Work Text:
The wine glasses clink against the counter as Susan retrieves them. They’re about to drain the bottle and it’s still not enough to put her down, to put her to sleep without the urge to turn this into something more. She can’t—not with her—not with a—she can’t. Talia is sleeping here tonight, and between them there is the invitation, loud and clear; you don’t have to be a telepath to see what lurks underneath the facade of innocence.
Oh, that’s the problem. It’s all too innocent, and terrifyingly so. It’s a facade because they both want it, but at the same time there is no facade, the pretense has fallen like a kingdom, and Susan has never been allowed anything this enchanting, quite this beautiful. She wants to touch Talia, hands bare, against all better judgement. She wants to touch Talia, entirely bare, stripped down to bone-essence, where anything goes in the mindscape, where two minds can bleed into one and Susan won’t be able to keep the roof over her vulnerability from getting sucked up into the whirl. She wants to touch, wants this, desires everything that, by nature, she simply is not allowed to have.
She could have it, if she wanted to. She could touch Talia, if she wanted to. She could give in. She could allow a hope to glisten through and form a sunlight she hasn’t seen in far too long. She could let the want translate into something deeper, unfold into meaning. But once you give something a physical form, once you name it and speak your desires into reality, they grow too powerful to be contained.
Susan takes a sip of wine, and she does not touch. She waits for Talia to reach out, waits, and waits.
