complexfemalecharacter | (no subject)

Nights like this one are actually really nice.

Maeve isn't sure where Rue is, but she and Steve have the flat to themselves, and while they had more than taken advantage of that fact a little earlier in some ways that involved very little clothing, now they're both on the couch in front of the TV. Some movie is on, something unfamiliar to Maeve, but Steve is never offended when she picks up a book and reads instead, which she does now.

Dressed in a comfortably loose pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt she's commandeered from Steve's collection, Maeve is reclined on the couch, her head on Steve's thigh as she reads.

It's fairly domestic, something Maeve never would have imagined she would like. But then, she'd never been with Steve before Darrow.

Classes are done for the semester, she's picked up a few extra shifts at New Leaf, and she gets to spend more time with him for the rest of the summer until classes start up again in September. This is the life Maeve knows she never would have been able to have in Moordale, stuck with her reputation, her lack of income, the judgment of the teachers around her.

She needed to get out and now she has.

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Maeve thinks about warning Steve, telling not to ask the question she thinks he's about to ask, because there's no taking it back, but it's said before she even has the chance. She grows still beside him, very still, her body clutched under fingers gripping the spine so hard her knuckles start to turn white.

"That isn't a fair question at all," she says. "It feels like a trap. You know I've already had an abortion, you know I don't want to be a mother, and you're asking me about something that will likely never happen, some hypothetical maybe, knowing the answer is only going to make you feel worse. I'm not playing that."

For the first time tonight, she's angry, but at least she's mostly taking it out on the book. The pages are so bent now she's sure they'll be impossible to flatten out again.

Her obvious ire isn’t really surprising, but Steve doesn’t really think that the question is unfair. It’s a difficult question, to be sure, but he thinks that he has the right to ask it. He deserves to know all the facts, doesn’t he?

Or maybe she’s right. But it’s not an impossible scenario. It happens to people all the time. But hey, she answered the question, however indirectly, and she was right. He feels so much worse.

And now suddenly he’s angry, even though he knows it isn’t rational, and he shouldn’t be mad at her. But she’s changed the entire vision he’s had for his future, and he’s just trying to process it as best he can.

“I wasn’t trying to trap you. I just wanted to know,” Steve says in a carefully quiet sort of tone, lowering his hands to tip his head back and sigh. Now he’s just made everything worse, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“I’m gonna go,” he says as he stands up, dragging his fingers through his hair before picking up his phone from the coffee table. “If I stay, I’ll just say more stupid shit. I need— I gotta just go, okay?”

She wants to spit back at him that he already knew. In fact, he's one of the few people in this place who already knows how she has responded to that very scenario in the past. It's a secret she let him have, scared as she was about it, worried it would change how he felt about her, and now here they are.

And it's changing how he feels about her.

"I said that's okay," she says, still twisting the book between her hands. "It's probably better right now."

Honestly, she thinks she needs to be alone, too. She feels dangerously close to tears and she is not going to let herself cry in front of him over any of this.

Maeve doesn't even look at him, and Steve wonders if maybe he ruined this. Maybe she'll realize that he isn't worth the trouble. Or maybe it will be fine. He thinks the chances of that are higher if they both get a little space right now.

"Okay," he breathes out, pausing in front of her and then leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, murmuring quietly. "I love you."

It feels important to remind her of that, because nothing that's happened tonight changes that in the slightest. After kissing the top of her head, he straightens up and heads for the front door, picking up his backpack with a sigh.

"I love you," she echoes softly, although she still can't look at him, still keeps her gaze focused on the book in her hands. Her eyes feel hot and dry, probably from keeping them open so wide in an attempt not to cry, and when the door closes behind him, Maeve finally allows herself to blink.

The tears come quick and silent and she brushes her face with the back of her hand. The TV is still on and Maeve jabs at the remote control to turn it off, wanting to shut off the stupid sound of revving car engines.

The silence is worse, but there's not much else she can do.