Not to spoil anything, but they will have a happy ending. Beware, though, that the definition of a happy ending is different for everyone.
Lana sat in front of her typewriter for hours like a tree. She had so much to say, and was so incompetent to put her thoughts into words; classic writer's block, the brunette sighed. Her legs tapped irregularly with frustration, and she inhaled cigarette smoke to the every cell of her lungs. The radio on her desk played Beethoven. The depressive, yet passionate music mirrored the inner world of Lana.
Ripping yet another sheet of paper off the typewriter, she groaned. So caught up with her own thoughts that she didn't realize when the blonde came into the room.
Mary placed a cup of coffee on the desk, the other hand gently placed onto the brunette's shoulder. Her blue eyes smiled when she saw the startled look on the journalist.
"I didn't know you were home," Lana mumbled.
The blonde nodded. "Things went smoothly today."
The blue eyes scanned the desk, which was covered with numerous crumpled notes. They stopped at the ashtray, and Mary raised brows at the number of cigarette butts.
Lana looked at the ashtray and the nun back and forth rather confusedly. "What?" she asked, while remaining in her chair.
"You smoke too much. You know they are harmful to your body, Lana."
The journalist let out a puff of air mockingly. "You smoke as much as I do." She rolled her eyes in such a way that the nun could see it.
"No I don't," Mary defended herself quickly, her voice remaining quiet and low. "The devil did. I don't smoke, Lana."
The older woman averted her eyes as she brought the cigarette to her mouth. It was awkward for both of them to talk about the devil, or rather their lives that no longer had the devil.
Sensing the silence between them, Mary sought another thing to talk about. Her eyes swam through the mess that was Lana's work room. The brunette wasn't one to care about tidiness. The things were never put away to where they came from, and God knows they had quarreled many times over something Lana couldn't find. Sighing quietly, Mary's eyes shifted to the woman in the chair. Her brows furrowed slightly at the sight of Lana's left forearm.
"You are writing on your skin again," Mary said in undertone, her fingers wrapped around the brunette's limb. The vast majority of the inner forearm was covered in black ink. The blonde's eyes traced the wiggly lines that only the journalist could decipher. "You will get ink poisoning, you know that."
However, Lana remained silent. Her face showed no sign of replying. In fact, she looked irritated. It was unfair for the nun, but her kindness only got on Lana's nerves. She was supposed to be living with her lover, not with her mother. The brunette sighed rather loudly and pulled her arm from Mary's grip. The other hand brought the cigarette to her lips yet again, and she exhaled the smoke to the typewriter and the blank paper.
"I need to be left alone, please," she asked while her eyes saw anything but the nun.
Mary opened her mouth to say something, but decided to against it. Once the brunette built a barrier, it was almost impossible to break it down. For a while she waited for the older woman to look at her, but Lana seemed preoccupied with the ashes on her lap. Dejected, the blonde walked out of the room, but she turned around at the door. Her hands griped on the edge of the wooden door as if to grasp a straw.
"Do you- do you want me to get you when the dinner is ready?"
Lana turned her head hesitantly, still trying to avoid eye contact. She contemplated on her options; it would be a lie to say she wasn't hungry, but having dinner with the nun meant having to listen to her prayer. It was definitely a habit the brunette could never get used to.
"I'm really busy right now, so I'll pass. Sorry."
Mary gave her a nod in understanding, though looking disappointed. "Ok," she uttered before disappearing to the kitchen in order to prepare dinner for one.
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A couple hours later, Lana rubbed her eyes and finally stood up from her beloved chair. Her brain didn't speak to her at all as opposed to her stomach, which wouldn't stop complaining. She might as well satisfy her hunger and maybe drink ten more cups of coffee.
Walking into the kitchen, she noticed the blonde on the living room couch. Her golden hair was wet after a shower, and she was reading in her newly purchased pajamas. The baby blue eyes moved to the brunette, who stood sheepishly by the fridge.
"Hi," Mary offered her a genuine, warm smile.
"Hi," Lana replied, but her version of a smile was visibly forced. "I was going to eat something." Her nails scratched the scalp under the brown hair in discomfort.
The nun jumped off the couch and waltzed to the woman. "I made alfredo. Let me heat it up for you." She took out a tapper wear and fixed Lana a plate.
The brunette murmured a thank you while Mary put the plate in the microwave.
Failing to tolerate the silence beside the noise of the appliance, the blonde bit her lip nervously. She was very much aware of the tension between them, she might be naïve, but not stupid. It was apparent the journalist felt uncomfortable around her. She needs more time, the nun convinced herself silently.
"So how's your writing going?" the blonde asked hesitantly, trying to make a crack in the wall Lana had built.
The older woman sighed exasperatedly. "Terrible. Nothing is coming up. My words seem like the purest bullshit. Everything I try to put on paper just vanishes as soon as my fingers start trying. You'd wonder if the first book was a pure luck."
She let out all the frustration. She felt angry with herself, possible for more than one reason. Her writing was shitty for sure, and she had the nun to deal with on the other hand. The phrase 'when it rains, it pours" described her situation perfectly.
The blonde listened to her ramble patiently and sympathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that, Lana. But you are a talented writer. I know you are. Just because you can't write right now doesn't mean you are a bad writer. You shouldn't push yourself so hard. You know Lord has everything planned for us. Be patient and you'll find your words again."
Lana's eyes were filled with disbelief and repulsion. The speech started off endearing, and now the blonde was talking about Jesus Christ? Waves of rage rapidly surged from deep in her stomach, and before she could help it, Lana was baring her teeth.
"Fucking Christ, Mary. You can't help but make everything about Jesus, can you?" Her voice was horse from all the pent-up frustration. "What the fuck do you know about writing anyway? You are just an ordinary nun. All you're good at is talking to some dude that died centuries ago. I very much appreciate if you mind your own business."
In defense of Lana, this was how she argued with the devil. Both of them would try to drag each other down by provocation. It was their way of communication to be bitter over each other. Most of the times, the devil had the last word, but sometimes she let the brunette win. So it was practically woven into her instincts for Lana to act the way she'd done. Nonetheless, it was a huge mistake.
Mary was on the verge of crying, and tried her hardest to hide the tearful eyes from the other. Her white knuckles were shaking on the kitchen counter from desperately holding the dam. A single drop fell through her eyelashes and made a small puddle on the back of her hand.
Feeling a ridiculous amount of guilt, the brunette sought words of comfort. But her brain was as useless as ever, and before she could find any words, a loud beep of the microwave interrupted her thought.
The nun quickly took the plate out and handed it to the shorter woman, her eyes avoiding Lana's. She didn't say anything as she ran off, sniffing sounds echoing in the hallway.
Lana exhaled loudly. As guilty as she felt, she couldn't help feeling weird to see her tears. How many years ago was that she had seen Mary cry? It was only one time, when an inmate at Briarcliff threw his waste to her face. The brunette was no better than the shitty inmate for making the weak, young nun cry. And Lana felt even shittier for missing arguments with the devil at the same time.
