo is pinned to the mirror, a photo of the Peaches next to it, and Carson stops still as she sees a carefully cut-out newspaper clipping of herself, grinning at the camera in her game uniform as she steps up to the plate. She remembers the day it was taken, the first game after their luck finally started changing; she knows she was actually grinning at Esti, that Greta was on second base at the time, that Maybelle and Shirley were in the dugout behind her and Jo was batting next. 

She doesn’t hear Greta call her name, looking at the picture fondly until Greta appears in the doorway, making her jump. “Breakfast’s read– oh. Admiring yourself?”

Carson turns, looking at her with a wry smile. “You’re so cute.”

“I’ve had it since Rockford,” Greta admits, walking across to stand next to Carson, who instinctively slides an arm around her waist. “Wanted to keep you with me.”

“I wish I had one of you,” Carson says softly, as Greta leans into her embrace, pressing a kiss to her hair. As she’s turning to look up, a smaller portrait catches her eye, tucked in the corner of the mirror. A young girl in black and white, a wide smile and dimples framed by a head of dark hair, and Carson clocks the subject immediately, half-recognising it from the glance she’d gotten during their conversation in Rockford. “Dana?”

Greta stills for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah. It’s the only one I’ve got of her.”

Carson studies the picture, squeezing Greta’s waist gently. “She’s really pretty,” she murmurs, and Greta nods again.

“Yeah. She is.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to her, in the end?”

She almost regrets asking, but Greta just shakes her head, swallowing. “Last I heard her parents moved to Europe, but I don’t know if that’s true. That was years ago, now, anyway.” She pauses, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth as she looks at Carson in the mirror. “Once people go into those places they don’t tend to come back out again,” she says bluntly, and Carson nods, somber, turning her head to press a kiss to Greta’s shoulder.

“She’d be so proud of you.”

Greta nods, lip wobbling before she steels herself, taking a deep breath. “I hope so. She always said I’d make it big. We thought I’d be an actress instead of an athlete, but still.”

Carson smiles, standing with Greta in silence for a moment more, before moving her arm to take hold of her hand. “C’mon,” she says gently, squeezing Greta’s hand before turning to lead her to the kitchen. “Wouldn’t want your hard work to go to waste.”

They still have the afternoon together before Greta returns to work the next morning, rounding it off by climbing up the fire escape to get to the roof. Greta wasn’t kidding when she wrote about seeing the Statue of Liberty; it stands tall and clear across the bay, torch held aloft as the sun begins to set. Stowed away in Carson’s backpack is a bottle of wine and a blanket, which Greta unrolls, settling herself down, patting the space next to her with a smile. Carson flops down next to her, bundled up in one of Greta’s winter coats in the chilly New York air. She reckons they’ll make it twenty minutes before retreating back into the warmth, but it’s the perfect excuse to huddle up together in the meantime, high above the city as they pass the wine back and forth.

“Do you think everyone will come back next season?”

Carson shrugs, looking out over the bay. “I hope so. Depends where we’ve all ended up, I guess. I don’t think anyone would pass it up unless something major happened.”

Greta nods, taking a swig from the bottle. “I can’t tell if it’s gonna be easier or harder to go back with you.”

“What do you mean?”

Greta flashes her a smirk. “Well,” she begins, looking Carson up and down. “For the next fifty-one and a quarter days, I’ve got you all to myself.” She leans in closer, conspiratorially, lips brushing the shell of Carson’s ear as she whispers, “and I never really liked sharing.”

Carson shivers, taking the bottle back and smiling at Greta as she takes a drink. “Maybe we’ll be roommates this time.”

Greta raises an eyebrow at her, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Don’t get my hopes up,” she chides gently, nudging Carson with her shoulder. “Jess would never let me hear the end of it. Neither would Joey.” She pauses, sighing. “I miss them.”

“Me too. I’ve heard from Maybelle a couple of times, and I got a postcard from Jess and Lupe when I was back in Minneapolis. They’re road-tripping through the South, or at least they were.”

“Sounds about right.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, watching the boats on the Upper Bay as the sun gradually sinks lower. Carson’s fingers are going numb, but fire burns warm inside her every time her leg touches Greta’s, spurred on by the alcohol. She reaches for Greta’s hand, threading their fingers together in the privacy of the rooftop, both enjoying the presence of the other. Eventually the cold will bite too hard, the wine will run out and they’ll tipsily have to navigate the fire escape again, giggling to each other the whole way, but for now, Carson squeezes Greta’s hand, thinks for the hundredth time that day alone how grateful she is to have found her.

They settle into a routine surprisingly quickly once Greta goes back to work. Carson’s never been a fantastic housewife, too clumsy and chaotic in her thinking to keep a house in order, but she finds she likes aspects of it with Greta far more than she ever did with Charlie. Cooking dinner for Greta to come home to, making their bed up again in the mornings, leaving Greta little notes around the apartment with silly drawings and affectionate scrawls across them, they all become a part of her daily routine. She walks down by the docks during the day, brings Greta lunch at the office every so often, finds flower markets and fresh vegetables to take back home with her. New York is bigger and busier than she could have imagined, but she finds herself falling into step with everyone around her, navigating the city with ease by the end of her second week there.

Christmas is fast approaching, and Carson knows it’s Greta’s favourite holiday, however nonchalant she pretends to be about it. She meets her at the office at the end of her shift on the twenty-third, smiling at Greta in her wool hat and scarf. They take the subway to Greenwich Village, where Carson has seen a Christmas market advertised, and Greta’s eyes light up when they turn the corner to Christopher Street, stall after stall of Christmas decorations littering the sidewalk. “Thought we should make an effort. First one together and all that.”

Greta grins down at her, a look of half-affection, half-awe on her face as Carson picks up a shopping basket. “Lead the way.”

They pick up all sorts, different colours of tinsel and paper decorations filling the basket quickly. It’s a fairly fast trip, the city-wide blackouts coming into effect as the sun sets, but Carson is pleased with their haul. They round it off with a modest tree, Greta hauling it over her shoulder in a display of strength that makes Carson weak at the knees, heat pooling in her stomach as Greta throws her a wink. “Something on your mind, Shaw?” she asks innocently, and Carson bats at her arm as they walk back towards the subway, trying not to smack passing tourists with their array of decorations.

It takes the whole evening to get the flat ready, Greta stringing tinsel around the living room as Carson tackles the tree. Greta turns to see a definitive line marking the point Carson can’t reach anymore, giggling as she takes a bauble and moves it up, kissing the top of Carson’s head as she does. “You could’ve asked for a stepladder.”

Carson catches the front of her blouse, turning around and pulling Greta in for a proper kiss. “More fun to make you come over, though.”

Greta just smirks at her, leaning back in and kissing Carson gently, a hand tangling in her hair as Carson slips her arms around her waist, walking Greta back towards the couch until they half-fall onto it together, Carson straddling Greta’s waist as their kisses grow hungrier. Greta lets out a tiny oh as Carson’s fingers deftly unbutton her blouse, dipping her head to leave a trail of kisses down Greta’s neck as her hand sinks lower. 

Sliding Greta’s skirt off, Carson drops to her knees on the floor, pulling Greta by her calves to the edge of the couch. Greta’s breathing is rapid, looking down at Carson through heavily-lidded eyes as Carson slides her underwear off, taking her time nipping at Greta’s thighs as she drags out the suspense. Greta’s legs fall open as Carson inches higher, whining softly as Carson skirts around where Greta wants her most. “C’mon,” she groans, and Carson grins wickedly, sucking a bruise on Greta’s thigh as Greta’s hand tangles in her hair, nails raking softly over her scalp.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later,” Carson responds with a grin, finally, finally diving in, tongue painting a broad stroke through Greta’s folds and up to her clit, where she hones in, flicking her tongue over straining flesh as Greta gasps into the air above them, head rolling back as Carson repeats the gesture. The taste of her is addictive, Carson practically forgetting to breathe as she ups the pressure, nails digging crescent moons on the outside of Greta’s thighs as she works her harder. 

“More, God, please–”

Carson’s all too happy to oblige, sliding three fingers through obscene wetness, the action rewarded with a moan as Greta clenches down around her. She knows by now how to get Greta exactly where she wants her, hips bucking as she tries to fuck herself further on Carson’s fingers, breathy whines filling the room around them. Carson knows to make her wait for it, two, three minutes of edging her before she finally drives home, sucking hard on Greta’s clit as Greta gasps out above her, the familiar tightening around Carson’s fingers as she fucks her through her orgasm. Greta’s hair is ruined, lipstick smudged, and Carson refuses to let up, giving her a second to come down before picking the pace back up again. “Jesus, Carson–”

Carson shifts them around on the couch, moving up Greta’s body, kissing her fiercely as she moves her knee to drive her fingers deeper, covering Greta’s moans with her mouth as she works her thumb over her clit, quick, firm circles that have Greta keening in minutes. “C’mon, baby,” Carson murmurs, and it’s all Greta needs, falling over the edge again with a hand clamped over her mouth to stop from crying out. She’s thoroughly spent, Carson gently working her through the come-down, before licking her fingers clean and collapsing on top of her. 

“You,” Greta breathes, chest still heaving, “are going to kill me one day.”

Christmas morning dawns bright, and Carson doesn’t remember the last time she felt this content.

They exchange gifts under the tree, Greta giving her a new pair of pyjamas and a fountain pen with an adjusted grip. The gesture underneath it hits Carson square in the chest; she’d complained hundreds of times about how her fingers cramped up while making her game cards, cheap pens she picked up at gas stations that never lasted long enough to be worth the money. It’s a thoughtful move, and Carson is delighted, leaning over to kiss Greta deeply in thanks. She first gives Greta a pair of earrings she’d found at the Christmas market, ruby-red pendants that Greta had lingered over for far too long to be a casual interest, and Greta beams at her, putting them in immediately and making Carson laugh as she models them exaggeratedly. 

Her second gift is a touch personal, but Carson goes ahead with it anyway, handing Greta a small box. Greta looks momentarily confused, makes a quip about how it’s a little early for marriage, but her words die in her throat as she opens the box, lifting an antique brass locket out of it. “Open it,” Carson urges softly, and Greta does, eyes welling up immediately as she looks at the contents. 

“How did you–”

“The original never left the apartment,” Carson assures her. “I asked a street photographer to help out while you were at work.”

“Carson–”

“I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to compromise,” Carson says firmly, as Greta looks back down at the locket in front of her. In one side is a picture of Carson, mid-laughing, looking away from the camera; in the other is a copy of Greta’s photograph of Dana, slightly blurrier but saved by the delicate size of it. “She was your first love, and I don’t want you to ever have to bury her away, y’know. I, uh– I know it’s a bit narcissistic to put myself in a gift, but I–”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, overwhelmed by Greta drawing her into a deep kiss, hands trembling as she strokes Carson’s cheek. A single tear makes its way down Greta’s cheek as they draw apart, a watery smile appearing as she studies the locket. “This is the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she says, looking back up at Carson with pure adoration in her eyes. “I love it. I love you.”

“I love you too. More than anything.”

She pulls Greta to her feet, takes her over to the mirror above the couch, reaching up to help her put the locket on. Greta fiddles with it immediately, catching Carson’s eye in the mirror as Carson gently moves to hug her from behind, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade. “You’re my favourite person,” Greta sighs as she leans into the embrace, and Carson presses a soft kiss to her neck, smiling softly at their reflection.

“You’re mine, too. Always.”