#larsh

Inktober day 4. Old character

Megan protests, “I mean, I am a trained assassin, Liz, I’m pretty sure I can handle a few nightmares.”  

-or-

The five times Megan had a nightmare and Liz comforted her and the one time Megan was there to comfort Liz.

I am in love with these two and I’m not even sorry! There needs to be more fics for this pairing and the fandom needs to be bigger! Let’s go people, let’s make it happen!

Send me a ☁ for a thought my muse has had about yours.

“Hey!” Megan says cheerfully, her voice pitched loud like it always is, is like she wants everyone to hear what a great time she’s having. Liz is only just now starting to get used to it, to the heads that automatically turn in their direction, whenever Megan starts speaking. “Can you believe Mr. Burel’s class today? All those poems are like,” she makes a face, shaking her head, “so ridiculous.”

Rather than sitting across from her at the lunch table, which Liz feels like any normal person would do, Megan drops onto the bench right beside her, sliding easily into her space, the way she’s gotten into the habit of doing recently. At home, when it’s just the two of them. When it makes perfect sense for Megan to pull her chair up closer to Liz’s when they do homework at the kitchen table, or for her to sit half in Liz’s lap while they watch a movie. Or when she holds her hand while they drive, when it’s the two of them and easy and effortless.

And when Megan absently reaches for her hand, Liz can’t help but pull away, the movement quick and instinctive. There are people looking…people taking in their closeness and Megan’s easy closeness.

This thing between them isn’t necessarily new. Liz would be lying to say that it was, to say that kissing Megan and being close to her and snuggling against her side or burrowing under the same blanket while watching a movie is new and sudden but it’s not something they’ve ever thought to explore at school and Liz can feel the eyes in their direction and her throat suddenly feels tight and she puts her hand in her lap before Megan’s fingers can tangle with hers.

Megan looks crestfallen but doesn’t say anything, looking down at the tray of food in front of her like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

And that’s when Liz realizes that the tightness in her throat might have more to do with the sudden loss of contact between the two of them.

And that she doesn’t care nearly as much about the eyes on her as she cares about the shadowy sadness that has suddenly darkened Megan’s eyes.

And so, Liz inches closer, erasing the distance between them once more. She presses herself against Megan’s side, kissing her cheek briefly, before stealing a fry from her lunch tray. “I know,” she says, “I hate poetry.”