Betty's hair is tousled on the pillow next to you in the morning. She's sweet when she's asleep, face relaxed and eyebrows loose but last night you had her trembling. It doesn't seem quite real now, until you notice the marks the lipstick you wore out of the theater had left on her throat. You want to trace the lines of her face, lines that are new to you but seem fitting on this grown-up responsible (partially) for a young child. You'd never thought of Betty as a mother before this week but she's such a natural. You worry, for a moment, that you can't give her a child like Gladys did, but brush that thought away along with a few stray hairs sticking to her lips.

Time doesn't really exist here with Betty; it's an uninvited stranger, it's a non-entity and you'd be happy if it never became reality ever again so you could just share this large hotel bed with her forever.

You know you can't. She stretches, shifts closer, and rests her head sleepily on your shoulder, contented smile on her face.

"I thought about you and Gladys, like this," you say nervously, because you know that's not a normal thing to say. Her hair, when you run your fingers through it, is finer than you remember. Softer, darker. Her skin is so soft that you start remember why you chose to dance with Betty rather than Gladys most of the time. You remember thinking you should be wishing she was a boy, but you never could bring yourself to wish her different.

"We were never like this," Betty reminds you, pressing her lips to your clavicle.

You roll over, lean on your elbows so you can watch her face. Her hand rises from under the sheets; she's always been comfortable with her own nudity in a way that you were jealous of.

Her hands rests on your back, follows the line of a scar down to your waist. She props herself up on an elbow to get a better look and offers you a view you'd waited years to come across again.

"You've healed well," she says finally, fingers still tracing across your back, down your spine, until she catches your gaze. She chuckles but doesn't clasp the sheet to her chest. She's so... unashamed. Of who she is, of who she is with you. You bring your hand to her face, cup her cheek and run your thumb along the bottom of an eye socket that you're strangely familiar with.

"It took a long time," you tell her, because you're not just talking about the scars your father left on your body. The ones left in your mind were deeper, more ruthless. And you can tell, when you look at Betty as she nods, that she knows exactly what you're talking about. Her hand comes to a stop at the back of your neck, and she leans up to kiss you.

"I'm so proud of you," she says finally, getting her breath back.

"You were always fighting for me," you remind her. "I never had anyone think I was worth standing up for." The look on her face tells you that this isn't new information for her, and that she always thought you were worth every bloodied knuckle, every bruised eye.

"Well, some things are worth fighting for," she says, and skims her hand from one shoulder to the other, so she can hold you against her.

"I wanted to come back, but it felt like every time I came near you, I tore your life apart. And that tore me apart. It made sense at the time," you say, shaking your head.

"My life was always better with you in it. You know what got me through prison?" You shake your head, because you're still ashamed that you didn't try harder to get her out of there. "The thought of you, and your mother, without that man. Every thing I did, it was worth it. And it led to this so..." she shrugs, kisses you again and smiles. "Completely worth it."

"Do you have anywhere to be today?" You ask a little timidly. She's a mother now, and she probably still works. You never asked; you were shut down into just getting through your interactions with her without cracking at the seams.

"No post on Sundays," she says, smiling cryptically, and kisses you again.

Author's note:

#shut

#no shut

#end

#exit

#wr. Two more chapters. Maybe. No post on Sundays.