AN: So a few weeks ago I started writing something for a prompt that a friend sent me on Tumblr! This piece is actually another, different version of that, that sorta popped into my head while I was trying to work on something else (funny how that happens, right?). This is based in an AU/my head canon where Tasha struggles with coming to terms with her bisexuality, and Allie and her have been long time friends since college, along with working together at the NYPD. I had a lot of fun writing this, hopefully it isn't horrible haha. If you feel so compelled, lemme know what you think in the reviews. xo
Needing You Is Just The Way We Were
If something's wrong, it can never, ever be right. Tasha used to pretend that she could believe it if she told herself enough times, if she practiced it perfectly. It worked for a while, and she could look in the mirror everyday and find some semblance of truth in the story she told herself. It's easier to keep the wolves at bay when you're constantly running from them, and that's what she does with her thoughts and her heart—each one on an opposite side of the chasm that she's always on the verge of falling in.
She's spent an entire lifetime devoted to propagating a reality that perpetuates the lies she tells to live with herself, to live with her secret.
But then there's Allison Knight, and she changes everything.
"Zapata, wanna go for drinks?!"
There's an unrelenting pounding on her front door, the sound of it echoing through her apartment along with Allie's voice, and she groans as she blinks her eyes open from where she fell asleep on her couch with her police academy binders strewn around her. Again.
"We have an exam tomorrow, Allie!" Tasha tries to yell, but it's more of a hoarse, half-awake mumble. Allie has her own key, but Tasha forces herself to her feet and shuffles to the door anyways. There's a string of expletives being muttered under her breath as she swings it open, Allie waiting expectantly on the other side, hands on her hips, lips pursed.
"We can study at the bar, over tequila shots," Allie waves a hand dismissively at Tasha's less than enthused expression. She brushes past Tasha with too much energy for almost ten o'clock on a Thursday night. She's about to head into the kitchen when she pauses and turns to give Tasha a once over, eyes narrowing and arms folding over her chest in disbelief. "Are those the same sweats and hoodie you had on last night?"
"Maybe…"
"Jesus Tasha—I know you have more than that in your closet—c'mon, get dressed!"
"Just because your dad's the commissioner doesn't mean the rest of us don't have to worry about actually passing the test," Tasha meets Allie's insistence with her own sharpness, crossing her own arms to mirror her friend.
"So uncalled for," Allie frowns, pointing an accusatory finger in Tasha's direction, her brows knit. Tasha knows how much she hates it when she makes that dig, and she feels a little guilty for saying it, but not enough to take it back. "I get enough shit from everyone else for that ok, I don't need it from you too. Besides, you're going to pass the practical, you've studied ten times as much as any of the rest of the class, and your firearms proficiency is off the fucking charts—give yourself a break."
"You know how much I suck at taking tests," Tasha argues, scrubbing her face, trying to ward off the anxiety that's eaten away at her for days. She would much rather crawl into the dark hole that is her bedroom and sleep for a week than go out, and she contemplates fighting Allie off to do just that.
"Well you're not going to suck at this one, got it?" Allie plays the part of dictator very well, her authoritative directive leaving no room for negotiation, "I haven't lost sleep staying up with you all week studying for nothing, you owe me, Zapata. Now go put some real clothes on."
Funny how it always seemed like Allie knew just the right thing to say. She's always been good at that, talking Tasha into doing things, and here she is, giving in like always. During their college years the roles were usually reversed, with Allie pulling her out of bars and making sure she didn't die of alcohol poisoning so she could get to her morning classes. Allie has always been the person to ground Tasha in reality, in one way or another, for good or worse. However, the longer they've been friends, the more they've rubbed off on each other. Current case in point.
She regrets getting Allie hooked on Tequila, but then again…
"By the way," Tasha grumbles, pushing the invasive, inappropriate thoughts away, "the only reason you know what's in my closet is because you've stolen almost everything out of it." Her tone is accusing as she trails after Allie into the small space of her kitchen, where she's already digging through Tash's fridge in search of the bottle of Patron she knows is there. She can't help that her eyes fixate on Allie's ass, seeing as it's directly in front of her.
"So are you saying you're going out naked?" Allie asks, turning around with a shit eating grin on her face and the bottle of tequila grasped in her, brandishing it like a child with a prize.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Tasha follows up her question with a middle finger salute, which Allie promptly returns with two of her own.
This is the part where she tries to convince herself that she's not in love with her best friend.
It never works out very well.
"Don't drink all my tequila before we even leave, got it?" Tasha sighs, turning away and making a beeline for her bedroom as she disappears down the hall.
"Yeah, yeah, just go make yourself presentable," Allie calls back, "maybe put on that black dress you've been saving, and those ridiculous stilettos, and some red lip stick, and—"
Tasha shuts her bedroom door, effectively cutting Allie off, at least for now, not that cutting her off ever lasted long in any other way, shape or form. She sighs, leaning against her door, asking herself just how terrible of an idea it is to go out and get buzzed after the last time they went out and had to much to drink on Allie's birthday a few weeks ago.
It was just one kiss, one drunken, stupid, meaningless kiss. An accident, she'd called it, blaming the alcohol, and yet…
Tasha's trajectory has always been predictable, established, before Allie arrived and interrupted it. She's exceedingly aware of said interruptions presence, the constant itch that won't leave her alone, and the fact that she's spent the last two years trying to ignore it. The key word is try, because Tasha knows better than anyone else how impossible it is to tell Allie no. You don't.
And that's exactly the problem.
Of course she tells herself she'll get over it, eventually.
She tells herself that she'll get over it, that it'll just take time, distance, acceptance. She tells herself this until the denial is as involuntary as breathing. Yet despite her best efforts, despite trying to come to terms with the idea that Allie won't ever feel the same way she does, Tasha can't help but notice that time and distance and acceptance aren't things she wants. She realizes, much to her own panic, that she just wants her.
So when she and Allie are both assigned to the Nine-Six straight out of the police academy, working as partners for the first six months as rookie beat cops, it's both the best and worst six months of her life. They eat together; breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes they sleep together at the station when the cases go for days, Allie always on the top bunk and Tasha on the bottom, talking well into the odd hours of the night. They get to save the world, one criminal pulled off the streets at a time, the dynamic duo who's constant back and forth keep the rest of the precinct laughing.
They're the closest they've ever been, really. They're the closes that they might ever be.
However, Tasha finds it rather amazing how someone so close, someone who's around you for eighteen hours a day or more, can still seem so far away.
"What's wrong?"
Tasha blinks, her half-full Guinness in one hand, her half-eaten burger in the other. Allie stares at her from over the top of the table at their regular booth in the back of the diner, nursing her own beer, her food already demolished save for the few straggling remnants of fries still on her plate. They're in civilian clothes for once, a rarity on a Friday night, but at Allie's question, the hint of worry, Tasha's fingers itch for the sidearm that isn't at her hip.
"Huh?" Tasha mumbles, mouth full, feigning ignorance as she often does when she gets caught staring. Allie scowls at Tasha's blatant (but not unusual) lack of manners, and Tasha gives her a wry grin and an apologetic shrug as compensation.
"You had a funny look on your face," Allie tilts her head, leaning back in her seat to consider the woman sitting across from her with veiled concern. "You sure you're ok?"
Tasha realizes, slowly, that Allie's probably still thinking about their case from earlier in the week. The case that had ended with the bad guy behind bars, but not before Tasha ended up with two bullets in her protective vest after a foot chase through lower Manhattan. It's crazy what lengths drug addicts will go to protect their dealers, scaling buildings and getting into roof-top brawls with unregistered firearms included. Tasha still has the angry, black-blue bruises from the bullets on her ribcage as a reminder, and she winces a little at the thought of it.
"I'm fine," Tasha reassures, her grin widening, "but it's cute that you're so concerned."
"Maybe a little," Allie agrees, eyes narrowed sheepishly. Tasha can't help the way her stomach flips a little at the admission, the greediness of her own wants overpowering what she's come to accept as reality. She doesn't mean it like that.
"Guess what?" Allie adds suddenly, changing directions, her worry gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, much to Tasha's disappointment. She's smiling now, wide eyed and bright with excitement, and Tasha can't help but think about how infectious that smile is, and always has been. She wants to tell Allie how beautiful she is, but she doesn't. She wants to tell her a lot of other things too, but she doesn't do that either.
"You got us tickets to the Jets game this weekend?" Tasha pushes her now empty plate aside, swishing the rest of her beer around in the bottle, eying Allie expectantly before tilting her head back to finish it off.
"I'll do you one better," Allie leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. She lowers her voice and pauses for dramatic affect. "We're going to be neighbors. I didn't want to tell you until I was sure I could make it happen, but remember the apartment below yours, on the the opposite side of the hall, the one that came up for lease a few weeks ago? I signed the papers this morning—it's mine!"
Tasha chokes on the rest of her beer.
The second time they kiss is two years and a career change later.
Maybe it's the fact that Allie moved across the country to become a U.S. Marshal, and it's been too many months since Tasha's seen her. Or maybe it's some misplaced sense of jealousy toward her new boss, FBI Agent Kurt Weller, because she knows he's kissed Allie a thousand times while she's dreamed about it a thousand more. Yet Tasha is the first call Allie makes when she lands in New York, it's her couch she's sitting on right now, her almost empty bottle of tequila sitting on the coffee table beside just like old times.
She knows she should stop it now, while she can, but when has she ever been able to before?
It's inevitable, as the night goes on and their laughs get louder, their world more blurry. Tasha can feel it—the undercurrent of want that runs through her veins, just as loud and demanding as the pulse in her head. Allie's laugh is intoxicating, and her arm innocently draped across Tasha's shoulders fills her head with not-so-innocent thoughts. The way Allie bows her head when something is especially funny, pitches her entire body forward until her hair falls in front of her face, gives Tasha an excuse to reach over and push it out of the way.
She's always looking for excuses these days—always hoping that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.
She knows it's coming, so she drinks more, thinking that will help make it easier later, but really all it's doing is making it worse. Soon the tequila is gone, and there's no longer a reason to keep her hands occupied with the neck of the bottle, so they find Allie's instead. Tasha much prefers the warmth of Allie's skin under her fingers, her lips against hers, instead of the coolness of the glass. There's something overwhelming about the taste of the tequila on Allie's tongue, the alcohol laden gasp of surprise she steals from her mouth—and then it's over all too soon.
Always is.
"Tasha…"
She hates that, the way her name becomes a question of confusion when Allie says it.
She hates herself even more because she doesn't have an answer.
She pulls away like she always does, mutters a drunken apology under her breath—shit, sorry, Allie—before laughing it off, acting like it's nothing. Never mind the fact that on the inside she's screaming, that she can clearly see despite having had too much to drink that Allie is still wondering like she always does. It's the look on her face that gives her away—confusion and pity and something else—the tilt of her head as she considers Tasha from her side of the couch, her cheeks still flushed and eyes wide, trying to understand what just happened.
Allie doesn't push though, she takes Tasha's apology at face value, maybe because she's had that much to drink, or maybe because she just trusts her friend that implicitly. Or maybe Allie is more like her than she previously thought, years of ignoring the obvious making her blind to what's happening right in front of her. Either way part of Tasha feels guilty, for taking advantage of these moments, of Allie being too kind to push her away, for being too much of a coward to tell her.
"If there was something wrong, you'd tell me right?" Allie asks later when they're still not quite sober.
Tasha nods, curled up into her corner of the couch.
"Promise?" Allie pushes, insists, reaching across the self-imposed space between them to grab Tasha's ankle.
"Promise," Tasha echoes.
What's one more lie at this point? Any version of hell couldn't possibly be any worse than the one she lives in.
She's wrong though, and there are worse things.
There are worse things like more kisses—it feels blasphemous to put them in the category of something that she dreads, when in reality she craves them. She kisses Allie two more times, to be exact, each one worse and better than the last. Each one a bitter reminder of the thing she cannot have.
There are worse things like falling into old habits. She remembers when gambling was a means to an end, when she could justify it because her intentions were righteous. She could justify it because she was in control of her choice. Addiction is debilitating, whether it be drugs or alcohol or anything else, because your existence begins to revolve less around actually living and more around chasing the high to make you feel alive. She finds comfort in the lie at first, like she always has, until she digs a hole to deep to climb out of.
There are much, much worse things, like watching your friends drift further and further away as you fall further into your own chaos. She doesn't deserve Patterson or Reade's trust, or their loyalty, and yet they remain as dogged in their attempts to reach out to her despite her constant deflection. There's accusing a woman you trusted and respected of horrendous crimes when you've committed equally horrible acts yourself, and finding out she's been brutally murdered before you could ask her to forgive you. Tasha's nightmares are filled with visions of her and Mayfair's final conversation, of all the things she's never been brave enough to say to her or anyone else.
Please don't give up on me.
I haven't.
After the funeral Tasha takes a cab to the Staten Island ferry alone. She finds a bench seat at the back of the ferry, and she huddles against the abnormally cold spring tailwind. The city gets further and further away the farther the ferry cuts through the bay, and the sunset paints the sky bright red. The tears fall harder and harder until all Tasha can do is shake, her arms wrapped around herself, her lungs on fire as her sobs rob her of air.
Some things change, and some things never do.
Allie randomly showing up on her doorstep at odd hours of the night, demanding to be let in, falls into the "never" area.
"I know you're in there, Natasha, open the fucking door!"
Other things that won't change anytime soon: Allie's mouth.
Tasha hasn't left her apartment in three days since everything fell to hell at work, and while she's remembered to take showers, brush her teeth and occasionally her hair, there are circles under her eyes because she hasn't slept. Her nails are chewed down to the edges, an old habit back from the dead, along with the lone box of cigarettes on her kitchen island that she hasn't managed to open just yet. She throws them into the trash before she goes to open the door—Allie made her quit years ago—steeling herself as she remembers the long list of missed calls she's been ignoring from the woman waiting on the other side.
When she finally does open the door, somber faced and uninviting, all they can do is sit in awkward, brooding silence, staring and waiting for the other to speak.
Allie's one of the only people who's ever managed to match her in the stubborn category, and now is a prime example.
"What do you want, Allie?"
"I want you to pick up your phone when I call, for one," Allie mutters, and Tasha can tell by the tightness in her jaw, by the way she has her arms folded across her chest, that she's biting back what she really wants to say. Good, Tasha thinks, because if she's looking for a fight, that makes two of them.
"Funny," Tasha leans against the door frame, barring Allie from passing, "last I checked you never returned my calls, and then I didn't hear from you for weeks. Let me guess, you went running back to Kurt, right? Because that's the easy, convenient thing to do, isn't it?"
She might be slightly bitter.
"Tasha, I swear to god—"
"But wait, there's more—" Tasha holds up a hand dramatically, and Allie groans, "—you and your Marshal posse show up and have a field day at the NYO, get my entire team suspended, tear Patterson's lab apart because of your manhunt, and you expect me to act like everything's fine? Am I forgetting anything, Knight?"
"Yeah, you bitch, you're forgetting to let me in!" Allie takes Tasha's bait. Her voice raises an octave like it always does when she's pissed, and the look on her face shifts from irritated to livid in a blink.
"You know what?" Tasha's eyes flash, her tone murderous, matching Allie's venom blow for blow, "Fuck you."
Fuck you for making me feel this way. Fuck this entire fucked up situation.
Maybe her anger is a little misguided (or a lot), but she doesn't care anymore. Allie is the first human she's seen in days, and so she's the lucky winner that get's to be Tasha's personal, emotional punching bag.
Tasha tries to slam the door, on Allie and on all the problems associated with her. It's ridiculous though, because she knows Allie could easily let herself back in with her key, the same one Tasha gave her back when they first met. Things weren't so goddamn complicated back then, and Tasha wonders if they'll ever get back to the place, if things will ever be simple—doubtful, just like everything else she's ever hoped for.
Allie stops her before she can close the door completely, shoving Tasha back into the hall of her apartment with a hand to the shoulder, her usually level-headed, collected demeanor she employs in conflict situations gone by the wayside.
Allie never could leave well enough alone, something Tasha both loves and hates her for.
"I'm sorry, ok? How many times do I have to say it before you'll believe me?" Allie hisses, seething, trapping Tasha against the wall. "I know Bethany was your friend, and Kurt's friend, I know that work has made things stressful between all of us, but it's not like inter-agency conflicts aren't something haven't dealt with before. We promised a long time ago not to let that affect our friendship, so what gives, Tasha? You've been acting strange for a long time now, and don't insult me by trying to talk your way out of it."
Tasha could blame her animosity on the shitstorm at work, on the fact that she's not entirely sure she won't lose her job between the DEA dick's blackmail and the interim-director's evaluations in light of Jane's betrayal. Tasha could even blame it on the insanity that's taken ahold of the NYO since Jane's disappearance, on the fact that her entire team, her family, has been reduced to rubble in the wake of everything that's happened.
She could blame it on grief, on losing Mayfair, and Allie would buy it. Allie would buy it because she knows how many people Tash has already lost, she knows how hard it's been for her before. She was there the day Andy died, and she's seen the police reports about her brother Nathan; she knew that Tasha was used to people leaving, used to having them ripped out of her life, used to not having a choice.
But the longer Tasha stands there, pinned between Allie and the wall, the more she realizes that the real source of her turmoil isn't really any of those things.
It's the fact that she does have a choice. It's the woman standing in front of her. The woman standing so close, all she'd have to do is reach out and—
"Just because people make promises doesn't mean they keep them," Tasha bites back, shaking Allie's hand off with more force than necessary, shaking off the thoughts that are flooding her head, familiar thoughts of panic mixed with a new desperation to say something—anything. "You wanna know what gives? I can't look at myself in the mirror anymore, because I hate the person I see there. I hate her. And I'm tired, Allie. I'm tired."
I love you. I love you I love you I love you.
Tasha feels like she might throw up, or pass out, or both. She isn't ready for this, for the confession that's begging to claw it's way out of her chest, she never has been.
"You know I've always kept my promises to you, Z," Allie face softens immediately, the fight knocked out of her, and she suddenly looks exhausted standing there, defeated. She looks older, and Tasha wonders how they got here, how they could have worked so hard for a life that was supposed to make them happy, but only ever did the opposite. The fight's knocked out of Tasha too, and she wishes she could melt into the wall, that she could disappear, because she knows Allie's right. She's the one person who's always been there when it counts, even when Tasha's been at her worst, just like now.
And here Tasha is trying to push Allie away, trying to block her out, her justification being that it's better this way for the both of them.
Tasha's so lost in her own head, so overwhelmed by Allie's proximity, that she almost doesn't hear her speak.
"The last time I was here, when—" Allie hesitates, struggling to find the right words, and Tasha wonders if it's because she's finally figured it out, if she sees this for what it really is. "I meant what I said, when I told you that you can tell me anything."
The last time, Tasha thinks, and she laughs soundlessly, even though she wants to scream, because this exact conversation is the thing her worst nightmares are made of. She still remembers it, clear as day, because the last time Allie and been in her apartment had been the last time Tasha kissed her.
In the past the look Allie is giving her now would have terrified her, sent her running as far away as possible, but something stops her. In the past Tasha would've rather died before admitting that those kisses and those stolen moments were hardly accidents. Now, after everything, she's starting to wonder if all the wasted time, the lies and the the denial, could have ever been worth it.
Why should she run when the person she wants the most is standing right here in front of her, when she always has been?
"I don't regret it, you know."
The words are out before Tasha can stop them, but her throat is tight, and despite the fact that she holds Allie's gaze unwaveringly, she's can't deny the suffocating, overwhelming feeling of terror that sits on her chest. She can't beat back the dizzying sense of panic that floods every fiber of her being and threatens to drown her.
"Don't regret what?" Allie asks, carefully, cautiously, as if she could scare Tasha away by saying the wrong thing.
"I don't regret kissing you," Tasha says more quietly, fighting every self-ingrained instinct to flee, to fall back on the false truth she's clung to for so long. She fights the voices in her head, the demons she's carried with her for years, telling her that she's insane. Tell her that this is wrong. That it's not who she is.
But those were all lies, lies she'd told herself in order to survive. She's not willing to lie anymore, not to herself, or Allie, or anyone else.
It only takes a few seconds, but Tasha watches the realization spread across Allie's face in slow motion. There's something liberating about the recognition in those big brown eyes of hers, something undeniably beautiful, and it's the most terrifying thing that Tasha's ever experienced in her entire life.
"Can I tell you something?" Allie murmurs, leveling Tasha with a serious gaze, her lips quirked in that tell-tale half-frown of hers that's always been one of her most endearing traits. Now it causes Tasha's heart to fall in her chest, for her throat to tighten as she nods, waiting to hear what she already knows—that Allie would never feel the same way. The knife digs itself deeper into her chest, twisting as it goes.
"I don't regret it either."
Tasha blinks. She holds her breath, shakes her head in disbelief.
"What?"
"I said," Allie repeats, more slowly, fighting a smile, "I don't regret it either."
Tasha doesn't know whether to be relieved, or surprised, or both. She doesn't know whether to laugh, or collapse into a heap and cry. She stands, back to the wall, mouth open in shock. Allie is so close that Tasha can feel her warmth, she can feel the chaos that's been between them since the beginning—and then she can feel it dissipate, dissolve into the air around them, the years of struggle removed from her shoulders in an instant. She can finally breathe.
Allie's eyes fall to her lips, her mouth open as if she'll speak, but there aren't any words, just a heavy, smothering silence.
Something inside Tasha breaks, snaps, and there's no more self control, no more carefully calculated caution by which she conducts herself. It's too late by the time Tasha realizes what she's doing, but she doesn't care. She reaches for Allie, grabs the edges of her leather jacket and pulls her forward, tangles her hand in the hair at the back of her neck, and for the first time in the entirety of their relationship, she kisses her completely sober and of sound volition.
She isn't expecting it when Allie kisses her back.
"Tasha, wake up."
"Hmm."
"I'm starving, and the only thing to eat in your fridge is week old pizza, wake up."
Tasha's eyes fly open when Allie's finger jabs her mercilessly in the ribs, and at first she's thinking that surely this is a dream—until Allie jabs her again.
"Hey!" Tasha rolls toward Allie on the bed, darting out a hand to snatch her wrist in retaliation, pulling Allie back to her across across the tangled sheets. Allie just peers back at Tasha mischievously, and in a moment of impulse she reaches with her free hand and rests it against Tasha's neck, her fingers fitting perfectly against the curve while her thumb traces the edge of her jaw. Tasha can't help the sigh she releases, and she closes her eyes, committing Allie's touch to memory, still terrified it might turn out to be a dream after all.
"We need to talk," Tasha opens her eyes to find Allie still watching her, and the brunette nods, biting her lip with a nervous grin.
"Mhm, we do," Allie scoots closer, carefully, not quite sure of herself. Tasha can see she's still trying to figure out how to navigate this, them, but she is trying, and she loves her all the more for it. "We didn't really do a lot of that last night, now that I think about it," Allie murmurs as an afterthought, her tone suggestive and amused, accompanied by the sound of her laugh. Tasha's pretty sure it's the best sound she's ever heard, the only sound she ever wants to hear—besides Allie moaning her name.
"Actions speak loud than words, right?" Tasha counters, releasing Allie's hand to trace the line of her collar bone, the gentle slope of her ribs, her fingers following the curve of her hip. She's slow, precise, methodical in her study of Allie's body, still completely in awe that she's here in her bed. There hadn't been any patience for that last night, for exploring and learning and taking their time. There'd only been Tasha's desperate need to feel her as close as possible, to find a release, to give Allie her own, and she had. Again, and again, and again.
"They do," Allie agrees, moving into Tasha's touch, tangling her hand in the dark waves of her hair as she leans closer and closes the distance between them.
Tasha startles at first when Allie kisses her, and she wonders, briefly, if she'll ever get used to that—to Allie kissing her first. She can't help the soft laugh that escapes her, breathy and light against Allie's mouth, and she can feel Allie's smile, just like she can feel the unadulterated glee bubbling in her own chest. She cups Allie's face in her hands, eager, hungry, and when she finally pulls away she rolls Allie back into the bed, kneeling above her like a woman bowed in worship as she kisses her again.
She forces herself to draw back before things escalate, as much as it pains her to do so, and she leans back on her heels as she straddles Allie's waist, her sigh of frustration causing Tasha to grin all the more.
"Do you wanna go get breakfast with me?"
Allie blinks at the question, her hands at Tasha's hips, and she tilts her head in consideration.
"Like a date?" Allie asks, and Tasha can't help the warmth that flushes her face.
"Like a date," Tasha repeats, and she bobs her head bashfully, "I know it might be hard to believe, but contrary to popular belief, I'm not a one night stand kind of girl."
"I believe you."
Those words coming from Allison Knight are the only validation Tasha Zapata will ever need.
She's not sure what she's done to deserve this, and Tasha tries to think back to the last time she felt this happy, this content, but any possibility absolutely pales in comparison to Allie. She's a pure source of joy, the embodiment of all the good things Tasha ever imagined for herself, and now she's here. She's here, and for the first time in her life Tasha wants to tell her everything, and she will.
"Maybe you can tell me what kind of girl you are then, over breakfast, and we'll talk, for as long or as little as you want," Allie murmurs softly, grabbing Tasha's hands, "deal?"
"Deal."
"Good," Allie grins, pulling her forward, encouraging her closer again, "now come here."
Tasha's never been in the habit of refusing Allie, and so she obliges.
It's funny how something that used to be wrong could never be more right.