#tjlc codes used liberally in story lol

[moodywritesmoody]

Stella and Sally see Tchaikovsky

I guess this will have to do instead of mass dropping 13 chapters of fic. I’ll trauma dump in the author notes as I post bit by bit over the next year instead. Assuming no asteroids hit or aliens announce global rulership… and even then I’ll prolly still post.

Life of a shrine rat

[moodywritesmoody]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48304663/chapters/125024356#workskin

Chapter 8(?) Snippet:

Their flat was dim and moody, since they’d put off buying light bulbs for quite a while. There was the floor lamp over Sally’s head, still alive because she liked to read in her armchair long after Stella had gone to bed. Then there was the dining table lamp, which they both used to look over their papers when work spilled over.

Instead of the blue glow of the television, Stella had prepared the fireplace, and it burned quietly in their tidy rooms. They were both immediately aware, when they first moved in, that they’d landed a prime spot. The old details of the mouldings and wainscoting, the herringbone floors and light fixtures taken right out of an art nouveau catalogue, had done most of the heavy lifting for them. The two of them, in turn, tried to be worthy patrons of the place. They were a little chaotic, but between their books and pillows and mismatched mugs, as well as part abandoned art supplies; they did alright.

Stella had an electric guitar that gathered dust by the living room window; it was purple with stickers all over it and it leaned precariously on a small amp. She’d maybe plucked at it once since they’d made this house home. But sitting together, feet to the fire, croaking out story after story – that was their ritual.

“So then Druid pulls Gran onto the dance floor and, I kid you not, they both start doing some choreographed dance to this Russian song. Whole time I was just keen to leave this surprise after party.” Sally’s description of events had gradually but steadily gone from weird and concerning to hilarious. By Stella’s estimation she’d had quite a good time, even if she wouldn’t admit it outright. Stella was laughing along, but her chest felt weirdly tight. She kept stretching her arms to ease a nagging feeling of constriction.

“Druid is the tall one with the piercing, yeah?”

“That one. I could never pull off a piercing like that.”

“Really? You know actually, I always thought you could rock a nose ring really well.” Stella said.

Sally gave her a confused look, licking the remaining crumbs of baklava on her fingers.

“I mean, I don’t really remember why, I guess I’ve just had the passing thought once that you might…” she couldn’t think of a way to save the sentence so she abandoned it.

“Anyway, does this mean you’ll be spending more… quality time… with your Gran. Enjoying street parties and generally obstructing the law?” Stella asked, she cast a curious glance over her steepled fingers.

It was odd: Stella found herself truly hoping the answer was yes. She wanted nothing more than for Sally to finally venture out of the flat again, so Stella couldn’t help but eye any new opportunity with a mixture of hope and suspicion. And Sally was strong, very strong, but wounded. She was like a fireball: an icy fireball, she embodied the impossibility; duality at its best.

Chill it then light it on fire, and then watch as everything melts: such was the Donovan MO. She really just wanted to see her get out and raise some hell again - even if it was with cool looking people who had cool aliases and colourful stories, and not Stella.

For a silly moment she considered saying something to really piss Sally off so she could feel the prickling chill and the sizzling burn that sprouted with the attention of her withering gaze. It was a look that sized you up, weighed you, and tossed you aside; and then awaited your gratitude. But she didn’t actually want to piss Sally off, so that was a bust. She’d have to settle for some better shameless attention seeking ploy.

Fuck.

Jealousy, that was the weird squashy feeling in her chest, she recognised it with a mute disappointment. She supposed it was only natural; she’d get over it soon enough. And seeing Sally at the end of the day was enough; how much was really changing?

And what’s my face doing right now?

“Nobody recognized you, then? As ex-police?” Stella prompted on, it was past her bedtime but she was far too awake.

“I don’t think so,” Sally drummed her chin with three long fingers, as she did when she felt uncertain - one of these days, Stella might point it out to her. Actually, if she did that Sally might become self conscious and avoid it. “I mean out of Uniform it's probably hard to tell.”

“Right.”

“And I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only one, just statistically, but it still feels a bit, you know..”

“Like a dirty secret.” Stella interpreted.

Sally said, exactly, with her eyes.

And then there was a long quiet moment where Sally fixed her with a look, and they both waited for the words to proceed. Even the fire was nearly mute.

“What?” Stella asked before she got too warm in the cheeks and had to look somewhere else. It was so dumb, wanting to make herself a spectacle but then immediately wanting to duck out and hide at the slightest brush of attention from those eyes. She was in her thirties for god’s sake. She identified as grown/jaded.

“I just…” And Sally paused again, conflict drawing itself in deep lines on her brow, “I wish you could have been there, Stell. You’d have loved it.”

Those were the words that did it, in a second the heavy feeling in her chest evaporated. A Millstone lifted off a feather; she wasn’t quite sure she wouldn’t float away. As usual, she avoided the train of thought that would lead her to… somewhere. Nowhere, since there was nothing.

“You think so?” She croaked, it was all that sugar probably, she scrutinised the baklava on her plate because she knew her eyes couldn’t be trusted with sensitive information.

When she did risk a glance at Sally’s face, Sally had looked away, but ...only just. Casually looking at the wine glasses on the coffee table between them. Casualness that was imperfect, slowed by the booze and betrayed by the wideness of the eyes; casualness that had no business making Stella’s heart race over an invisible starting line. But it was a false start; the runners had to stop and return to the line.

…

((Uh oh someone needs to do some reflection))