[ Anathema loves the tactility of paper and actual analog handwriting. It's more personal, more intimate. She still has a pile of creamy stationery that she needs to use up here, but this letter, whatever it is, on this day in particular, feels like maybe it requires a more timely response. Particularly when she's not even sure... what it is, although the words between the splotches and smudges and smears make her heart lurch in her chest. ]
[In some ways, these two aren't very different. Anathema, always moving, always making plans and goals and striving forward like any strong-minded heroine who's tested herself against an apocalypse; and Sal, an unstoppable force of nature, always moving forward with a will of iron, finding herself again and again in every struggle and every fierce battle.
These two like to stay busy, in other words, and today's no different. No, Sal doesn't want to sit around and fuss about the results of her Valentine's effort. Spending time holed up with Cecelia in the library, trying to piece together this gift, was a nerve-wracking struggle in itself. She prefers to set her mind on something with immediate, tangible results. Like these heartless who've been pestering her city, for instance—who can dole out a better ass-kicking than yours truly?
So that's where the message finds her, just after she's hunted down more of these strange shadows, cutting them apart with her sword (good old Jeff, always the best company), watching as they dissipate like a cloud of dark smoke. Nox was right, it's damn unsatisfying to watch, really.
But her phone lets out a chirp and her attention moves elsewhere. Once Sal sees who the message is from...the smile happens on its own, but standing up here on a Maurtia Falls rooftop, it gives her a strange sense of déjà vu.]
Hey, what's going on?
[For one tiny, brilliant moment, she's completely clueless.]
I mean, it was. Uh. Pretty extremely smudged. I could show you if you like, although that seems to rather defeat the point—
[ Sal is working from incomplete information here, and Anathema can feel that disjoint like a pair of mismatched scales. So, for the sake of full transparency, Anathema snaps a photo of the letter: far enough away that you can't read exactly which words made it through, but close enough to convey its disastrous state. ]
Although it didn't really survive its travels, I do still appreciate the thought. I don't get a lot of handwritten letters here — everyone's all over the networks, all the time.
[Sal knows this feeling. Like a bad landing or a sucker-punch to the chest, when all the air leaves your lungs and everything in the world just stops for a second. For fuck's sake, it's just a letter for a holiday she barely understands, there's no reason to feel gutted.
"What's this leading to? Conveyance of gratitude for her presence? Relief of the circumstances yielding what they have? Commendation for her character?"
"I want her know that she isn't alone in this world."
Sal really hates to apologize, it often feels disingenuous; like whatever she's blown up and destroyed this time around can be patched up with a few pretty words. But in this case, what else is there? She wants Anathema to be happy today, or tomorrow, or maybe just for however long she's going to be here (this time). But now it feels like she's letting her down, and that—.]
[ And just like that, with that — sort of — confirmation, there's a surge of nervous energy that floods her whole body. A breathless fluttering in her chest, a buzzing in her fingertips, and Anathema has to set her communicator down for a second.
Maybe Sal doesn't know about the connotations here. Maybe Valentine's Day doesn't mean the same thing in the other woman's universe; maybe it's some kind of holiday where you fight others in close combat with your sword, or make a blood sacrifice and run anticlockwise around a hill. Who the hell knows!!
Or. The alternative. The one that makes her grin irrepressibly at her phone even though the other woman can't see her, and also think to herself: you fucking dummy, you watched Satan rise out of the earth, why does this make you nervous. ]
[Sal has no experience with this holiday, no frame of personal reference. The offer doesn't seem like anything unusual to her in this case, but then again, who is she to think of refusing it? (As if, after all of these months coping with their troubles together, she could ever refuse Anathema anything.) Taking a deep breath and allowing a surge of relief to wash over her, she can't think of another time when one of her disasters turned out well in the end.]
Sure thing. You want me to pick you up later, take you around to a place you like?
[Honestly, she doesn't need an excuse to go out somewhere together. Anathema might not be trained in fighting like Sal, but there's nowhere else on this planet that makes her feel as safe.]
[ Somehow this is so much more nerve-wracking and difficult than it ought to be. Back home in college, Anathema had been so quick and businesslike and to-the-point whenever she liked someone — her dalliances were surface-level things, temporary and fleeting, because she knew none of them would last. She had a bigger duty to focus on. The world likely wouldn't even last. And Newt, she had seen that one coming. Her whole goddamned family and ancestors had seen that one coming for centuries, so there wasn't any surprise to it, just marking him off like ticking him off a checklist.
Here, in this world, she hadn't seen Sal coming. ]
[Unfortunately for Anathema's nerves, this next reply is slow in coming. What's that strange question mark for, she wonders immediately, right behind—oh. An obvious realization at the nearly-last moment. What a dipshit. Like dodging a sudden explosion by the skin of her teeth, she takes a breath and wonders just when and where this conversation started heading in that direction.
Did you really think it wouldn't come up?
It's become such a deliberate knee-jerk reaction to avoid that, to protect Anathema somehow, but she looks down at that tiny question and, strangely, doesn't feel any worry or panic. So many months she's been questioning who she is here and who she wants to be. How to protect those few people she cares about, if not from other kinds of danger than certainly her past.
It's the freedom of this place, that ability to choose all of those things, that's been more frightening than anything else. Sal stands on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the people passing below like some thoughtful bird of prey. Realizing that several minutes have passed, she starts to type again.]
It's only a date if you wear something cute. Promise I'll be there, 6:00.
[She smiles at herself, pleased. It's a joke, of course. Anathema looks great in anything, if she's being fucking honest about it. But that's the last message she types, and instead of furthering the conversation, she flies back up into the comfort of the open sky.
Sal spends the rest of her time at home cleaning up, taking a long, hot shower, and finding a nice set of clothes that she hasn't fought, frayed, or bled in. The gun and the sword, and even her nice red scarf, stay at home; along with the needy cat too, who she somehow remembers to feed before leaving. With everything in its place (probably?) she makes her way to that familiar residence over in Jeopardy.
When it comes to meeting Anathema, someone with a perfect sense of time, there's no real way to be early. So Sal just settles for arriving vaguely on time instead, landing down on the lawn and making her way over to the door. She might not be nervous or worried as she approaches, but there's a sudden jolt of energy as she gets closer, the kind she gets right before a fight.
Sal's got a key, she remembers, and she takes it out to unlock the door. She knocks a few times anyway, just so some strange roommate doesn't leap out to attack her, before slowly opening the door and peering inside.]
[ So it turns out it's extremely fucking hard to dress up for a date when your everyday wear is already ostentatiously over-the-top and formal. Anathema ran into this problem with the winter ball, and she's running into it here: she scrutinises her closet, discards most of the things she finds, at one point starts seriously considering if she can come up with a spell to magically bibbety-boppity-boo herself a new dress into existence (the answer: she cannot), and in the end chooses a dress she'd been saving for a special occasion. Because what else is this but a special occasion?
It's dark charcoal adorned with white feathers. Not her usual pops of bright colour, but it's also her closest thing to the traditional little-black-dress. Fairly simple, with long flowing sleeves, compared to her usual ornate fashion. When there's the knock at the door and Sal peeks her head in, Anathema's on her way through the living room in a brisk flurry of activity, stuffing her arms into the sleeves of a black coat, keys into purse, purse over her other arm. She shoots the other woman a smile, more tremulous than her usual. ]
Hi.
[ A sickening lurch in her stomach, of pleasant nerves. Anathema's been a big proponent of foraying into the unknown, but the unknown has never been this enjoyable before, nor so anxiety-inducing.
But because she also knows what the hell she's doing, she executes a little twirl at her doorstep. ]
[The twirl isn't strictly necessary—she already had Sal at that flustered sprint from the living room. She lets the door swing wide and leans against frame, allowing a moment to take in the full effect. She's no saint and what's the point of pretending, especially now?
Anathema is stunning, but Sal is determined not transform into to a complete mess at first sight of her; that Winter Gala has her prepared for this onslaught if just a hair. (In contrast, Sal doesn't have to be nervous; the warmth that's spreading deep through her chest is enough to derail any serious thought she might possibly have.) Remembering what her role in this opera for tonight is, she takes a step closer.]
You're always adorable, so I didn't have a doubt.
[It's meant to sound confident; the kind of boastfulness that gets her thrown out of establishments and right into streetfights. Instead, her tone is unintentionally quite tender, so to deflect from that bout of honesty, Sal reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away from Anathema's face. She grins to herself and looks away. Alright. Maybe a little embarassed, but she's sure to fall back into the swing of things once they're out the door.]
[ Goddamnit, but Sal's got some moves, too. Her hand pushing back Anathema's hair makes her stomach turn over again; makes her wish, for the first time since she burned her ancestor's books, that she actually had the safety of a prophecy again. Some predictable guarantee, some promise of you'll get the girl and this works out okay.
Looks like you'll just have to wing it like everybody else for once, Anathema. ]
Mmhm. I managed to find a a Cuban place just the next neighbourhood over that I'm a fan of. I'm gonna ask that we walk this time, though. The wind'll fuck up my hair.
[ She flashes the other woman a wider grin, then. It really is a good restaurant. It was her closest thing to a touch of home in this strange and unfamiliar world; meals that reminded her of her mama's cooking. When they set out into the street — February is a little brisk, but they're in Nevada, so the night is still warm enough — she locks the door behind them, then loops her arm companionably through Sal's while they walk. ]
Saint Valentine isn't a thing back in your world, is he? Or something like it?
Nothing like it, which means it's up to you to clue me in on anything important tonight. I'm sure I'm in capable hands.
[Sal's not looking directly at her when she says it (wasn't there some opera line about the dangers of staring too much at the sun?), so it's hard to tell but the hint of a crooked grin suggests she's being cheeky on purpose. It can't be helped, she feels her mood lifting with every step down the road. Not to be too sentimental about it, but it's enough just to walk like this in a peaceful neighborhood together.
It's the honest truth, Sal knows. Life's taught her to be cautious, on edge, ready for an attack at all times; it was a rare moment back home when she was able to shed that armor even for a night. This world, however, proves very different. All it takes for her to start feeling comfortable, safe, is Anathema taking her by the arm and assuring her with the simple and innate warmth of her presence.
Sal moves her free hand up to rest on Anathema's gently. She tries to reorient her point of view to those who travel down on the street like this; but unlike some evenings when her thoughts weigh too heavily on her mood, tonight isn't the time to remember all the days after her magic was stolen. There's no need to feel haunted, or broken, from the life she lived before. Sometimes it's nice to just live for what's beside you for once, or maybe everything that's waiting up ahead. (She knows this feeling enough now to call it by its name, hope.)]
Shit, we might have to include your knowledge on Cuban food in that agreement too. It's been a while since I was ported in, but there's always something new around every corner, isn't there?
I FUCKED UP I MEANT TO SAY PUERTO RICAN, PRETEND I DID
Always learning new things, meeting new people. It's the whole reason I don't entirely mind being stranded in this new universe, away from home. You're another reason.
[ She says it so loosely, so casually, that it almost — almost, but definitely not — belies how important that admission is. But it's true. Every time the world's gone to shit over here, Anathema's found herself at Sal's or vice versa. It's a rock-steady foundation, a comfort. She makes her feel better. It's as simple as that.
So, like stepping out onto shaky ice, Anathema explains while they walk. ]
It's typically a romantic holiday, you know. Couples give gifts to each other, like anniversary presents, and/or take each other out for a special evening. Date night. Dinner, a movie, cooking for each other. Chocolate, flowers. Spoiling each other rotten for a day. Things like that.
[ Then, because Anathema is Anathema, she continues— ]
There's some disagreement on what the ancient origins of the holiday are, of course. Some people think there's a connection to the Roman festival of Lupercalia, which was a pastoral celebration to avert evil spirits and release fertility. Goats and dogs were sacrificed, priests were anointed in blood, and then they ran through the city naked. We don't do that.
Lupercalia was celebrated around the same time of year, but there's been no real evidence linking it with Valentine's Day, though. Valentine's started off as a religious feast day, and then the connection to romantic love is more likely due to the influence of a 700-year-old poem.
[ beat. ] Anyway. I did a doctorate in history. I, uh, talk a lot.
[Sal didn't interrupt Anathema's impromptu lecture—she couldn't, and maybe you could say she was too caught off guard by that tiny, near-missable concession before it. It's surprising, almost startlingly off the cuff, and it makes Sal look over again, openly staring as Anathema goes on about couples and flowers, ancient rituals and blood sacrifices. She wasn't able to come up with anything clever to say, and by now they're standing at the end of the block and waiting to cross the street.
It's a lovely, mild evening. The sun is edging closer to the horizon, its departure leaving a beautiful tapestry of color across the sky. And here they are standing on the sidewalk, side by side, a new adventure waiting just ahead. Sal remembers the letter she sent, the muddied words, phrases lost between one city and the other. Even if she hadn't botched that mission, she understands clearly now that what she had written down wasn't exactly what she meant to say. Not all of it, at least.]
Do you mind if—
[Now whose turn is it to feel anxious and awkward, eh? Sal pulls away for a moment, just so they can stand more easily face to face. The street is quiet, there's no cause for a sudden interruption. Sal's looking at Anathema and again she's overtaken by that same warm feeling.
The sudden breathlessness strikes before she can finish her question. Her usual striking gaze softens, trailing up from the lines of Anathema's collarbone, up the slender curves of her neck, tracing along the familiar edges of her jaw to stop at her mouth. Time stops for the moment of a single stuttering heartbeat before she looks up and the two women can meet each other's eyes.
Sal stands a little straighter, blinking away her momentary haze. Hesitation isn't any good tonight. She has to say what she means for once, because she remembers in the space of every cold and lonely evening the consequences of silence. Of pulling away from what your heart wants, to allow the demons of your past to rule over your future. She offers a small smile, the sort she's only given to one person on this particular world, a place so different from her old home.
I don't entirely mind being stranded in this new universe, away from home. You're another reason.]
Can I give you a kiss?
[It comes out surprisingly confident. Not that Sal is certain about the response, not when the entire rest of this day has been nothing but surprises, but she's sure of one thing at least. She doesn't move, only waits for a response and a sign.]
[ They've gone still on the sidewalk, ostensibly waiting for the crosswalk, but the light changed a little while ago and they still haven't made any moves to keep walking. Anathema watches Sal watching her, and when that question finally slips out—
For a moment, she remembers her last partner and Newt's tremulous Can we do it again?. Her own curt response, cutting him off at the pass with We don't have time. Shutting the door on that possibility quickly. She's appreciated the politeness both times, but there's a crucial difference here: she awfully, awfully wants this particular diversion.
Instead of telling Sal yes, Anathema just steps closer to clear the last of the distance between them, catches the woman's lapels, and drags her into a kiss: a little matter-of-fact at first, but deeper and more insistent the more she leans in, hangs onto Sal's shirt. By the time they break apart, her face is bright, cheerful, a little exhilarated. ]
[When at first their lips touch, Sal's smirking. Anathema might not be a real, actual princess but she does command a few unique privileges; touching Sal in such a frank and forceful way among them. She's got no reason to protest this, at all, and in the span of a breathy chuckle she leans down a little further and rights her position.
Her hands come up to gently run along Anathema's face, her thumbs resting warmly at the base of her jaw. Sal's been thinking of this for—a hell of a long time, honestly, and she's going to savor this, world at large be damned. There's nothing else to fill her awareness but Anathema's mouth, soft and more insistent as the kiss continues; the smooth warmth of her skin against the palms of her hands; the subtle hint of that perfume she's grown to recognize anywhere; the heat of their bodies pressed together as Anathema keeps her held in place with no distance left to impede them.
It's real nice, is what it is, and when they break apart Sal finds her smile again. A mirror to Anathema's own exhilaration, she takes a moment to adjust her jacket and to sink into a pleasant feeling of self-satisfaction.]
Well we can't have any of that tonight.
[She offers to take Anathema's arm again, ready at last to continue on across the street. For their date! What a fucking magnificent thought.]
You want to tell me more about your history studies over dinner?
[ The sensation of Sal's hands against her face, her jaw, is electric; Anathema can feel her skin gone ticklish and over-sensitive under the touch and she hitches a little laugh. It's been too long since she's been touched like this. Longer than she'd have liked; turns out the repeated near-end of the world keeps throwing wrenches in the gears in terms of finding some intimacy.
But. Finally.
Sal's aura is blinding now that she's so close, now that Sal's radiating and bleeding messy emotions everywhere. Normally Anathema wouldn't try to sneak a glance at someone's aura like this, but it's hard to block it out: it's like looking at the sun. She catches the other woman's offered arm. Feels like she's going to soar right off the ground again, except they're not actually flying. ]
You're going to fall asleep in your gumbo if you let me drone on, probably. But I'd be glad to.
[ And they set off again, towards the restaurant, and Anathema can't help but think giddily: thank god for that letter. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text.
Hi.
no subject
These two like to stay busy, in other words, and today's no different. No, Sal doesn't want to sit around and fuss about the results of her Valentine's effort. Spending time holed up with Cecelia in the library, trying to piece together this gift, was a nerve-wracking struggle in itself. She prefers to set her mind on something with immediate, tangible results. Like these heartless who've been pestering her city, for instance—who can dole out a better ass-kicking than yours truly?
So that's where the message finds her, just after she's hunted down more of these strange shadows, cutting them apart with her sword (good old Jeff, always the best company), watching as they dissipate like a cloud of dark smoke. Nox was right, it's damn unsatisfying to watch, really.
But her phone lets out a chirp and her attention moves elsewhere. Once Sal sees who the message is from...the smile happens on its own, but standing up here on a Maurtia Falls rooftop, it gives her a strange sense of déjà vu.]
Hey, what's going on?
[For one tiny, brilliant moment, she's completely clueless.]
no subject
Got something interesting in the mail today. I'm assuming it was from you?
It was a little smudged, I couldn't entirely tell.
no subject
Yeah, of course that's from me. Whoever the fuck else is going to appreciate the art of a handwritten letter in this world?
Not too smudged, is it? Kind of slipped out of my pocket, once or twice, before I flew out to the post office.
[She's still confident, and why not? A few smudges can't take away from the overall message.]
no subject
[ Sal is working from incomplete information here, and Anathema can feel that disjoint like a pair of mismatched scales. So, for the sake of full transparency, Anathema snaps a photo of the letter: far enough away that you can't read exactly which words made it through, but close enough to convey its disastrous state. ]
Although it didn't really survive its travels, I do still appreciate the thought. I don't get a lot of handwritten letters here — everyone's all over the networks, all the time.
no subject
[Sal knows this feeling. Like a bad landing or a sucker-punch to the chest, when all the air leaves your lungs and everything in the world just stops for a second. For fuck's sake, it's just a letter for a holiday she barely understands, there's no reason to feel gutted.
"What's this leading to? Conveyance of gratitude for her presence? Relief of the circumstances yielding what they have? Commendation for her character?"
"I want her know that she isn't alone in this world."
Sal really hates to apologize, it often feels disingenuous; like whatever she's blown up and destroyed this time around can be patched up with a few pretty words. But in this case, what else is there? She wants Anathema to be happy today, or tomorrow, or maybe just for however long she's going to be here (this time). But now it feels like she's letting her down, and that—.]
Sorry.
no subject
Whatever for?
no subject
[There's a moment, a consideration.]
Not sorry for writing it for you, I mean. Happy Valentine's Day, Anathema.
CLUTCHES MY FACE SORRY
Maybe Sal doesn't know about the connotations here. Maybe Valentine's Day doesn't mean the same thing in the other woman's universe; maybe it's some kind of holiday where you fight others in close combat with your sword, or make a blood sacrifice and run anticlockwise around a hill. Who the hell knows!!
Or. The alternative. The one that makes her grin irrepressibly at her phone even though the other woman can't see her, and also think to herself: you fucking dummy, you watched Satan rise out of the earth, why does this make you nervous. ]
Happy Valentine's Day, Salazanca.
You want to grab some dinner?
CACKLING
Sure thing. You want me to pick you up later, take you around to a place you like?
[Honestly, she doesn't need an excuse to go out somewhere together. Anathema might not be trained in fighting like Sal, but there's nowhere else on this planet that makes her feel as safe.]
no subject
[ Somehow this is so much more nerve-wracking and difficult than it ought to be. Back home in college, Anathema had been so quick and businesslike and to-the-point whenever she liked someone — her dalliances were surface-level things, temporary and fleeting, because she knew none of them would last. She had a bigger duty to focus on. The world likely wouldn't even last. And Newt, she had seen that one coming. Her whole goddamned family and ancestors had seen that one coming for centuries, so there wasn't any surprise to it, just marking him off like ticking him off a checklist.
Here, in this world, she hadn't seen Sal coming. ]
It's a date(?)
no subject
Did you really think it wouldn't come up?
It's become such a deliberate knee-jerk reaction to avoid that, to protect Anathema somehow, but she looks down at that tiny question and, strangely, doesn't feel any worry or panic. So many months she's been questioning who she is here and who she wants to be. How to protect those few people she cares about, if not from other kinds of danger than certainly her past.
It's the freedom of this place, that ability to choose all of those things, that's been more frightening than anything else. Sal stands on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the people passing below like some thoughtful bird of prey. Realizing that several minutes have passed, she starts to type again.]
It's only a date if you wear something cute. Promise I'll be there, 6:00.
[She smiles at herself, pleased. It's a joke, of course. Anathema looks great in anything, if she's being fucking honest about it. But that's the last message she types, and instead of furthering the conversation, she flies back up into the comfort of the open sky.
Sal spends the rest of her time at home cleaning up, taking a long, hot shower, and finding a nice set of clothes that she hasn't fought, frayed, or bled in. The gun and the sword, and even her nice red scarf, stay at home; along with the needy cat too, who she somehow remembers to feed before leaving. With everything in its place (probably?) she makes her way to that familiar residence over in Jeopardy.
When it comes to meeting Anathema, someone with a perfect sense of time, there's no real way to be early. So Sal just settles for arriving vaguely on time instead, landing down on the lawn and making her way over to the door. She might not be nervous or worried as she approaches, but there's a sudden jolt of energy as she gets closer, the kind she gets right before a fight.
Sal's got a key, she remembers, and she takes it out to unlock the door. She knocks a few times anyway, just so some strange roommate doesn't leap out to attack her, before slowly opening the door and peering inside.]
no subject
It's dark charcoal adorned with white feathers. Not her usual pops of bright colour, but it's also her closest thing to the traditional little-black-dress. Fairly simple, with long flowing sleeves, compared to her usual ornate fashion. When there's the knock at the door and Sal peeks her head in, Anathema's on her way through the living room in a brisk flurry of activity, stuffing her arms into the sleeves of a black coat, keys into purse, purse over her other arm. She shoots the other woman a smile, more tremulous than her usual. ]
Hi.
[ A sickening lurch in her stomach, of pleasant nerves. Anathema's been a big proponent of foraying into the unknown, but the unknown has never been this enjoyable before, nor so anxiety-inducing.
But because she also knows what the hell she's doing, she executes a little twirl at her doorstep. ]
So. Cute enough?
no subject
Anathema is stunning, but Sal is determined not transform into to a complete mess at first sight of her; that Winter Gala has her prepared for this onslaught if just a hair. (In contrast, Sal doesn't have to be nervous; the warmth that's spreading deep through her chest is enough to derail any serious thought she might possibly have.) Remembering what her role in this opera for tonight is, she takes a step closer.]
You're always adorable, so I didn't have a doubt.
[It's meant to sound confident; the kind of boastfulness that gets her thrown out of establishments and right into streetfights. Instead, her tone is unintentionally quite tender, so to deflect from that bout of honesty, Sal reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away from Anathema's face. She grins to herself and looks away. Alright. Maybe a little embarassed, but she's sure to fall back into the swing of things once they're out the door.]
Have you decided on where you want to go?
no subject
Looks like you'll just have to wing it like everybody else for once, Anathema. ]
Mmhm. I managed to find a a Cuban place just the next neighbourhood over that I'm a fan of. I'm gonna ask that we walk this time, though. The wind'll fuck up my hair.
[ She flashes the other woman a wider grin, then. It really is a good restaurant. It was her closest thing to a touch of home in this strange and unfamiliar world; meals that reminded her of her mama's cooking. When they set out into the street — February is a little brisk, but they're in Nevada, so the night is still warm enough — she locks the door behind them, then loops her arm companionably through Sal's while they walk. ]
Saint Valentine isn't a thing back in your world, is he? Or something like it?
no subject
[Sal's not looking directly at her when she says it (wasn't there some opera line about the dangers of staring too much at the sun?), so it's hard to tell but the hint of a crooked grin suggests she's being cheeky on purpose. It can't be helped, she feels her mood lifting with every step down the road. Not to be too sentimental about it, but it's enough just to walk like this in a peaceful neighborhood together.
It's the honest truth, Sal knows. Life's taught her to be cautious, on edge, ready for an attack at all times; it was a rare moment back home when she was able to shed that armor even for a night. This world, however, proves very different. All it takes for her to start feeling comfortable, safe, is Anathema taking her by the arm and assuring her with the simple and innate warmth of her presence.
Sal moves her free hand up to rest on Anathema's gently. She tries to reorient her point of view to those who travel down on the street like this; but unlike some evenings when her thoughts weigh too heavily on her mood, tonight isn't the time to remember all the days after her magic was stolen. There's no need to feel haunted, or broken, from the life she lived before. Sometimes it's nice to just live for what's beside you for once, or maybe everything that's waiting up ahead. (She knows this feeling enough now to call it by its name, hope.)]
Shit, we might have to include your knowledge on Cuban food in that agreement too. It's been a while since I was ported in, but there's always something new around every corner, isn't there?
I FUCKED UP I MEANT TO SAY PUERTO RICAN, PRETEND I DID
[ She says it so loosely, so casually, that it almost — almost, but definitely not — belies how important that admission is. But it's true. Every time the world's gone to shit over here, Anathema's found herself at Sal's or vice versa. It's a rock-steady foundation, a comfort. She makes her feel better. It's as simple as that.
So, like stepping out onto shaky ice, Anathema explains while they walk. ]
It's typically a romantic holiday, you know. Couples give gifts to each other, like anniversary presents, and/or take each other out for a special evening. Date night. Dinner, a movie, cooking for each other. Chocolate, flowers. Spoiling each other rotten for a day. Things like that.
[ Then, because Anathema is Anathema, she continues— ]
There's some disagreement on what the ancient origins of the holiday are, of course. Some people think there's a connection to the Roman festival of Lupercalia, which was a pastoral celebration to avert evil spirits and release fertility. Goats and dogs were sacrificed, priests were anointed in blood, and then they ran through the city naked. We don't do that.
Lupercalia was celebrated around the same time of year, but there's been no real evidence linking it with Valentine's Day, though. Valentine's started off as a religious feast day, and then the connection to romantic love is more likely due to the influence of a 700-year-old poem.
[ beat. ] Anyway. I did a doctorate in history. I, uh, talk a lot.
no subject
[Sal didn't interrupt Anathema's impromptu lecture—she couldn't, and maybe you could say she was too caught off guard by that tiny, near-missable concession before it. It's surprising, almost startlingly off the cuff, and it makes Sal look over again, openly staring as Anathema goes on about couples and flowers, ancient rituals and blood sacrifices. She wasn't able to come up with anything clever to say, and by now they're standing at the end of the block and waiting to cross the street.
It's a lovely, mild evening. The sun is edging closer to the horizon, its departure leaving a beautiful tapestry of color across the sky. And here they are standing on the sidewalk, side by side, a new adventure waiting just ahead. Sal remembers the letter she sent, the muddied words, phrases lost between one city and the other. Even if she hadn't botched that mission, she understands clearly now that what she had written down wasn't exactly what she meant to say. Not all of it, at least.]
Do you mind if—
[Now whose turn is it to feel anxious and awkward, eh? Sal pulls away for a moment, just so they can stand more easily face to face. The street is quiet, there's no cause for a sudden interruption. Sal's looking at Anathema and again she's overtaken by that same warm feeling.
The sudden breathlessness strikes before she can finish her question. Her usual striking gaze softens, trailing up from the lines of Anathema's collarbone, up the slender curves of her neck, tracing along the familiar edges of her jaw to stop at her mouth. Time stops for the moment of a single stuttering heartbeat before she looks up and the two women can meet each other's eyes.
Sal stands a little straighter, blinking away her momentary haze. Hesitation isn't any good tonight. She has to say what she means for once, because she remembers in the space of every cold and lonely evening the consequences of silence. Of pulling away from what your heart wants, to allow the demons of your past to rule over your future. She offers a small smile, the sort she's only given to one person on this particular world, a place so different from her old home.
I don't entirely mind being stranded in this new universe, away from home. You're another reason.]
Can I give you a kiss?
[It comes out surprisingly confident. Not that Sal is certain about the response, not when the entire rest of this day has been nothing but surprises, but she's sure of one thing at least. She doesn't move, only waits for a response and a sign.]
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For a moment, she remembers her last partner and Newt's tremulous Can we do it again?. Her own curt response, cutting him off at the pass with We don't have time. Shutting the door on that possibility quickly. She's appreciated the politeness both times, but there's a crucial difference here: she awfully, awfully wants this particular diversion.
Instead of telling Sal yes, Anathema just steps closer to clear the last of the distance between them, catches the woman's lapels, and drags her into a kiss: a little matter-of-fact at first, but deeper and more insistent the more she leans in, hangs onto Sal's shirt. By the time they break apart, her face is bright, cheerful, a little exhilarated. ]
I'd have been upset if you never did.
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Her hands come up to gently run along Anathema's face, her thumbs resting warmly at the base of her jaw. Sal's been thinking of this for—a hell of a long time, honestly, and she's going to savor this, world at large be damned. There's nothing else to fill her awareness but Anathema's mouth, soft and more insistent as the kiss continues; the smooth warmth of her skin against the palms of her hands; the subtle hint of that perfume she's grown to recognize anywhere; the heat of their bodies pressed together as Anathema keeps her held in place with no distance left to impede them.
It's real nice, is what it is, and when they break apart Sal finds her smile again. A mirror to Anathema's own exhilaration, she takes a moment to adjust her jacket and to sink into a pleasant feeling of self-satisfaction.]
Well we can't have any of that tonight.
[She offers to take Anathema's arm again, ready at last to continue on across the street. For their date! What a fucking magnificent thought.]
You want to tell me more about your history studies over dinner?
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But. Finally.
Sal's aura is blinding now that she's so close, now that Sal's radiating and bleeding messy emotions everywhere. Normally Anathema wouldn't try to sneak a glance at someone's aura like this, but it's hard to block it out: it's like looking at the sun. She catches the other woman's offered arm. Feels like she's going to soar right off the ground again, except they're not actually flying. ]
You're going to fall asleep in your gumbo if you let me drone on, probably. But I'd be glad to.
[ And they set off again, towards the restaurant, and Anathema can't help but think giddily: thank god for that letter. ]