Title: Why She Should
Summary: "Claire Franklin! Tell Leta you love her! It's been three years and you need to take this seriously!"
Rating: M for mature/sexual themes
Word Count: 1137
Other Chapters: No.
Disclaimer: Welcome To Night Vale and all related trademarks belong to Commonplace Books and Joseph Fink. I do not in any way profit from the use of these trademarks.
Pairings: Claire Franklin/Leta. Claire Franklin/OFC
Contains: trans headcanon, femslash, Night Vale politics, references to "The Debate."
Warnings: infidelity

Claire turned off the radio. She didn't really care about the mayoral debates. She hadn't even turned the radio on in the first place. It had turned itself on, or perhaps been turned on by someone whom Claire couldn't see, and it had coincidentally been on the only station that anyone seemed capable of getting in Night Vale. She walked over to her bed, collapsed into it, and sighed into her pillow. "Just tell me she'll say it back."

"No." said a voice from above her, as if someone were leaning over her, looking concerned and motherly but also alarmingly stern.

"She won't say it back? Then why—"

"No. I'm not going to tell you." There was this note to her voice—slightly amused, like she was taking special pleasure in watching Claire squirm. Claire generally liked it when women took special pleasure in watching Claire squirm all over her bed, but this was different.

"I need to hear that she'll say it back."

"I'm not going to tell you."

Utterly unhelpful. She was always so utterly unhelpful. Always ready to criticize, but never ready to help. That was the Faceless Old Woman for you. Claire was voting for Hiram. He'd probably tell her if—well, maybe he wouldn't, but he also wouldn't pressure Claire to put herself out there when she didn't want to. "I can't say it if I don't think she's going to say it back."

"I don't think you're taking this seriously, Claire."

Claire snorted. Not taking this seriously? There was nothing in this world that Claire took more seriously than Leta. Claire wanted Leta to be the mother of her children. They'd even talked about maybe trying to conceive, in a few years. They hadn't been taking the conversation too seriously, of course. It was just a vague 'wouldn't it be nice if, in a few years...' thing, but surely Leta knew from that that Claire thought they had a future together? Wasn't it obvious that Claire wanted to be with Leta for the rest of their lives, if she could? And Claire just didn't like telling women that she loved them. "It's just that I told Savannah that I love her—"

"And Savannah told you she was leaving you for her daughter's kindergarten teacher. She'd been cheating on you for months. They started at the Parent-Teacher conference in October. You were still at work when Savannah came home, so she had plenty of time to hide all the signs before you got home. Then it became a regular thing, and Savannah got brave. She invited her over to your shared apartment a few times. They had sex on the couch once, you know. And in the shower. Usually in the shower— "

"You told me."

"That's why you gave her the couch."

"I couldn't stand to look at it anymore."

"You should have kept that couch. It was a good couch. It looks good in her new place, but it would have looked better in yours."

"I didn't want it." God, just the visual of it made Claire sick. If she'd kept it, she'd have lit it on fire. Claire sighed. "You should light it on fire and tell me when you've done it."

"I do not want to light that couch on fire."

"Do it for me."

"I do not want to." Of course she didn't. She sounded bored. That was the worst thing about her. If she ever seemed interested in your life, she was only interested in the way that most people were interested in the lives of their sims. She found the stories mildly interesting, but she never really cared whether or not you were in pain or upset or unhappy. She certainly had no empty for you, and sometimes she enjoyed your pain for the drama that she got to watch. It was rather ironic that the Faceless Old Woman hated The Sims. She'd destroyed every copy of The Sims 3 that Claire had bought. She seemed alright with Sims Medieval.

"You could have at least told me that Savannah was cheating on me."

"Why would I have done that?"

"Her daughter told me!"

"Only because she didn't realize that she shouldn't. I told Savannah to stop. Her daughter never told her to stop."

"You'd tell me if Leta were—"

"I know many things about Leta that I do not tell you. As I knew many things about Savannah."

"She isn't?!"

"I did not say that she was."

Claire screamed into her pillow.

But no. Not Leta. Leta was perfect (well, except that she kept her socks on during sex, watched Duck Dynasty religiously, and was completely tone deaf but always sang in the shower, but Claire had made peace with those flaws) and was genuinely the nicest person that Claire had ever met. It was difficult for Claire to believe that someone so wonderful could ever really fall for her, Claire Franklin, who did people's taxes for a living while Leta was off saving kittens and puppies and whatever other animal people brought into her vet clinic, but Claire knew that Leta would never hurt her. Leta would never cheat on her with some redheaded Ms. Lockhart, who painted her house bright pink and volunteered at the homeless shelter and kept an extensive collection of whips in her closet. Claire had never been good with whips. (The Faceless Old Woman hadn't told Claire about the whips; Savannah had, while Claire threw Savannah's things out onto the sidewalk and they both screamed that they'd never loved the other anyway. Claire regretted the scene now, partially because it had let the entire neighborhood know what had happened and partially because she didn't know what effect it had had on Savannah's daughter. Oh well. It had been five years ago. The kid was probably over it.

Funny that the kid probably was and Claire still wasn't.

Leta was Claire's world though. Claire loved the bright purple polish she always painted her toenails with. Claire loved every last strand of silky dark hair on Leta's head. Claire loved Leta's eyes, which were warm and dark like the bearskin rug that Claire used to sit on while her grandmother braided her hair into cornrows with designs that all the kids would compliment the next day. Leta was Claire's definition of safety and home, and Claire didn't want to risk that relationship for anything.

… Maybe that was why she needed to let Leta know that she was taking the relationship seriously. Maybe that was why she should say it.

Claire sighed. "Okay," she whispered.

All she heard in reply was a click as her radio was turned back on.