Sawyer flicks the TV on and, seeing Cabaret is showing on one of those late-night film channels, settles back into Natasha. Soon enough, Natasha feels Sawyer's body get heavier and heavier against her. Her eyes are closed, lips slightly parted.
"Sawyer, Sawyer," Natasha whispers, "it's time to go to bed."
"Carry me?" Sawyer whines.
"No, love, I can't carry you."
Sawyer pleads, "Come on, you've got that wiry yoga bod. Give it a go!"
Natasha chuckles, "I'm not putting my back out for you, get up."
Sawyer grunts, but obediently gets to her feet. Natasha leads her by the hand to the bedroom and unzips the back of her dress for her. When Sawyer steps out of it, Natasha carefully lays it on the chair next to Sawyer's dressing table, and Sawyer starts rolling her Spanx down. It seems to be a lengthy process, and Natasha is dismayed by the red marks it leaves across her stomach as it swells back to its usual shape. Natasha immediately bends to kiss the angry lines criss-crossing Sawyer's tender skin.
They roll into bed, and Sawyer lets Natasha snuggle in behind her. She’s quiet for a few minutes and Natasha is glad of it, staring at the wall in the dark.
“Natasha?” Sawyer’s voice is small.
“Yes?” Natasha rubs her thumb over Sawyer’s hip.
Sawyer waits a minute or so before replying, “Are you proud of me? Did I do good?”
Natasha grimaces into Sawyer’s hair. She wishes she could unlock her jaw and tell Sawyer how she feels. Her is so tense, surely it will snap if she forces it open. Her head swarms with words and she can’t think straight.
“I’m very proud, Sawyer. You did so well. You’re so good.”
Sawyer seems to fold in on herself. Natasha feels the back of Sawyer’s knees peel away from Natasha’s kneecaps like tectonic plates. There’s a couple of choked off breaths followed by an unmistakable whimper into the pillow.
“Hey, hey,” Natasha says soothingly as Sawyer snuffles. “Sawyer, hey,” She slips her hands away from their usual places around Sawyer’s breasts and squeezes her hard around the middle instead.
“Sawyer,” Natasha whispers into her back, unsure where she’s going with this, “I can’t tell you how much I adore you. Before you, my life was all about maintenance, and maintenance was all about routine, repetition and fucking touching my lucky brick on my way into work. You’re so brilliant, the way you stomp and take up space and carry that pink toolbox and tap-dance in the street, and tell people how you feel,” Natasha can’t shut herself up now she’s started, “You take such pride in what you do, and you make me want to do the same. No one has ever, ever made me feel as loved and as seen as you do. And honestly fuck anyone who thinks you are anything less than - less than…” Natasha finally runs out of steam, face hot in the dark, “anything less than the fucking wonder that you are.”
Natasha feels hot tears prickle in her own eyes. She squeezes them shut to stop them from falling.
“I’m just being silly,” Sawyer sniffles, “I tell myself all the time that I’m proud of myself, that I deserve everything I’ve worked for and that I’m not a fraud. But sometimes you need to hear it from someone else. It’s stupid really, I should know how to stand on my own two feet by now.”
Natasha kisses the back of her head. "It's not that simple," she breathes.
Sawyer draws a shaky breath to speak again. “For the record, no one has ever made me feel as loved or as seen as you, either. The way you look at me sometimes, Nat. The way you look at me- ” Sawyer’s voice breaks. She tries again, “You remember the day we went to the esplanade and I took a book, Americanah, and you got cold? And you went for a jog to buy yourself a scarf?”
“Yeah,” says Natasha.
“I honestly think that was one of the happiest days that I can remember,” Sawyer whispers.
Natasha squeezes Sawyer hard.
“Can we put a podcast on? I still feel too wired to sleep,” says Sawyer.
“Sure, which?”
“There’s a Broadway themed one called Notes From The Stalls that I like.” Sawyer’s voice sounds a bit less reedy now, a bit more in control of herself.
Natasha finds it and presses play on her phone.
“Hi! This is Maris and Jemma with a J!”
Two cheerful voices fill the room, one with a strong New York accent and the other with a breathy, dreamy quality that Natasha imagines could lull you to sleep very effectively.
“So today we’re talking about Kevin Spacey, and whether theatre has as much of a problem of sexual- ”
Sawyer groans and seems to shrink down into the mattress. “Not that. Not now, not today. Put another one on.”
Natasha selects the next episode.
“This is Jemma and- ”
“Maris!”
“Hello! Yes, hello”
“Today we’re talking about nostalgia.”
“Ooh!”
“Ooh indeed. So, to what extent does nostalgia play a part in what audiences are buying tickets for? And is the effect more evident in times of strife and unrest? Jemma, what do you think?”
“Well, there’s famously Wicked, which retells the Wizard of Oz -”
“But is it nostalgic though? Because Wicked actually challenges what we already know? It doesn’t allow us to simply return to that childish place. Look
