Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

LAX, 2023

The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf at LAX was unremarkable, as far as cafes went. The furniture was cheap and mass produced, the line always too long. The espresso barely passed for drinkable. But for Tina, it was a landmark. A lighthouse whose glow flickered so weakly that a collision was probable, rather than possible. 

Always the same place. Always the same time. First Sunday in August, noon sharp unless told otherwise.

She never was.

It had become a twisted tradition, one neither of them would ever admit needed to stop. Tina checked her watch again. 

11:58.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, considered leaning against the wall behind her. Thought better of it. Standing was good. Neutral. She planted her feet shoulder-width apart, suitcase positioned in front like a shield. As if it might somehow absorb the impact of whatever this year’s version of Bette might bring. Like she might be able to get ahead of her own heartbreak this time, or worse – the alternative. 

These were the minutes that still held all the potential. Tina hated it. Loved it. That sweet, sick thrill of the unknown. Not knowing yet who she was going to be letting into her space, wanting to welcome her in and shove her away all in the same movement. Push, pull. In, out. 

All.

Nothing. 

And always almost, almost, almost.

Outside the glass wall, LAX was in full performance. A blur of movement and noise, people sliding out of SUVs, waving or crying or yelling at their kids. Couples kissed goodbye like they meant it. Lone businessmen strutted through the heat, eyes on gates and phones. Tina stared past them all. Alone, together. That was the trick of airports. Everyone going somewhere. Everyone expected. Everyone leaving someone behind. 

Then, it came like a whispered gunshot. 

“You cut your hair.” 

It was close, like it had been spoken directly into her ear. But when Tina turned, Bette stood three feet away, shoulders parallel to her own, facing the same direction. A quick glance. Same curls tumbling over her shoulders, same high cheekbones. Same composure, same presence that could destabilise her with four syllables. Tina exhaled slowly and returned her gaze to the cab queue outside.

“I did.” 

She could feel Bette’s eyes burning into her profile. “It’s… different.” 

“That was kind of the idea.”

“I like it.” A shrug. Dismissive. Defensive. “Another break up?” 

Tina’s reply was flat. “New job.” 

A nod. “Congratulations.”

“You’re about nine months past that. But thank you.” Tina said, but it wasn’t spiteful. She wasn’t interested in being bitter. Just accurate.

She turned then, finally – fully – and Bette looked away just as quickly, gaze snapping toward the far end of the terminal with determination. They both understood the choreography. Full eye contact was strictly reserved for the second act. 

Bette cleared her throat. “Shall we?”

Tina gestured toward the check-in desks. “Don’t we always?”

They fell into step silently, moving in tandem towards the queue. It was always like this, initially. Few words. A little jostling while they worked out how to share the same air again, but it never lasted long. That was half the trouble. If all the stiffness and awkwardness was sustainable, then they could have put the pin in this charade years ago. 

At the check-in desk, Tina tilted her chin up at the departure board. TAP Air Portugal. But the flight listed wasn’t terminating in Lisbon.

“Italy.” Tina stated. Not a question. 

Bette nodded. “Via Lisbon.”

Tina turned back to face the desk. “How long?” 

“Eleven hours, give or take. Two hours to get out and stretch our legs. Then… onwards.”

“Enough time to hunt down a pastel de nata.”

Bette almost smiled. “I thought you might like that.” 

Mercifully, they were called forwards before Tina had to conjure up a way to respond to that. 

The check-in staff greeted them and they went through the motions. Name. Passport. Predictably, Tina was dangerously close to the luggage limit, and Bette precisely four kilograms under it. The woman labelled and sent their luggage away on a conveyor belt. Tina partly wished she was going with it – she wouldn't have turned down spending eleven hours in the cargo hold instead of sitting next to Bette. It would be less complicated.

After a silent walk over to security, Tina watched Bette breeze through her routine like a woman who wanted more control than she had. Her liquids were pre-packed in a ziplock bag from home, laptop already pulled from her tote, shoes off before anyone even asked.

Meanwhile, Tina dawdled. 

She always did this part slowly. A small, passive rebellion. Alone or with literally anyone else, she was organised, methodical. With Bette? Oh, no. Tina dragged her feet. Made a performance of stuffing her toiletries into the flimsy airport-issued bag at the last minute, took an age to put all her items in the right trays. Even though it almost pained her, she was deliberately as inefficient as possible. Because she knew Bette wouldn’t say anything. Not yet. Not in this part of the dance.

She glanced at Bette’s mouth. It twitched – just slightly – but didn’t move.

Tina made a mental note. No sigh. No eye roll. Barely even an arched brow. That probably meant Bette wasn’t stressed. Or, at least, not by work. As for anything else… Well, it was too soon to tell. They still had eleven hours of travel and seven days in each other’s faces, though. Plenty of time to find out.

“I’m thirsty.” 

“I know you are,” Bette said. She glanced at the time on the wall, then back at Tina. Briefly. There was the hint of a smile playing at her lips, the kind that didn’t ripen. Too soon for that, too, Tina guessed. Everything was always on a clock with them. One smile too soon could start the landslide. “Luckily, I know the perfect place.”

Tina let herself match the smile, precisely. They always did this – measured their expressions like poker players. A millimetre too much and someone folded. It was a game in the beginning. Who would blink first, who would let the softness slip through. Some years it was Bette. Others, it was her. But once that door cracked open, it always swung wide enough to come off the hinges. That was the problem. They were never good at moderation. They were greedy with it. It had always been a game of control and self-control – one they both wanted to win. 

They walked side by side, dragging their cases like they were towing matching emotional baggage. No eye contact. No conversation. Just the low rumble of wheels and the occasional overhead announcement reverberating through the terminal. A strange sort of peace, like when you’re warned there will be turbulence and just have to wait for it to arrive.

At the bar, Bette dropped into the booth without hesitation. Tina waited a beat, then sat opposite her. Deliberate and precise, like it mattered. It was the first time they had been properly face to face since last August. With a slow inhale, she raised her eyes and took her in, inch by inch. Dark eyes, but in a way that made her look more like prey than predator. Full lips that always seemed to be on the cusp of a smirk. The slope of her nose, the sharp angle of her jaw – it was all the same. But they couldn’t be the same people they were last year, surely. Tina blinked slowly, one brow arched.

“The usual?” 

Bette’s eyes were still fixed on her, warm. Or, warmer. “You know better than to ask that.” 

They looked at each other then, properly. Not just inspecting for the breadcrumbs of missed time, but looking for anything that might have changed underneath. It was always in the eyes, and for Tina it meant holding the kind of gaze that felt like a risk. She wondered, distantly, what the people around them would assume – two women sitting in a booth, bags tucked under the table, saying nothing, holding eye contact like it was life or death. She watched the miniscule flicker of a muscle in the brunette’s cheek, a warning light that she might be about to fold. But the waiter approached, so Tina silently conceded a tie. 

“Two Bow & Arrows please,” Tina said without looking away. She ignored the lift in Bette’s brow, the slight twitch of the index finger against her cheek. The tiny signs that she was about to remind Tina about the extra kick – like she had ever forgotten. “Chilli rim, if you can.” 

The waiter nodded and disappeared. They were alone again, with only the gaping chasm of old habits sitting between them.

Tina exhaled slowly. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was practiced. Evaluative. Like each of them was waiting for the other to tip their hand. Were they doing the full post-mortem now, at the start? Or dancing around it for a few hours first? They knew both routines by heart. Tina always told herself she was prepared for either, even though she never was.

Bette put her elbow on the table, propping her chin up with her palm. “This place hasn’t changed the menu in nearly ten years.”

Dancing around it, then. 

Tina didn’t look away. “I don’t know how you’d know that. We only ever order the same drink. I don’t think you’ve looked at a menu here since 2016.”

“Well that makes it almost a decade of our annual Bow & Arrows.” Bette tilted her head, claiming the point.

“You never come to this place without me?” 

Bette shook her head. “It wouldn’t feel right.” 

It wouldn’t feel complete, or whole. And it was all so far from right that it was almost laughable, if it wasn't so sadistic. Tina knew that. 

“I don’t come here any other time either,” she said. “Too dangerous.”

“Bow & Arrows are made to be drunk in company, anyway.”

Tina hesitated. “Don’t you mean ‘enjoyed’ in company?” 

“That remains to be seen.” Bette grinned, almost all the way now. Tina took a steadying breath in, shook her head gently at the brunette. Not yet.

Their drinks arrived and they clinked glasses softly. Tina sucked in the liquid, still as taken aback by its taste as the first time she’d had it. 

“The first sip is always the worst.” Bette offered, like she always did.

“It can be a little confronting at first, can’t it?” Tina licked spice and salt from her lips. “Like you’re not sure if you still enjoy it. Whether you actually want it, or you just like the idea of it.”

“A little early for cryptic riddles, isn’t it Tina?” Bette said, and hearing her name made the blonde’s stomach flop. She tried not to give her reaction away – it was too early for that, too. Bette inched forward, planting both elbows on the edge of the table this time. Curls softened the edges of her face. “Tell me how you are.” 

“I’m… okay.” 

Bette tilted her head, studying her. “Just okay?” 

“Yeah. For now.” 

“And...?” 

Tina shook her head slowly. “I’ve given you a gift. And all you get from me is one.” 

“For now.”

“Correct.” Tina sipped again, and motioned the waiter for another set of drinks. “Tell me how you are.”

“How I am? Oh, that’s a little more complicated.” Bette hesitated. A slow smile this time. “But also, not at all. I’m good. I’m… happy. Or as happy as I get.” 

“You seem lighter. Less... burdened.” 

“Interesting choice of words. But, I guess you could say that.” Bette paused, wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, never breaking eye contact. “Did you read Maame?” 

“You know I did.” Tina grinned. “I didn’t want it to end. I could feel the pages thinning and I kept pretending they weren’t.”

“I felt exactly the same way. Inhaled it in three days.” Bette drained her drink, victorious as she looked at Tina’s glass which was still a quarter full. “But every story comes to an end eventually, though.” 

“Not all of them.”

Bette stilled, considered. “They do. One way or another.”

“Not us.” Tina said. A test, soft but sharp.

Bette watched her for a few seconds too long. Then smiled, still unreadable. “No. Not us.” 

And that was all they gave it. A flash of heat, instantly iced. They settled back to the safer terrain of book plots and pacing, heart-wrenching lines and highlighted passages. Another August. Another drink in the same airport bar. Another year of radio silence, followed by seven days in each other’s space. Another trip that was completely conceived by one of the two – this time, Bette, as it was an odd-numbered year – and another first few hours spent skirting around the intimate details of each other. Was it healthy? No. Nothing about them ever had been. 

But they still showed up. Always did. Because they had promised they would. Because no one wanted to be the one who let go first. Not after a decade of pretending it didn’t matter anymore.

“Chicken, for her.” 

Bette’s voice pulled her out of a thick sleep. Usually, Tina could sleep through anything – her mother once told her she could sleep on a clothesline in a hurricane. Being stretched out in a business class seat certainly helped. She knew Bette had a quiet appetite for luxury these days. 

Tina had been asleep before they had reached altitude. But still, even after all the time apart, she was tuned into the specific frequency of Bette’s voice – one she could pick from a chorus of hundreds. 

She blinked awake just in time to see a tray being passed over her reclined seat, straight into Bette’s waiting hand. Tina’s table was already being unfolded for her, Bette’s fingers moving with the confidence of habit.

“I hate it when you order for me.”

Bette didn’t glance over. She kept her eyes down, started cutting her meal up with surgical care. “You would have preferred the beef?” 

Tina rubbed her eyes and frowned. “That’s not the point.” 

Finally, Bette turned to her. Gave her a pointed look. 

Tina sighed. “No, I wouldn’t have wanted the beef.” 

“Exactly.”

“I hate that you know that.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” Bette said, wiping her mouth. “You’re still cranky when you’re tired.” 

“And you’re still too scared to take a valium, which means you’ll be completely delirious by the time we land.” 

“Oh, without a doubt. But, look at this –” Bette tilted her tray towards her. “I’m trying vegan food.” 

Tina narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to be hungry later.” 

“I’m starting to think maybe I don’t need meat anymore,” Bette shrugged, thoughtful.

“And I’m starting to have vivid flashbacks of you eating an entire rotisserie chicken. With your bare hands.”

“Us, Tina.” Bette corrected. “We both ate an entire rotisserie chicken, sans couverts. We’d just finished a marathon, for Christ’s sake. Forgive yourself.” 

“For the chicken?”

“For the marathon.”

“Half-marathon,” Tina sniffed, unable to restrain the need to be right. “Let’s agree never to do that again.”

“Or go to Paris.” Bette didn’t laugh, but something behind her eyes cracked, just a little. Grief and humour, living in the same space. It always had.

I’ll never step foot in Paris again as long as I live, Tina thought. She picked at her meal with painstaking slowness and silence, intentionally leaving the chicken until last. A small, spiteful protest. It was petty, yes, but she wanted Bette to see it. To know she hadn’t wanted the chicken, hadn't needed it. That she didn’t need Bette to order for her, to predict her every preference like she always had. Tina devoured everything else first: the bread roll, the rice, even the comical portion of chocolate mousse. Two small crackers and a triangle of sweaty cheese went down too, chewed with defiance. But the chicken sat there, golden and patient.

Bette’s eyes flickered across to her tray table, but she said nothing. Eventually Tina relented. She stabbed it, popped it in her mouth, chewed once. Closed her eyes. God damn it.

It was good.

“How long have we got left?” Tina asked, not bothering to wait until she had swallowed.

Bette didn’t bat an eye. “Five hours.”

“I peaked too early with that valium.” Tina groaned and let her head fall back against the headrest.

“That’s what you get for taking it before we even left the tarmac,” Bette said, not looking up from folding her napkin into a tight, perfect square like she was getting paid per angle.

“Are you even going to attempt to get any sleep?” Tina asked. Silence felt dangerous suddenly. It left too much room for thought.

Bette turned toward her, one brow lifted. “Are you asking because you care or because you want me to shut up?”

Tina laughed before she could stop herself. Properly, this time. It broke through her like the first flower of spring after a miserable winter. Stupid. Rookie move. Laughing first was like surrendering. She was supposed to be measured. Unmoved. But then she dropped the ball even further and glanced at Bette, and saw it: that easy, devastating smile. Still capable of undoing her with one flash. Still unfair. And still a very pretty, very problematic part of Tina’s life that she couldn’t escape. She reset herself and shook her head.

“Just close your eyes,” she said, softly. Fought the urge to tuck a rogue dark curl behind Bette's ear. “Try.” 

“You know I don’t try things I know I’m not good at.” 

“Yet, you still sing along to Jagged Little Pill on your drive to work every day.” 

Bette chuckled quietly. “You have no way of proving that.”

“Am I wrong?” 

“No.” Bette grinned again. “It’s very catchy. I like singing along to songs I know all the words to. It makes me feel competent.” The smile disappeared, and her voice dropped. “It’s…. predictable.” 

“I know.” Tina whispered. Their eyes locked for a few seconds too long, wordless but speaking volumes. 

Then without looking away, Tina laid her hand on the armrest between them, palm up. An offering. Not demanding, just there. 

Open and expectant.

Bette blinked once, then dropped her gaze. Stared at her hand for too long, reading the lifelines on Tina’s skin like they held spoilers for the last eight years, the next five hours, or the rest of their lives. She drew in a hesitant breath, looked up.

Then she reached for something else entirely.

“All yours,” she murmured, pressing her untouched mousse cup onto Tina’s palm. Their fingers brushed. “Every single time. Can’t believe I got stiffed on dessert again.” 

Tina swallowed thickly. She busied herself opening the container, scooping out a spoonful and eating it. “It’s not their fault you have a fundamental issue with mousse.” 

“I've told you before. It’s the fanfare,” Bette said, almost absently. “Too much air. Just… be what you are. Give me a scoop of ice cream and leave the drama at the door.”

Tina suppressed her smile, albeit tiny and indulgent. “You can have as many ice creams as you want once we get to Naples.” 

“It’s not the same.” Bette muttered. “I wanted a sweet treat in the sky.”

Tina turned the half eaten container in her hand. “Do you want it back?”

Bette didn’t answer. Not verbally. She just looked at her. Not at the dessert, not at the tray. At her. Unwavering. And then her gaze flicked to the spoon still resting between Tina’s lips, then she lifted her chin at it.

Time paused. A beat. Maybe two. Tina made her wait. Then she drew the spoon out from her mouth slowly, lips grazing steel, and extended it towards her without a word.

Bette took it, but not the way Tina expected. She leaned in a few inches. Wrapped her lips around the end of it, careful but intentional. Her eyes didn’t leave Tina’s face. She sucked it clean, then left in Tina’s hand like it meant nothing.

“That’s all I need.” Bette said, quiet but honest.

Tina nodded once, slowly, then dipped the spoon back into the mousse. Ate the rest of it without comment, trying not to think too hard about the undertones of Bette already in her mouth before they’d even made the layover. 

Chapter Text

Los Angeles, 2014

“And what’s the rent?”

“Eight fifty a month, including utilities.”

Bette balked. “That’s… that’s insane.” 

“Yeah,” Shane laughed. “That’s private rental for ya. And before you get too excited – heaps of shit doesn’t work. The hot water cuts out in the shower,  we’ve got one bathroom between three of us, and don’t even ask about the wiring in the kitchen. But it’s livable. And Tina is really cool, you’ll like her.”

Bette nodded slowly, weighing it up. Living with Shane, she could handle. They had been close since she wound up in her chair at the salon by accident, then had quickly become Bette’s hair lifeline. Same taste in music, same brooding sarcasm. Still, the idea of a third roommate made her a little nervous. A stranger. A new dynamic. But, time wasn’t exactly on her side. Her sublet was up in two weeks, and she had already overstayed her welcome on her sister’s couch twice.

“Is there like… a minimum stay?” 

“Why? You got big plans to leave LA?” 

“No,” Bette laughed. “It’s just… I’ve been living on my own for nearly a year. I’m a little out of practice with cohabitation, Shane. What if I don’t like it?” 

“You’ll be fine,” Shane said, brushing it off. “Tina’s in the garden studio, so she’s kind of separate. It’s mostly just me floating around the house at weird hours heating up leftovers or falling asleep on the couch.”

“Really? You seem like you’re barely ever home.”

“Salon hours.”

“Bar hours,” Bette corrected, chuckling. “So… what’s she like? Tina?” 

“She’s cool,” Shane said eventually. “She works in film, I don’t know what exactly. She keeps kind of odd hours depending on what they’re filming, so sometimes she’s around all day, sometimes she vanishes for a week. She’s clean – well, at least in the common areas. Pays rent on time. Doesn’t drink your milk without asking, doesn’t take too long in the shower. Fun to go out with, but good for a real conversation too.” 

“Oh. So a glowing review, compared to your past roommate disasters,” Bette nodded. “And is she… you know…” She flicked her wrist in the universal symbol for queer. 

Shane just raised an eyebrow, grinning. 

Bette groaned. “Oh, come on Shane – you hooked up with your roommate? Huge tactical error.” 

“Give me a break, Bette, I’m kidding. I know better than to shit where I eat.” Shane’s expression lifted. “She’s definitely queer, or at least queer adjacent. Put it this way: she’s not going to throw holy water at you when you bring home that bartender from Aces & Eights again.”

“I’m not going to – that was one time! Are you ever going to let me live it down?” 

“I don’t think so,” Shane laughed. “Iconic behaviour, actually. She hadn’t even finished her shift.” 

Bette relented and let herself snort. “She had a terrible work ethic. That should have been my warning sign.” 

“So, what you thinking? You in?” 

The room was boxy, at best. It was all white walls and bareness, with a loud, threatening creak in the floor near the bed, and had a mirrored wardrobe that still had someone else’s fingerprints on it. A single window let in afternoon light through the blinds while Bette stood in the middle of chaos – half unpacked boxes, two suitcases full of clothes, bedding thrown in a pile on top of the bare mattress. Alabama Shakes tinkled softly from a speaker somewhere beneath a pile of cushions. 

“Making progress?” 

Bette spun around. 

Tina was leaning against the doorframe, a beer bottle dangling between her fingers. Her blonde hair was clipped into a half hearted bun with strands falling across her shoulders, and she had a dark green t-shirt on over denim shorts. 

Bette smiled reflexively, gesturing around her. “Sort of. If by progress you mean creating more mess.”

“It’s an artform that not everyone appreciates,” Tina chuckled, scanning the carnage on the floor. She had a warm laugh, welcoming. “You have a lot of… stuff.”

Bette glanced at the floor, then back at Tina. There was something immediately disarming about her, but not enough to make Bette think too hard. Not then, anyway.

“I know. I started packing really methodically and then, somewhere around hour six, just said ‘fuck it’ and shoved everything into the nearest box.”

“Rookie error,” Tina said, stepping inside and handing her a beer. “Here. Thought this might help move things along.” 

Bette took it, grateful. Their bottles clinked softly.

“You want help with anything?” Tina asked, motioning around the room.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” Bette hesitated. She didn’t actually want help, not really. But she also didn’t want her to leave just yet. “Actually… maybe an opinion?”

She reached for a framed Matisse print and held it up against the wall above her bed.

“Is this too busy? Too much?” 

Tina tilted her head. “Not too busy, no… but it’s kind of dark. Don’t you want something brighter? Like, less tortured-artist energy in your sleeping space?”

Bette hadn’t expected honesty. The polite thing would have been to reassure her, say the print looked great. But Tina didn’t bother with offering an opinion if she didn’t mean it, Bette soon learned. 

“I guess?” 

Tina nodded at the wall. “Brighten things up a little. Got anything a bit… happier?” 

Bette glanced at the open box of prints, most rolled and jumbled, some still in their plastic sleeves. “Maybe? Want to…?” 

She motioned vaguely at them, unsure if she was inviting help or just stalling the end of the conversation. Tina didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the box, flopped onto the mattress cross-legged and started flicking through them like they were records. Bette watched, quietly fascinated. There was nothing overbearing about her. She didn’t dominate the space – but she had a quiet, glowing kind of confidence. 

“Here,” Tina said. She held out a vibrant surrealist print, giant eyes blooming inside technicolour plants. “What about this?” 

“Oh, so you’re a Yayoi Kusama girl.” 

“Well, I don’t know who that is,” Tina laughed again. “I just like the colours. And the weirdness.” 

“It’s called Eyes Growing On Trees. It’s a piece from her 1989 collection.” 

“Huh. Well, it’s creepy, but in a good way. Like… almost the perfect thing to hang right above your head when you sleep, and try not to have nightmares.” She ran a pale finger along the artist’s name. “Is she famous?” 

“She’s brilliant. I met her once, you know.” 

“No shit! What was she like?” 

“Batshit. Like any artist worth their salt.” Bette grinned. “She lives in a psych facility – voluntarily. Paints all day in a studio across the street, then toddles back for her pills at bedtime.” 

“What a life.” Tina chuckled. She shifted backwards on the bed, leaning against the wall and stretching long legs out onto the mattress. “So you went straight for decorating before unpacking, huh?” 

“Seemed less overwhelming.” 

Bette had half expected her to leave by now. But she didn’t. They drank three more beers between easy conversation and a few bursts of laughter. When hunger struck, Tina ordered a pizza without asking, and cackled when Bette silently picked off all the mushrooms.

“Noted for next time,” she said, watching her. 

She hadn’t asked why Bette left her old place. She didn’t poke or pry, and Bette appreciated that. It let her be who she was, not who she was pretending she hadn’t been. Tina was easy. Open, quick with a laugh. Comfortable in a way that felt organic. Pretty, certainly. 

But more than that.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway almost a year later, followed by Tina’s voice pitched high and urgent, calling Bette’s name.

“SOS! Does this make my ass look like a semi-trailer, or am I just in the throes of PMS?” 

Bette looked up from her book to find Tina stomping into her room in a fitted blue dress, half frowning, half desperate. 

“Another incredible entrance,” Bette yawned. “Five stars.”

“Don’t ignore me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your ass. Honestly, how many times –”

“Just answer the question!”

“It looks great! Look at those juicy doubles. People pay good money for that kind of ass.”

Tina narrowed her eyes. “So you think it looks big.”

“I think it looks hot. Stop being dramatic.”

“I can’t.” Tina groaned and threw herself onto the bed beside her. “I’m having a meltdown.

“No you’re not. You’re just going on an actual date with someone you’ve been sleeping with for three months. She’s seen you naked and bent into every shape imaginable – she doesn’t care how your ass looks! Which is fantastic, by the way,” She threw Tina a look, then sighed. “Okay, listen to me. You’re not worried about your ass. You’re worried that you might not have anything to talk about with Queen Helena outside of her pristine bed sheets.” 

Tina rolled onto her side and looked at her sternly. “They’re not pristine.”

“Yeah, maybe not once you’re done with your conjugal visits.” 

Unwillingly, Tina laughed then launched at her, fingers digging into Bette’s sides. They shrieked and squirmed across the bed until Tina pinned her, leaning down and threatening a sloppy lick to the brunette’s cheek.

“Don’t be so gross – ugh! Uncle! Uncle – I give up!” Bette cackled, breathless. Tina grinned, victorious, then flopped her head down onto Bette’s chest with a sigh that came out sadder than she seemed.

“Hey,” Bette said softly, brushing her hair back. “Don’t be like that. What did we agree?”

Tina groaned into her shirt. “That I either need to date her, or stop going over there for meaningless sex that leaves me sort of fulfilled but otherwise empty.” 

“Exactly. And?” 

Tina looked up at her, all narrowed eyes and rebellion. “No.”

Bette raised her fingers like claws. “Say it, or be tickled within an inch of your life.”

“Okay! Fine!” She sat up and recited in an exaggerated imitation of Bette’s voice. “I am too smart and too hot to let anyone play games with me. I deserve to be emotionally and intellectually stimulated, inside and outside the bedroom.”

“Jesus Christ. You actually listened to me.” She pulled Tina into a hug and kissed the top of her head. “So, go. Eat dinner. Make conversation. Let her treat you like the goddess you are. You deserve it.” 

Tina tilted her head. “And what about what you deserve?”

“We’re not talking about me.” 

“Maybe we should be.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Bette said quickly. “Sarah was busy tonight, so I’m staying in. You can get off me at any time, by the way.”

Tina rolled her eyes, ignoring her. “Busy with her emotional support ex-girlfriend?”

“They’re just friends, T.” Bette sighed, exasperated. “She's having a crisis. If I stopped Sarah from being a decent human being, what would that say about me?”

“It would say you had boundaries.” Tina muttered, before adding, “She doesn’t even let you sleep over.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s not the point! The point is she should offer – insist. You’re not a hook-up.”

“You just don’t like her because of the dog thing.”

“Sorry,” Tina said, her voice rising. “But refusing to pet a golden retriever is borderline psychotic behaviour.”

“It isn’t. People are allowed to dislike dogs.”

“They’re not, actually.” Tina flopped backwards onto the bed again. “Anyway, let me project in peace.”

Bette snorted, charmed. “Do it somewhere else.” 

“I can’t. Everywhere else is scary.” 

“Go and finish getting ready. I’ll be here when you get home. If you come home, that is,” 

“I’m not sleeping with her tonight,” Tina declared. “I decided we are going to have a normal conversation, like normal people, and then not have sex afterwards. I need to know how that feels.” 

“Well,” Bette said, amused, “after you finish not having sex with her, you can come back and tell me all about it.” She watched closely as Tina’s brow furrowed, still unconvinced. “Want me to drive you?”

“Would you?” 

“If you promise not to have a mental breakdown in the passenger seat.” 

Almost half an hour later, Tina returned from the garden studio and Bette couldn’t form a single word. All she could see was the dress – red, low cut and striking, paired with black stilettos and lipstick the colour of sins she didn’t know existed. Tina did a little twirl, blonde waves shifting in the weak kitchen light. Bette let out a low wolf whistle, then dropped into a dining chair like she had been shot. She lifted her hand to fan herself theatrically while Tina giggled and shook her head. 

“Oh, come on. I can’t drive you around like that – I’m going to get pulled over! Distracted driving. Manslaughter. Where did this little red number come from? You look divine.” 

Tina grinned and smoothed the fabric. “Just something I had knocking around in my closet. Felt like I needed a confidence boost.” 

“Well, it’s… wow. I can’t – okay. I’m going to need a minute. And you – you need a jacket or something. I’m going to crash the car with all that jiggling in my peripheral vision. How are they even… Jesus.” Bette laughed, only half-joking. 

“You’re worse than a man.” Tina snorted, then shimmied her chest like a cabaret dancer.

Bette let out an exaggerated groan, which only made the blonde laugh harder. “Come on, driver. Take me to my date.” 

“Yes ma’am. But if your date cancels? I’m taking you out myself.” 

“You’re too kind,” Tina said. “I’ll leave this on until tomorrow, so you can stare at my cleavage over breakfast. How’s that?” 

“Promises, promises.” Bette shook her head, laughing. She grabbed her keys and opened the front door, and Tina stepped through it in a wave of sweet perfume and confidence. On the porch Bette reached for her, hand light on her elbow. 

“You really do look beautiful, T,” she said softly. “And it’s not just the dress, although that is doing a lot of heavy lifting for me right now.” She pinched the blonde’s cheek. “This smile? These eyes? That’s where it comes from. And, in here.” Bette pointed a single finger over her chest, careful not to touch the skin. “You deserve someone who knows how lucky they are to be across the table from you. So, don’t take any shit. And don’t go home with her unless you really want to.”

“You’re so gay,” Tina sighed, but her cheeks were pink. She wrapped her arms around Bette in a tight hug. “Thank you. You’re too good to me.”

Bette rested her chin on Tina’s bare shoulder. “I know.”

“And… sorry. About what I said earlier. About Sarah. I was only messing around.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bette murmured. Inside, she felt that twinge again – the discomfort about the girl she had been loosely dating. All the little thoughts she had been thinking privately, ones that Tina kept bringing into the spotlight. Bette wasn’t quite ready to examine them. 

She had been sitting on the sofa for over two hours, motionless. 

The house had fallen into darkness around her, but she didn’t bother turning the lights on. Bette wanted the dark to swallow her, just for a little while. Every time she thought about getting up, she felt a wave of … what would be the point? What would it change?

Tina had been all fire earlier – bare legs, that killer dress, heartbreaking lipstick. They had sung along loudly and badly to Nelly Furtado on the way to the restaurant, Tina doing her best to make Bette laugh hard enough to swerve the car. That was the thing about Tina – she had this perfect way of lighting Bette up like a stick of dynamite, and applauding loudly when she exploded. She had flashed a grin and a wink when she slid out of the car, and after waving goodbye Bette had driven away, still full with it all, smiling to herself like a fool. She hit a red light near Holland Park, drummed her fingers on the wheel. Glanced sideways. Blinked. 

Sarah.

Leaning against the brick wall of a dingy bar, holding a cigarette like a prop. Not alone. The ex was there too.

Bette squinted. At first, she thought she was imagining it, but then came the tilt of Sarah’s chin, the unthinking familiarity of it all, and then – predictable, humiliating – a kiss. Not heated or sloppy or passionate. Just… casual, and completely lived-in. Established.

Bette’s mouth parted. Somewhere behind her, a car horn blared. She jolted, jammed her foot on the accelerator, then shot through the intersection waiting for the crack inside.

By the time she pulled up outside the house, she still hadn’t managed to finish a single coherent thought. No rage. No heartbreak. Just this weird, empty background noise. She waited for the fury to arrive, her trademark fallout – but there was nothing. Just a flicker of something like... inconvenience. Well, she thought. That’s that, then. 

Inside, she paced the living room. Pulled open the fridge too roughly. Grabbed a beer, and drank half of it standing up. Waited. Still nothing.

And then, like a stone coming loose underfoot, something turned over in her stomach. Not the Sarah thing. Something far worse. Living. Breathing.

A small, terrible truth she couldn’t un-think.

“Oh, fuck,” Bette breathed.

She dropped to the sofa like her legs had given up. Stared at the ceiling and tried to shut the thought out, bury it again. But it was already blooming, spreading like mold, and clanging in her head like a toneless church bell.

“You absolute idiot.” Bette cursed herself. She didn’t care about the whole Sarah thing, not one bit –  and had just realised, with alarming clarity, why. Since that moment she hadn’t moved a muscle, and didn’t plan to – until the front door flew open like it had been kicked down.

Bette nearly jumped out of her skin. She sprung to her feet, inexplicably guilty. Her mouth was halfway to greeting Shane when she heard an unmistakably familiar huff. One that she knew didn’t belong to Shane. 

“Bette?” 

“In here!” 

“You are not going to believe what she – why the hell are you sitting here in the dark?” Tina stormed in, shedding her shoes as she went. Lights flicked on behind her in a trail of fury.

“I don’t… I fell asleep,” Bette lied. She tried to look at the clock discreetly. “What happened? How was it?” 

Tina scoffed, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. Halfway to the lounge she changed her mind and came back with a bottle of tequila instead. No glasses, no ice, just a single shot glass in her left hand. 

Bette raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m guessing it went… well?”

“Oh, fantastic,” Tina muttered. She slumped onto the rug in front of the sofa and poured herself a generous shot, threw it back like water, then filled another one and slid it across the coffee table.

Bette wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to?”

“Please drink with me,” Tina begged. “I can’t take any more rejection tonight.” 

So Bette lifted the glass. It burned on the way down, her throat stinging with acid. And then, after two more, Tina began the story, with wild hand gestures and righteous indignation. Helena, cool as ice, had made it clear there would be no relationship. That the sex was just sex, that Tina was wasting her time looking for anything more. Bette waited for tears. Instead, Tina practically vibrated with frustration.

“I’m not even that upset, I just feel… furious!”

“Good,” Bette told her, leaning in close. “That rage will serve you. Be angry.”

“I am fucking angry!” Tina hissed, half giggle, half growl. She knocked back another shot and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “How dare she? I’m a total fucking catch.”

“Obviously. And, if she can’t see that –”

“She’s an idiot,” Tina finished. “I don’t know, Bette. Honestly? I don’t even think I wanted her. Not really. I think I just wanted her to want me. Which, granted, is its own kind of fucked up. But it’s the truth. I just… didn’t realise until now.”

Bette smiled weakly, shrugged. “Dating can be messy like that. Don’t beat yourself up – at least you know where you stand now.” 

“Maybe I don’t even want a relationship.” 

“That’s okay, too.” 

“I thought I’d be sad. But I’m not. I’m pissed. I wasted months I could have spent meeting other people.”

“Then you’ve just bought yourself back that time. Go spend it,” Bette raised the shot glass. “The world is your pillow princess oyster.”

Tina choked out a giggle. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not a pillow princess?”

“As many as you want. I’m still not convinced.”

“Fuck off, Bette.” Tina shoved her, laughing. “Well, pillow princess or not, that’s it. I’m done dating seriously. No more waiting around for women like Helena to suddenly change their minds. I’m just going to go live. Hook up with whoever. Fuck it.”

“Cheers to that. I might join you.”

Tina narrowed her eyes. “What about Sarah?”

“That… won’t be moving forward.” 

She told Tina the story. The red light. The cigarette. Sarah’s lips on someone else’s. She skipped the part about what had come next – about the sudden, terrible realisation that had left her velcroed to the sofa ever since. Tina was kind enough not to say I told you so. She swore in the right places, rolled her eyes in solidarity, then finally leaned her head against Bette’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That fucking blows.”

Bette just sighed, then pressed her lips to Tina’s head before she could stop herself.

And then Tina sat up. Quickly. Her eyes were hazy with tequila now, but her voice had a sudden, serious clarity. “You know what? We should just… do this. Us.”

“Do what?” Bette squinted. 

“This.” Tina gestured between them, like it was obvious. “Okay, hear me out. If we get to thirty-five and we’re still single, then let’s just marry each other. Deal?”

“I don’t know,” Bette chuckled, scrunching her nose. “You’re kind of a handful.” 

“Oh, come off it. Like you’re a total picnic.” Tina nudged her shoulder. “You love me.” 

“It’s true.” 

“And yeah, we’d probably drive each other insane, but… we would still be good to each other, wouldn’t we?”

“We would.” Bette grinned. 

Tina stretched out her hand, tilting her head like she was daring her to refuse. A challenge.

“Sounds terrible,” Bette looked at it a little longer, then took it. Her thumb lingered on Tina’s skin. “I’m in.”