#sharah

Karusar knows her girlfriend is having a rough day because she hasn't heard from saer in almost forty hours.

Not that Sharah is exactly the most communicative of people otherwise, sae is still getting used to there being someone in saer life to reach out to besides saer therapist.

The rough knuckles of Karusar's leather gloves collide with the door as she knocks, waits a few seconds to hear an objection, then uses her key to enter the apartment.

It's a studio, spartan to the extreme, and the lump beneath covers on the bed spells out exactly where Sharah's been holding up.

"Hey." Karusar's voice is low, rough, a rumble in her chest that she tries to make soothing instead of intimidating. The hidden lump barely stirs. "Tell me if you want me to leave, otherwise, I'm making you soup."

She walks up to the bed, unzips her jacket and lets it fall to splay across the bedspread. Underneath, all she has on is a tightly fitted t-shirt, one that shows off the muscles she's proud of and the tits she hates.

Her gloves come off, too, dropped just as easily, and then she's striding into the kitchen, setting up a pot to simmer the stock she's poured inside and cutting vegetables with the dull knife in Sharah's drawer.

"You don't have to do this." The voice comes muffled, sulking, from under the blanket.

Karusar pauses in her carrot-cutting to look over her shoulder, long ponytail of red hair bouncing from the motion, and cracks half a smile to replace her scowl when she sees the jacket's out of sight, pulled under the comforter to join saer. "No, I don't. Yet, here I fucking am."

There's no more talking as she cooks, which Karusar doesn't mind.

She loves that about her and Sharah; it's good to have a partner who can share the silence with her.

By the time the soup is ready, distributed into bowls and carried over to the bed, Sharah is sitting up, Karusar's jacket on saer lap.

Sae looks like shit, frankly. Bags under saer eyes make it obvious how poorly sae've been sleeping, and saer black hair hasn't seen a brush in days, a shower in almost a week.

They sit together, eat together, and it's only when Sharah's almost polished off her first bowl that sae asks, "Isn't it supposed to be one of your sisters' day?" Sae pauses, face screwing up, sightless eyes narrowing as sae considers. "Ana, I think. Her day fronting in the body?"

"Yeah." Karusar gets up, fills Sharah another bowl, and this time she presses her lips to saer temple once she sits. "We'll adjust. They understand you need me."

Something dark crosses over saer expression, and Karusar doesn't have to be a mind reader to know what sae's thinking.

'I shouldn't need you.' 'You don't have to take care of me.' 'Don't let me become a burden to you.'

The same internalized ableist bullshit sae's been fighting all saer life now.

Still, Frequency's sessions must be helping, because sae doesn't vocalize any of it. Instead, sae makes the effort to smile up at Karusar. "Thanks." Sharah's hand finds Karusar's with a minimum of searching, and gives it a squeeze.

"Your mom call again?" Karusar asks, leaning in close enough to rest her head on saer shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Once again, give me the word, and I'll ram my car into her front door."

"Tempting, but no. Don't want you ending up in prison."

"Again."

"Again?"

"Long story."

Together, girl and demigirl spoke softly and held to each other.