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it starts when Samira’s dad dies.

And when she has to move.

And when she gets thrust into a new school feeling much smaller than her thirteen-year-old body is, everything bigger, everything sharper, a little more painful than it should be.

And when she’s buddied up with some tiny, dark-haired girl with a wicked grin and colourful hoodie that she never seems to take off.

Emery Walsh, at nearly fourteen-years-of-age, is downright feral. With four brothers (three older, one younger, a twin), nobody’s really surprised at the way she acts. She behaves like every other Walsh child, sporty and loud and rough but insanely clever.

That, and unbelievably kind.

Samira needs a gentler touch, Emery realises pretty quick. She doesn’t play sports or talk very loudly, hell, she looks terrified of everything half of the time, so she’s going to have to switch up her game.

She drags Samira to her soccer practice, makes her sit in the bleachers to watch her, doesn’t care that she sits up on the cold metal and does her homework until Emery’s all dirty and sweaty.

It gives her somewhere to be, where she’s safe and has someone to look out for her.

Samira has a hard time getting rid of Emery after that.

Emery walks Samira to the cafeteria and keeps people from cutting in line in front of them.

Emery walks Samira to her class and keeps the bullies away.

Emery even walks Samira home, though it’s in the opposite direction to her own.

Samira doesn’t know why Emery sticks to her the way she does, but she has to admit, it’s nice to have a friend.

They never really separate either.

They learn each other’s favourite films. Samira likes the Princess Bride. Emery likes Thirteen (even though it’s rated R and they’re not old enough to watch it). They’d fallen asleep countless times watching it on Emery’s brother’s shitty VHS.

Emery gets a pair of earbuds for her birthday and they listen together, a pod each. Emery likes heavy metal. Samira likes *NSYNC. They settle on Evanescence but Samira makes Emery learn the dances anyway.

Sometimes, Emery will follow Samira all the way home like a stray dog and crawl into bed with her, curling them together as if they were sheltering from a storm.

Sometimes, Samira does the same with Emery, cuddling into her chest in Emery’s bed as she sobs about her dad, even though he’s been gone for years now.

The Walsh’s become her second family.

Where she lost her father, she gains four brothers.

Where she had no peace at home, she gets her own corner to study and be left in comfortable silence.

Where her bed felt empty and alone, Emery’s is warm and comfortable in the strength of her best friend’s arms.

Emery’s mom always jokes she’s the sixth Walsh, the final girl in the family, a sentiment Samira always smiles at.

They make a pact when they’re fourteen, something dumb they’d thought up when Emery had somehow snuck a bottle of Smirnoff into a sleepover and they’d had it between them.

They were going to do everything together.

Go to the same schools, never marry, never have kids to bog them down, just be the greatest doctors in the world and die with sainthoods under their names. They would never be apart.

It lasts until their final year prom.

Samira’s known Emery was gay since they were fifteen.

She has no problem with it.

She’s been around Emery’s numerous girlfriends before, most of them annoying as fuck and always getting in the way of their plans, though they never last long.

But Sara H. from their economics class is easily the worst one she’s had by far.

Sara H always complains that Samira hangs around them like a bad smell and doesn’t she have anything better to do? something both Samira and Emery laugh at her for. Not really, is usually the answer.

Which is why Samira can’t comprehend how in the world Emery is going to prom with her.

It’s not really an argument. Not to begin with.

Samira curtly points out that they were supposed to be going together, reminds Emery that they’d got matching corsages just to laugh at all the other couples, hopes it’ll jog her memory.

but Emery simply shakes her head and sighs.

“Sorry, I’ve already asked her.”

Samira knows she shouldn’t be harsh, but Sara H, really?

“Do you even like her, Em?”

“Of course I do.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Go by myself?”

“No, I’m sure you could get a date. Hey, we could go as a double-“

“Forget it.”

She storms off before Emery can say anything else. She regrets it as quickly as she gets up, wants to turn around and say she’s sorry for being such a baby, but her legs are carrying her out of the canteen and across campus quicker than she can think.

It takes her a day to work up the courage to apologise but Sara H. beats her to it, storming up to her after lunch with a face like thunder.

“You’re such a fucking bitch, Mohan.”

She’s heard the rumour before, mostly from girls that watch Emery and Samira get changed in their phys ed locker room, heard them giggle when they think Samira and Emery are about to lez out in front of everyone.

I swear they’re glued to the hip.

Do they ever separate?

Haven’t you heard? Mohan and Walsh are totally scissor sisters.

Walsh maybe. Mohan’s totally into it though. Emery would do anything for her.

Emery always laughs before they can meet each other’s eyes. They both know how ridiculous it is, being in love with each other.

Samira’s not like that.

She’s not…

She’s straight.

She’s just not as good at flirting as Emery is.

Samira stands and lets Sara H chew her out on the field, listening to every venomous word with mild disinterest, secretly a little over the moon that Emery’s dumped this cow so they can go to prom together.

Still, she has to stand up for herself a little bit.

“I didn’t ask Emery to break up with you, Sara.”

“Of course you fucking did, I’m not stupid. Neither is she. Emery would do anything you want her to, and we all know why.”

“What?”

“Oh please, don’t act like you don’t know! Emery can never keep a girlfriend down because you hate them so much and she’ll do anything you say because she wants you to want her so fucking bad! It’s really amazing you haven’t fucked yet, everyone in the school thinks you’re already together anyway. It’s why you’re such a fucking prude with everyone else, Mohan, you think you’re above it all because Emery’s hung the fucking moon.”

Sara H. practically disappears before Samira can even process that.

Emery wants to fuck her.

Emery wants her to fuck her.

Did the whole school really think that?

Didn’t they all know she’s straight?

Fuck ‘em, she decides, she doesn’t need Emery. Doesn’t need matching corsages or some stupid dance they’d memorised to use on the dance floor.

No, what she needed was to make a fucking point.

She’d go to prom. She’d go with a date that was a boy and show everyone that Samira Mohan is completely and utterly straight.

The problem is, she doesn’t know any boys. She doesn’t really have any friends apart from Emery. There was never any need.

The only boys she does know all share the same unfortunate surname.

Walsh.

She should’ve, in hindsight, predicted that when asking one of Emery’s brothers to prom that it would’ve got back to her.

She can only ask one of them anyway.

Sonny is younger than Emery by twelve minutes, and the only one of her brothers that was still in the same level of school as them. He’s the only one eligible to go to their prom and as far as Samira knows, he doesn’t have a girl to take either.

She kisses him behind the gymnasium when he finally asks her, and hates it.

It’s not him, she knows that.

He’s a perfect gentleman about it, but it feels wrong.

He’s too tall, his hands are too big and his chin is scratchy where his beard was coming in.

He’s not…

He’s not right.

That’s where the argument really starts.

Emery corners her after school, having ignored her all day and only catching her now.

“My brother? Really? That’s how you’re taking it out on me?”

“I’m not taking anything out on you, Emery.”

“No? You haven’t spoken to me in days. I literally broke up with my girlfriend so you’d stop being pissy with me-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that!”

“You didn’t have to! You said you wanted to go together!”

“You could’ve said no! I would’ve been fine.”

“I did!” Emery points out indignantly. “And then you flounced off without another word and didn’t speak to me again! How fine is that?”

“You suggested a double date.”

“Which you easily could’ve gotten, I could’ve helped you-“

“I don’t need your fucking help, Em.”

She’s never spoken to her like that before. It’s not even often that Samira even swears but she’s angry, and upset and at this point, she’s just confused.

Emery looks much the same.

“I don’t need your help, Emery.” She manages a little calmer but she can still hear her voice trembling. “I can find my own date. I’m not your girlfriend.”

She’s not sure why she adds the last part. Maybe to make it hurt a little more, maybe to make Emery back off, but she’s not certain who of them it actually stings more.

Emery it must be, given the look on her face.

“I…I know you’re not…what the fuck, Sam?”

“I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Emery, so stop acting like I am!” She’s found where it hurts now, all she can do is twist. “I don’t need you to hold my fucking hand or get me a date or any of it. I don’t need you! I’m…I’m not like you.”

That lands on Emery like a slap to the face.

She’s never seen her best friend cry until now, not like this anyway. Once when Emery had dislocated her knee in a soccer game, but this is a different kind of crying.

This is a pure sob of heartbreak, hidden behind Emery’s rainbow coloured sleeve before bursting out in hot, teary rage.

“Fuck you! You’re just like everyone else. Fuck you! How the fuck can you say that?”

Samira immediately knows she’s gone too far, that she’s actually hurt Emery, but by the time she’s reaching out to say sorry and hold her close like they did when they were children, Emery shoves her away.

Hard enough to put her on her ass.

They look between each other, frightened and horrified, something changing between them, something breaking. Samira can’t find the words. And Emery can’t bear to look at her.

It was the last set of words they exchanged for nearly twenty years.

Sure, they saw each other around in their final days of school but never a word was exchanged, never a hand offered out.

Samira gets teased and pushed around, even now, even when they’re about to graduate. Emery watches it all, scowling and unhappy.

Whatever stubbornness they both possessed, it was playing for keeps now.

Samira skips out on prom in the end, leaves poor Sonny outside her door in the dark, pretending she’s not home. She sees the pictures on social media later, of Emery dancing with their classmates, with her arms thrown around their shoulders, enjoying the night without her.

Still, even after that, they don’t speak, only orbit around each other.

Emery takes her college acceptance letter without a word and Samira, having applied to the same school, withdraws her application with much the same fanfare.

She goes to a school in New York instead.

It’s strange to go and not be buddied up with some feral fourteen year old again, to not be dorming with some middle-school jocky kid who never took off her damn rainbow hoodie.

She felt thirteen again.

Much too small in a world that was much too big.

But she copes, mostly, without Emery.

She completes med-school, gets her degree, even manages a few heterosexual fumbles here and there.

Not enough to enjoy it, but enough that she gets off when she needs to. Enough to say she’s an adult now.

An adult who works at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre.

And she’s happy there on her own, really she is, but there’s always that little part of her that snips at the back of her mind, that reminds her of the drunken little scar on the palm of her hand when she’s doing a suture.

Of the promise she made to her friend.

It had been so long without Emery that Samira had almost forgotten what she looked like, bright features fading into a pale canvas of nothing, her laughter only an echo in the back of her head.

That was until her fourth month in the Pitt, and someone pages a surgery consult and it’s not Shen, or Ellis, or Shamsi or Garcia or anyone it’s-

It’s Emery.

Bold, fiery, fearless Emery Walsh.

Except this Emery Walsh is older and colder, sharper and taller.

This Emery Walsh wears her hair in a tight low bun instead of a messy ponytail and dark-blue scrubs instead of a brightly coloured hoodie. Her eyes are stern and steady, a far-cry from the teenager who had been so bright and so happy all the time.

The only thing that girl had left here were the crow’s feet marks at the corner of this replicant’s eyes.

This Emery Walsh carried years of pain on her and hid it well. The loss of her best friend, the shame and loathing afterwards, the death of her dad two years ago whose obit had been in the same paper Samira read.

Everything.

And it all pours into her expression when she sees Samira Mohan staring at her from across the Emergency Department.

All the pain, all the grief, the isolation, the longing, every memory they had together.

All suddenly standing no more than twenty feet away, looking back at her with wide eyes the same way they’d done then, when Emery had shoved her to the ground.

Frightened and confused.

Something is here with them, soft and slipping, a wound slowly being reopened.

Emery slams back through the doors and disappears down the hallway before anyone can stop her, forgetting all about the consult she’d been paged for.

She throws up into the first bathroom she finds, hands shaking as she gripped the rim of the bowl, shuddering through a sharp chill.

As much as she’d wanted to forget her, Samira Mohan’s face burns into her mind as surely as the bile that rises again in her throat.

Emily appears in that way that she does. Sudden and warm and disconcerting. Probably summoned by the giggles, of course.

Your stomach flips, but you keep your eyes trained on your daughter, sitting happily and babbling away in your lap.

“I thought I heard my favorite laugh,” she says from behind you, a smile that's so clear in her voice you can't help but smile too.

Charlotte, the traitor, reacts immediately. She turns to Emily, raising her little arms in a silent ask. Before you can even react, your boss has her lifted into her arms, breathing in her baby scent.

“Well, hi, sweet girl,” she murmurs in that voice she reserves only for Charlotte. “I didn't know you’d be here today.”

You turn to them, taking in the sight of Emily with your nine month old in her arms, hugging her to her chest. “My mom just dropped her off. She was worried my dad was about to get a cold and didn't want her near.”

Emily looks down at the baby, pouting sweetly, “oh, yes. That's no place for this perfect girl.”

You stand, about to gesture for your daughter back, knowing Emily has to get back to her office. However, she turns, murmuring all the while to Charlotte and starting to walk away.

“Let's go, honey. Your mommy has work to do.”

“Emily?” You call, frowning at her retreating form.

She turns only her face to look at you, “I'll keep her so you can go back to your duties.”

“I thought you had work to do,” you say, or sort of ask.

“I'm the boss, honey,” she calls back, already taking the steps up to her office. “I can do whatever I want.”

After a while of no word from them, and no hungry cries from Charlotte either, you make your way towards Emily's office. The door’s almost closed, but not quite, so you stick your head in.

The view that greets you is heartwarming — to say the least.

Emily is standing, swaying softly from side to side. Charlotte is held against her chest with one arm as the other holds up a file. The little girl's face is hidden in her neck, small fingers gripping the neckline of her silk blouse.

She turns. “Hey,” whispers. “She would cry every time I tried putting her down.”

You smile, “yeah, she does that.”

Emily leans her head on Charlotte’s for a mere second. It's so natural, the way she does it, as if the girl is anchoring her to a possibility she doesn't want to let go of.

“I can take her now,” you say, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. “I should relieve you of your babysitting duties.”

She shakes her head, “she's so comfortable.”

“I thought I’d take her home, if my boss allows it.”

Emily lays down her file, then shifts so she’s supporting the baby with two arms. Humming, “it is a Saturday, after all.”

You lean back against the door, “do you think my boss would like to come have dinner with us?”

The corner of her mouth tilts up in a soft smile, “I think she can be convinced.”

Dinner, of course, consists of Charlotte switching laps so you can both eat. After she finishes her own dinner of scrambled eggs and mashed up avocado, she whines to get out of her chair, wanting to be held constantly. You're better at eating one handed at this point, so you manage to finish most of your meal with her in your lap, until you try three times to get the last bits of pasta on your fork and fail, so Emily takes pity on you.

Emily stays as you bathe Charlotte, sitting on the closed toilet lid and watching as you kneel before the tub. You keep the conversation going, both of you not wanting it to end, which applies to the baby who babbles away as well, figuring she can be included in the subject.

It takes a little bit to put her to bed. You sit on the plush armchair in Charlotte’s room, breastfeeding her until she gets drowsy with sleep. Her late in the day nap was no match for how milk drunk she gets after a feed.

When you come back into the living room, Emily has poured the wine you had talked about earlier.

“I hope you don't mind I went looking into your cabinets,” she gestures to the wine glasses on the coffee table. You wave her off.

“You're a lifesaver.” Dropping on the couch, you immediately take a sip of your drink.

Emily smiles into her glass.

“Sorry I made you come in on a Saturday,” she says. “It seems I can’t do my job well without you.”

You smirk slightly, “I don’t recall you doing a lot of work.”

“I had a pretty girl to look after,” she counters lightly, scooting closer.

“Ah,” you nod. “Should I be worried?”

Emily tilts her head, “I don’t know.” She’s so close now, looking into your eyes like she can’t bear the thought of looking anywhere else. “Do you… have a reason to?”

You shrug a shoulder. She touches your nose with her own, pushing softly to the side. It’s silly, you almost giggle.

She interrupts your laugh by pressing her lips to yours.

Emily kisses like she does most things. Unhurried. Intentional.

She guides your face to where she wants it. She asks for permission with her tongue. It's deep yet it's not quick, she does it like she's learning you, and she does it until she runs out of air.

You're about to say something — maybe ask for it again — when a cry interrupts you. Emily smiles sweetly as you sigh in defeat, whispering you'll be right back.

Coming back with Charlotte in your arms, you ask if she can hold her while you get a bottle ready. Emily quickly puts her wine down and extends her arms, making grabbing motions, softening instantly when the girl cuddles up to her.

Sitting down on the couch, you hand her the bottle in a silent ask. Emily's eyes light up as she takes it from you.

“I thought you still breastfed her?” She guides the bottle to Charlotte's lips, who starts eating happily and relaxed, her little fingers wrapping around the plastic but not bothering to hold it.

“I do,” you say, relaxing back into your seat. You suddenly find yourself really tired. “But I keep milk frozen for when I want a drink.”

Emily nods, completely focused on the little girl's face.

“She doesn't usually wake up in the middle of the night anymore,” you murmur, watching intently as Emily caresses Charlotte's cheek ever so slightly, like she can't believe she's real. “I guess she wanted to hang out with you.”

She lifts her head, beaming as she looks at you. “I love hanging out with her.”

You hum, “just her?”

Grinning, she leans in to leave a peck on your cheek, “I guess you can stay, too.”