#ww2017

Normally Hecate indulges the nickname, for the reminder of happier times that it brings. Today it makes her flinch, and she can’t control it before Pippa notices.

“Of course, now that you are headmistress, perhaps childish nicknames won’t do.” She seems ashamed to have brought it up at all, which is the last thing Hecate wants. 

“It’s the title I find unnecessary, not the name, Pipsqueak. I didn’t ask for this. I never sought it out.”

Then Pippa is around the desk, always so bad at boundaries, at staying out of reach. She pats Hecate gently on the shoulder, and as though unlocking a safe that’s been a long time bewitched.

“No one would ever think that you did,” she reassures. “You know, it’s okay to cry. I’m sure you haven’t let yourself, because the school needs you. Your pupils need you.”

“Ada... needs me,” Hecate adds, but it’s the last crumbling brick in the wall of her self-control. She sobs, heartbroken at the lost of her friend, her most respected headmistress, her constant ever since arriving at Cackle’s. Nothing has made these past few weeks even close to bearable. No research, no spell, no quiet hour spent talking to an unhearing Ada at her beside. 

But now there’s Pippa, who smells like honeysuckle on a summer’s evening, who holds on as tightly to Hecate as though a tornado might sweep them up at any minute. Who murmurs platitudes, and mindless “there, there”s until the tears start to dry, and the lump in Hecate’s throat shrinks enough for her to swallow, to right herself and attempt to wipe away any evidence of letting go. 

“Now,” she starts over. “Are you here on official Pentangle’s business? Because if it’s about the Spelling Bee, I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone because Mildred-”

“Hecate.” Pippa has that terribly wounded look about her again, bottom lip stopping just short of a full-on pout. “Of course not. I came to check on you. To offer you... some comfort at a difficult time.”

“Oh?”

“And one brief cry doesn’t seem like comfort enough, quite frankly.” Pippa steps in close again, almost as though she’s still hugging Hecate. God, what an odious word, hugging. This time her arms don’t wrap around, bu the fingers on one hand are somehow caressing Hecate’s cheek, while the other reaches for the onyx pin that holds her tightly-wound hair in place.

“Pippa,” she whispers, afraid to shatter the new silence between them. “What are you doing?”

“What you wanted to do all those years ago, before you shut me out. I could see it in your face so plainly then, just like I do now. Dear, darling Hiccup... why did you never check to see if I was looking at you in just the same way?”

It’s hard to think for a moment, almost impossible to speak. Hecate swallows hard, like she’s been crying. Her hair falls in slow motion, from tension to flowing curls with a twist of Pippa’s hand. Then she’s tugging on the watch Hecate wears around her neck, pulling her impossibly close. 

“Uh... were you? I mean... are you?”

“Look at me,” Pippa commands, her thumb dragging softly over Hecate’s cheekbone. She risks a glance, before squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “I asked you to look,” Pippa says, and there’s no resisting now. 

Hecate looks.

Not for long. Just enough for the part of her screaming internally for more, for Pippa to follow through as Hecate never could, to be satisfied by the pressure of Pippa’s lips against her own. Hecate sighs into the kiss, or maybe it’s the ghost of another sob, but when she gets to hold Pippa in return, there’s a fierceness to her grip. At first it’s demure enough, equal pressure at her shoulderblades. But after a lifetime of emotional famine, Hecate is more than ready to feast.

“Not here,” Hecate gasps as Pippa backs her against Ada’s desk--the headmistress’s desk--no, her desk. This will not be her first official act as head, to defile the furniture in her office. Spiriting them to her bedroom is another matter entirely, even in the middle of the school day where anyone might need the Head’s advice or intervention.

But Hecate is tired of being good, of being exceptional, and rigorous, and right. The satisfaction of a rule followed, it transpires, competes quite poorly with the sensation of her first love kissing fierce trails down her neck. 

“Here, then,” Pippa decides, pulling away just long enough to properly survey their surroundings. The modest single bed, the school-issue linens, they seem suddenly insufficient for purpose. It would be the work of a second for Pippa to wave her modern magic and transform the scene into something from a romance, but Hecate decides two can play at that game.

“Well...” Pippa says a moment later. “Four poster? You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Before Hecate can respond, their dresses are magicked into a messy pile of pink and black in the corner. 

“We really do both have schools to run,” Hecate offers in weak protest before the kissing begins again in earnest. In just her underwear - simple, black - and undone hair, she feels outstripped once more by Pippa in what can only be called lingerie. The lacy, champagne-coloured kind that makes Hecate’s fingers eager to touch.

“School can wait,” Pippa assures her, and it sounds like the years and all their missed chances falling away. “But I can’t.”