#my other recurring head canon is that Harge doesn't know how hard being the primary parent is

[hikelesbian]

57 & 169 for carol and Therese

#169 — “What a pretty sight.”

Here on AO3.

#57 — “Is that my shirt?”

She comes home late, having drawn the day out with Rindy as much as possible. The apartment is dark and silent except for the occasional sound of a car passing by outside, and Carol leaves her things laid on the back of the couch, steps out of her heels and makes her way to their bedroom.

There had been an early lunch with Rindy and then a day at the museum of natural history, with dinner to cap it off and even ice cream. But there had only been so long a young child could stay up, particularly after walking for such a large part of the day, and she’d finally dropped her off with Harge, said her goodbyes for the week, and gone home.

Now she slips into the bedroom, tries to avoid turning on the light and makes her way to the bathroom from memory. There she can turn on the light because it doesn’t fall directly on the bed, and it takes no time at all to remove make-up and shed clothes and put on pajamas, to walk over to the bed and turn down the covers and slip in.

Therese has slept through the entire thing because she hasn’t stirred, sound asleep on her stomach with a hand resting near her face, and Carol leans close, propped on an elbow, reaches out with her free hand and smiles and slips a hand under the hem of the shirt Therese wears, palm against the small of Therese’s back, warm from being curled under blankets.

“Is that my shirt?” Carol teases softly as her hand slides its way up, recognizing the flannel pajama top that’s just a bit too loose on Therese, and at that Therese stirs, breathes out a bit as Carol’s hand comes to rest fingers-splayed against her upper back.

“It’s warm,” Therese says thickly, her excuse, and Carol can’t argue with that, knows Therese and cold are two things that don’t go together. Therese turns over slowly, shirt and Carol still tangled, and Carol ends up with her hand just under Therese’s breast, moves it up just a little and finally sinks down onto the bed next to her.

“Can you help me develop the pictures tomorrow?” Carol asks, settling her head on Therese’s pillow, receives a sleepy hum in reply. She’d brought along some camera Therese had lent her, had only to point and click and wind the film and gotten a few good ones of Rindy, a mixture of candids and of her daughter standing next to exhibits she’d found interesting, asking to be photographed.

There had been one too that Carol’s sure will be her favorite, no matter if she’s got the timing wrong and her eyes closed or if Rindy’s looking the wrong way or blurry from a sudden movement—the one where she’d asked a passing woman to hold the camera, had freed up her hands and picked up Rindy, held her on her hip like normal and finally been in a picture with her.

Therese has yet to meet Rindy, really meet her, and so for now stories and pictures about visits will have to do, and the photos taken earlier today are all ones that Carol can’t wait to show her.