It gives you something to do as you wait for Victoria to arrive, though, which is what is important. You grow so absorbed in reading their blurbs, in fact, that you almost miss her arrival until it registers on your senses that she’s here. Frustration is leaking from her, although it’s tightly contained, bands of patience wrapped around it until you can only faintly sense it. Nervousness lies beneath it, a pool that almost makes your stomach drop; and finally, as she turns around the aisle and peeks down it, a warm, happy feeling that flushes away the lingering butterflies in your stomach and grounds you, just a little.
She looks a little disappointed when you turn to greet her, which is weird, but you dismiss it after a moment’s consideration. “Hi,” you say quietly instead, as you move towards the aisle to stand closer to her. “How did your… stuff go?”
Shrugging, she leans against the bookcase beside her. “It went alright,” she replies. Her tone is dismissive, but you can feel her frustration pushing at the boundaries of her patience. “Just had to do some stuff for Mom, is all.”
“Ah.” You want to ask for more details, but even without you inquiring further, you can feel her frustration building. It sets your teeth on edge a little. Quickly glancing over her, she doesn’t look injured—but then, she is Glory Girl. You’ve heard reports of her being injured before, but they’ve always been disputed. She has a forcefield, after all, and the only people to ever claim to have hurt her have always had an agenda. Still, she’s annoyed at something, so you cast around for something to distract her from whatever is angering her.
“We should go sit down,” you say eventually, casting a critical eye across the aisle you’re in. “I haven’t had much time to read lately, but I’ve read a bit more of those Harry Potter books you loaned me, and I have some questions. Like, are Ron and Hermione going to get together at some point, or is the author faking me out?”
As you talk, you take Victoria’s hand and begin to lead her through the aisles. She doesn’t resist at all today, although there’s still some hesitation in her movements for some reason. When you come to your usual table and pull up a seat, she doesn’t let go of your hand, and instead moves her chair close enough to yours that she can press your knees together while she holds her head.
Internally, you frown, although no trace of it shows up on your face. You hesitate for a moment, then reach out with your powers before quickly retracting them. Frustration is still leaking from her, but—somehow, it just doesn’t feel right to use your powers right now. At least, not to manipulate her emotions. You gently reach out with your power again, lightly grasping them.
It feels right to feel her emotions, at least.
As time passes and your conversation presses on through the topic of teen romances to questions of Dumbledore and his motives and on to questions about the setting, you continue to rub your thumb across Victoria’s knuckles. You’re not sure if it’s actually helping or not, but it’s certainly not hurting. Her frustration isn’t lessening, exactly, but it’s growing… fuzzier, somehow. Less present, although not any less strong.
You’re so distracted playing with her hand that you actually flinch when Victoria lets out an explosive sigh. The sight must have been noticeable, because she gives you an apologetic grimace. “Sorry,” she mutters.
“You’re fine,” you reply. You squeeze her hand a little tighter, giving her a small smile. Her frustration recedes a little at the sight, which makes your smile grow a little bigger. She answers it with her own small smile. “What’s wrong?”
You regret asking almost immediately as the smile falls off her face again and she lets out another morose sigh. “It’s nothing,” she mutters. You’re prepared for a spike of frustration, so when something heavier falls over her, you’re taken off-guard—a thin coating of something dark and smothering.
You shift in your chair, all talk of books forgotten. You wet your lips, but you can’t think of anything to say. Whatever her parents were fighting about must have been bad if it has her this upset. Thinking back, you can’t actually remember seeing Victoria like this before.
It’s not as though she’s angry, really. Yes, you can feel her frustration, but it’s tightly caged and barely leaking—and now coated by something darker, tasting slightly of worry, or depression. No, she’s not angry, but whatever she’s feeling, it’s clearly still bothering her.
So you shift your chair around further and slip your arm around her. She sinks into you with a grateful sigh, resting her head against your shoulder, and just—stays like that. It’s an uncomfortable position, as she’s almost as tall as you are, and you have to press yourself hard against the side of the chair in order to let her rest like that, but after a few minutes pass, you can feel the black curtain that had descended over her beginning to lift.
After about five minutes of sitting like that, you reach out with your arm and slip it around her chest, pulling her into a lopsided hug. She just burrows further into you, sighing.
For the first time in a while, you’re at a loss for what to say. You try to think of anything that could help—reassurances, questions, platitudes—but nothing comes to mind. She’s always been the talkative one between the two of you.
By the time Victoria shifts restlessly against you, you’ve been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes. Her emotions have mostly calmed down. The frustration she’s feeling has settled back down, only buzzing faintly between the bars of her patience, while the blackness that had descended over her has… not gone, exactly, but it’s become less oppressive.
“Feeling a bit better?” you murmur to her, squeezing her one last time before she begins to pull herself away from you.
She lets out an embarrassed laugh. You can feel that same embarrassment clawing its way through her, stomping over the nervousness, but it settles against the caged frustration after a moment. “A little bit. Thanks.” She pulls herself upright, subtly shifting herself to the side of her chair to gain a little bit of distance from you. A little pang of hurt shoots through you at the motion, though you quickly fight it down. The two of you fidget for a moment before she coughs quickly. “So, um. You were asking about the prison, I think?”
You leap gratefully back at the topic. “Yeah! So that’s obviously set-up for a fake out later, right? I think…”
The conversation doesn’t flow as naturally as it normally does. Both of your minds are clearly occupied—yours with the girl beside you, and hers with her fight with her parents. Still, as stilted as the conversation is, it’s something—at least she’s talking again, not merely curling up against you and shutting down.
You’re going to have to try and get her to talk. Somehow. Sometimes, you really wish you were better at talking.
Just talking to her about inane stuff in the books seems to help, at least. Tension eases from her frame after a few minutes as you interrogate her about the intricacies of the metaphor behind the Dementors of Azkaban, and she slowly settles back down into her chair, only moving away from you when somebody walks through the aisle behind the two of you. You miss the contact, but some of the sick feelings roiling around in your stomach ease when you see her finally smile again after questioning her about grindylows.
Eventually, Victoria lets out a small sound of surprise as she looks down at her phone. You look down at your own, and can’t help but give it a shocked look in turn when you see the time—nearly five o’clock already. It certainly hasn’t felt like you’ve been here for nearly five hours, although admittedly, much of your attention has been focused on the other girl.
The blonde girl looks over at you with a wry smile. Irritation and nervousness war for dominance through her core, leaving you feeling kind of shakey as the two of you stand. “It’s getting kind of late,” she says quietly. “Do you want me to fly you home, or do you have somewhere else to be?”
You shake your head in response. “I’d like a lift back, if you don’t mind,” you respond equally softly. “The bus won’t be here for another hour, and you’re prettier to look at anyway.”
“Flatterer.” But she smiles anyway. “Alright. Come on, I’ll fly you home.”
You lead her out past the service desk, where the bitter librarian from earlier looks up from her books to give Victoria a charming smile. You roll your eyes at her, muttering under your breath, and pick up your pace so you can be away from the woman quicker, hurrying on to the alley the two of you have unofficially claimed as yours.
And then, you are settled into her arms and she is lifting up off the ground, her pace slow and even.
Ordinarily, it’s a somewhat exhilarating feeling to be flying with Victoria. Her grip is strong and particularly secure, and while you prefer to just bury your head against her neck and enjoy the feeling of her powerful body pressing against yours, you can sometimes look out towards the Bay and admire the way the sun glints off the water there, and the sight of the Protectorate’s repurposed oil rig, a tall and imposing presence reminding the city of their vigilance.
But then, ordinarily you’re not trying to fight down a rising sense of queasiness caused by the warring emotions in Victoria.
You bite your lip, trying to work up the courage to say anything to her. It takes you a few moments before you can even lean up to her and murmur just a few words into her ear; “I hope you’re feeling better.”
She shrugs. It’s an awkward move with you in her arms, and to her credit she seems to realize it, as she immediately adjusts her grip to hold you securely against her once more. “I am,” she replies loudly. “Thank you, Taylor!”
If you couldn’t feel her emotions, you’d no doubt be fooled by the placid tone of her voice and the soothing apology. But you can, and you aren’t stupid enough to ignore it. Unfortunately, knowing what she’s feeling doesn’t tell you how to deal with it. In the end, all you can think to say is a simple, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” Her tone is cheerful, but the word itself is delivered conclusively. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Well, that’s not helpful. “Of course I’m worried,” you say with a small frown. “You’re upset. Did something happen with your family?”
A loud, faux-aggravated sigh escapes from the girl. A few moments pass before she responds. “No, it’s not my family. Mom and Dad were arguing, but they do that a lot. I’ve just been trying to work up the nerve to do something.”
You tilt your head, then immediately regret it as the world spins. Okay, bad idea. Instead, you express your curiosity verbally. “What have you been trying to do?” Images flash quickly through your head, images of some very pleasant things she could be thinking of—no. Bad libido. You’re trying to be serious.
She shrugs. When no other response is forthcoming, you look up to find her chewing on her lip, a pensive expression on her face. It lasts until you settle your head back against her neck, frowning more heavily than before, and even beyond that, until she has settled down into an alley two streets over from your house. And only then do more words come out.
When she speaks this time, it’s strained, halting. “I’ve just—“ She cuts off again, and there’s a sharp spike of frustration and recrimination stabbing through her. “I’ve—been speaking to my boyfriend.” She must notice you blanch, because she hurries on, her hands waving placatingly at you as though to calm you down. “No, not like that! We’ve just been talking about… some things, and I’ve been trying to work something out. But it’s not happening.”
You can’t help but feel confused. “What are you trying to work out?” you ask cautiously.
It’s the wrong question to ask. You almost visibly see her retreat into herself for a moment, before she forces herself to open herself once again, looking towards you. For a moment, you wonder if you would be able to see the strain on her face if you stood a little closer. “Just…” And she sighs again. “I’ll explain later. Okay?”
You’re tempted to let it go at that. She’s visibly nervous, fidgeting with the cuff of her jacket sleeve; pressing her too hard will only cause her to retreat into herself again. But she’s obviously upset by whatever it is, and you don’t want to leave her like that. You’ve left too many people feeling upset before, and it never turns out well. “Okay,” you acquiesce. “But soon, okay?”
She nods tiredly. “I’ll text you soon,” she affirms. “Before next Sunday.”
“Okay.” You nod again, then press yourself tighter against her and lean up for a kiss. She responds, and not unenthusiastically, pressing herself into you with a soft groan as your tongue presses against her lips. You keep it up for several long moments before settling back down and taking a step back, smiling at her. It’s tempting to step back in and claim another kiss. “Will I see you on Wednesday?”
Victoria has to think about it for a moment. “Maybe,” she temporizes. “It’s school holidays, so I’m busier than usual, but I’ll try and make time.”
It’s not the answer you wanted, but you’ll take it. “Good,” you reply, nodding decisively. Then you lean back in for another kiss.
Really, there’s only so long you can be expected to refrain, after all.
It’s hard to keep yourself from growing agitated after your talk with Victoria. Yes, she may have assured you that the talk she wants to have with you and her boyfriend isn’t bad, but—really, how good can that kind of talk be? And that’s entirely ignoring how awful she was feeling about it.
