It's late and I've never written LTiH fic before buT anyway, here goes nothing:
Caroline wakes, blinking against the early morning light, with an aching head and a dry mouth, but with a smile on her lips, too, as memories of last night’s outing begin to come back to her. Not that she’ll ever admit as much – lest she be talked into a repeat visit to Hebden Women’s Disco – but she did have a good time there, she considers while stretching in bed, careful not to wake Gillian beside her. It’s Gillian, of course, whose company made the evening so pleasurable, and coming face to face with her sleeping countenance, this, too, is something Caroline has to admit to herself.
Her stomach drops with a sense of doom, a sense of discomfort as those feelings she will not quite put into words rise dangerously close to the surface, and so she turns away again, extracting herself from tangled sheets. Cold air sends ripples across her bare skin, and she quietly digs through a pile of carelessly discarded clothing until she finds something that feels suitably warm. Caroline can’t quite resist burying her nose in the rough wool of the sweater, breathing in that undeniable scent of sheep, and dirt, and country air – but also something purely Gillian beneath it all – before she pulls it on, throwing a careful glance across her shoulder just to make sure – just to make sure that Gillian’s eyes are still closed – before she slips out the door.
The morning passes by unnoticed while she sits in the kitchen, eyes turned towards the fields beyond, and even the fresh coffee in her mug grows lukewarm, entirely forgotten. Had she really suggested they should move in together – make a life together? A Freudian slip this must have been, her unconscious speaking up, and doing it so casually that it seemed perfectly fine at the time; but it isn’t really, is it? Not when she wants this far too badly to come true, not when Gillian has laughed it off immediately.
It wouldn’t work, and Gillian may well be right about it, though Caroline’s heart is pulling in the opposite direction. Well, it’s not to be – the conclusion, at this point, is undeniable. She sighs and puts her mug down on the counter, only to jump out of her skin when Gillian speaks up:
“I can’t believe how long I’ve slept,” she comments lightly, passing by Caroline with a grin; “must’ve been all the dancing last night.” Picking up a mug of her own and filling it with coffee, Gillian leans back against the counter and passes an examining glance across her companion. “We had fun, didn’t we?”
It’s too much talking for Caroline – too sudden and without any warning – and so she nods and clears her throat in an attempt to find her voice. “Yes we did,” she admits graciously but with restrained enthusiasm, suddenly flustered and on the brink of blushing. As her cheeks grow warm, it’s the lush green fields outside she focuses her attention on yet again – anything but Gillian – but that, too, feels wrong. And so she does her best to collect herself before she turns around to face the other woman, ready to apologize for causing such distance between them this morning – but Gillian speaks first:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2020-03-25 10:20 pm (UTC)Caroline wakes, blinking against the early morning light, with an aching head and a dry mouth, but with a smile on her lips, too, as memories of last night’s outing begin to come back to her. Not that she’ll ever admit as much – lest she be talked into a repeat visit to Hebden Women’s Disco – but she did have a good time there, she considers while stretching in bed, careful not to wake Gillian beside her. It’s Gillian, of course, whose company made the evening so pleasurable, and coming face to face with her sleeping countenance, this, too, is something Caroline has to admit to herself.
Her stomach drops with a sense of doom, a sense of discomfort as those feelings she will not quite put into words rise dangerously close to the surface, and so she turns away again, extracting herself from tangled sheets. Cold air sends ripples across her bare skin, and she quietly digs through a pile of carelessly discarded clothing until she finds something that feels suitably warm. Caroline can’t quite resist burying her nose in the rough wool of the sweater, breathing in that undeniable scent of sheep, and dirt, and country air – but also something purely Gillian beneath it all – before she pulls it on, throwing a careful glance across her shoulder just to make sure – just to make sure that Gillian’s eyes are still closed – before she slips out the door.
The morning passes by unnoticed while she sits in the kitchen, eyes turned towards the fields beyond, and even the fresh coffee in her mug grows lukewarm, entirely forgotten. Had she really suggested they should move in together – make a life together? A Freudian slip this must have been, her unconscious speaking up, and doing it so casually that it seemed perfectly fine at the time; but it isn’t really, is it? Not when she wants this far too badly to come true, not when Gillian has laughed it off immediately.
It wouldn’t work, and Gillian may well be right about it, though Caroline’s heart is pulling in the opposite direction. Well, it’s not to be – the conclusion, at this point, is undeniable. She sighs and puts her mug down on the counter, only to jump out of her skin when Gillian speaks up:
“I can’t believe how long I’ve slept,” she comments lightly, passing by Caroline with a grin; “must’ve been all the dancing last night.” Picking up a mug of her own and filling it with coffee, Gillian leans back against the counter and passes an examining glance across her companion. “We had fun, didn’t we?”
It’s too much talking for Caroline – too sudden and without any warning – and so she nods and clears her throat in an attempt to find her voice. “Yes we did,” she admits graciously but with restrained enthusiasm, suddenly flustered and on the brink of blushing. As her cheeks grow warm, it’s the lush green fields outside she focuses her attention on yet again – anything but Gillian – but that, too, feels wrong. And so she does her best to collect herself before she turns around to face the other woman, ready to apologize for causing such distance between them this morning – but Gillian speaks first:
“Looks good on you – my sweater.”