Maggie is used to fighting-it's a defense mechanism like no other.


Fighting

Fighting was almost as easy as breathing. At least to Maggie Sawyer. She could cut you down with words like few others. She could chalk fear and anxiety up to unbridled anger, fueling her tendencies to run and self-destruct. It was a pattern. One that protected her time and time again. Except...well, now.

It starts when she rushes out on Valentine's Day, angry and appalled and utterly wrecked (and so, so very hurt, if she would let herself truly feel, let herself dig deep enough, let herself listen to her pain and her past). And she gets that she's mad. After all, she told Alex she hated Valentine's Day. Not the full story, but couldn't Alex just accept that? It's obvious...at least to her.

Except it isn't, or it isn't to Alex. And after she tells her the full story and storms off, Alex gives her space. Space until Maggie sets up her surprise. Space, at least mental space, until they get home and into comfortable clothes and are lounging on the couch. Space. Something she isn't sure she has ever really gotten, at least not without screaming that she needs it. And Alex apologizes, profusely, for pushing Maggie, for not just listening, not just knowing. Enough so that Maggie has to jump in and reassure Alex that she shouldn't have just "known." Alex goes on to explain that she had thought it was the "commercial-ness" of it all, never anticipating what bad memories laid underneath.

"Not everyone expects trauma, but you know me," she tries to joke. It falls flat.

"You can feel what you feel." Alex grabs her hands gently. "Didn't you tell me that?...repeatedly," Alex sighs in faux exasperation.

And the relief Maggie feels? She doesn't know how she went even a fraction of their time apart not acknowledging the agony that is fighting with her girlfriend.

It happens again when they argue over kids. Except this time, Maggie knows. Maggie knows that fighting with Alex is torture—she doesn't think there's another world to describe the fear and pain and anger and loneliness that screaming matches with her fiance do to her. She doesn't know how else to describe how deep tear-laiden confessions and quiet words slash her soul. She wishes there was a better word. But she can't find one.

They're on the brink of calling it quits, their relationship that is, the screaming match and quiet words combining to make the blows even worse.

But her brain somehow finds a way to breach her carefully mastered security, forcing words to fall and tumble out of her mouth without the proper go-ahead, the proper protocol. "I hate fighting with you," she whispers. It's quiet, so quiet, but by some miracle, Alex hears her. And Alex's shoulders slump. And Alex sniffles. And Alex looks at her with fresh tears in her eyes, with heady understanding.

"I hate fighting with you, too."

And somehow? Somehow Maggie knows that now they can stop arguing. Now, they can talk. Now, they can plan. Now, they will be okay. Now, they can work it out (and without a doubt, they do).

But it isn't until later, much later, that Maggie realizes that she doesn't just hate arguing with Alex over the big things; she hates becoming frustrated and upset over the little things, too. When her and Alex argue over who was supposed to take the garbage out because now it's another week until they can get rid of the smelly, grimy leftovers. When they argue over a case because it's two a.m. and they're too old for this shit and can't a case just be open and shut for once in their lives? The little things, the silly things, that aren't even real arguments most of the time, they bother her, too.

And the old Maggie would have panicked. Would have fought louder and harder. Would have turned the displeasure into a full-on debate. She would have run, she would have hid. She would have come up with excuses, excuses to leave, all because of fear. She would have been utterly terrified to find out how attached she is to Alex, how much she relies on Alex, how much she needs Alex and wants Alex.

But the new Maggie? This new Maggie who has been evolving, ever so slightly, ever since she has had unconditional love and tender affection and is practicing more self-care and has ride-or-die family and friends for life and isn't locking down all her feelings? This Maggie knows that love isn't a bad thing. It isn't weakness or a disaster in the making. This Maggie knows she can speak to her wife, her best friend, her confidant and work through her fears. This Maggie knows that she is strong enough to be vulnerable. This Maggie is going to be okay.


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