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Her deputy’s wedding is a delightful affair. Full of bright colors and flowers and a dance floor packed with friends and loved ones. She’d cried when they’d said their vows, and done her best not to look at Hecate, sitting next to her, stiff and uncomfortable with all the displays of affection, but there.
She hadn’t been convinced Hecate would attend with her, but to her surprise, Hecate hadn’t put up even a bit of a fuss. Just asked what to wear and when to be there, and now, as the night is winding down, Pippa can say she thinks Hecate enjoyed herself. She drank a few glasses of champagne and sat at the same table, spoke amiably with Pippa’s deputy and his husband, a few mutual friends. She’s kept to herself for the most part, as Pippa expected, made a few, under her breath observations about the drunkenness of her deputy’s aunt, but otherwise kept any scathing remarks to a bare minimum.
Pippa is impressed, and a little confused—she’d assumed Hecate would hate weddings, but instead, she’s been rather quiet, observant, but not hostile, even smiling a few times. She’d gotten into a pleasant conversation with Pippa’s positions mistress about the latest research on pollen in defensive potions and spoken briefly with Thomas, her deputy’s husband, complimenting their choice in music, a live band playing mostly jazz standards and swing.
Pippa’s stayed by her side as much as she could, knows Hecate isn’t fond of large groups or socializing. They ate together and Pippa almost made her laugh a few times, a rare feat in public, and though she’s tired—she’d been up early to help Amos get ready, talked him down from pre-ceremony jitters, gotten him to the reception hall, given a toast that made everyone a bit weepy—she feels content.
She’s had a fair few more glasses of champagne than Hecate, and feels a bit giddy as well, so relieved and pleased that everything went off without a hitch.
Most of the crowd has left by now, including the grooms, just a few stragglers remaining to clean up or keep dancing. The music has mellowed to quiet ballads, and after Pippa finishes helping the caterers pack up, she returns to Hecate, still sitting at the same table, waiting.
She looks stunning. Still in black—Pippa had teased her endlessly, but she’d taken it in good spirits—but her dress is fancier than she would normally wear, with black lace at the top and a skirt that moves softly around her ankles. She’s completely covered, but with the small, delicate silver belt around her waist, her hair up in an elaborate bun, Pippa can’t help but stare, can’t help but want her hands on her.
She always wants her hands on her, but now, with Hecate’s soft demeanor, and the bubbly feeling in Pippa’s stomach, it’s harder to ignore.
So she doesn’t.
Crossing the room, she stops in front of Hecate, smiling, reaching for her hand. “Alright, darling?”
Hecate nods, and takes her hand, brushing her thumb over the pulse in Pippa’s wrist. Her heart jumps at the gesture, so tender.
“Is there anything I might help with?”
Pippa starts to shake her head—the clean up crew will handle the rest—but then pauses, and grins. “You can dance with me.”
Hecate frowns, her eyes darting around the room. There aren’t a lot of people left, and most are preoccupied—talking or dancing themselves—but she hesitates.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Pippa reassures, but can’t quite keep the disappointment out of her voice, and feels a bit bad when Hecate softens immediately. She knows, from the last nine months together, that Hecate hates disappointing her. That it brings up all the times she has in the past, brings up their separation as children, makes Hecate feel like she doesn’t deserve Pippa, or their relationship.
Hecate opens her mouth, but Pippa squeezes her hand. “I mean it, darling. Only if you want.”
Hecate pauses, looks over her shoulder at the dance floor, her expression blank. Pippa doesn’t know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling, but after a moment, she nods decisively, tightens her grip on Pippa’s hand and rises.
“Hecate—”
“I’d like to,” she says, so softly, honestly, and Pippa can see it isn’t a lack of desire there, but rather nerves, insecurities. Those, she can calm, so she leans up and kisses Hecate’s cheek briefly before guiding her onto the mostly empty dance floor.
No one pays them any mind, too wrapped up in one another, and Pippa quickly pulls Hecate close, wraps her arms around her neck and settles her cheek against her shoulder. Hecate stiffens for a moment, then carefully winds her arms around Pippa’s waist, holds her closer. There’s no real dancing involved, just a slow sway, and Pippa feels suddenly exhausted.
She’s danced with a few people tonight, mostly quick numbers, and though it was enjoyable and fun, she likes this better. Likes the way Hecate softens slightly under her hands, her thumb brushing back and forth over the back of Hecate’s neck. She likes the warmth of being so close to her, the way she can feel her magic this close, like it’s under her own skin. Hecate’s magic has always calmed her, always reassured her, always felt right with her own.
She thinks Hecate might feel the same, because the longer they sway, the more relaxed she becomes, her shoulders dropping slightly, her hands drifting up and down Pippa’s spine. Pippa smiles against her shoulder, nuzzling her nose against the lace.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “For coming with me.”
“Of course.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You asked,” Hecate says quietly, as if that explains everything. Pippa supposes it does.
She lifts her head and looks up at her, watching her face carefully. “Did you have a good time?”
Hecate nods. “Amos’ friends are quite pleasant.”
“I think they were on their best behavior. You should have seen them at the stag night.”
Hecate wrinkles her nose. “Perhaps not.”
Pippa laughs. “I’m glad it was tolerable.”
Hecate purses her lips slightly. “It was time spent with you; it was more than tolerable.”
Pippa flushes, still unused to the ease with which Hecate pays her compliments. They’re never poetic, often straightforward and a bit surprising, but they’re very her, and for that, Pippa appreciates them all the more. She knows Hecate isn’t putting on airs, isn’t saying things for the sake of saying them; she means them, and it curls something bright and warm in Pippa’s chest.
She isn’t quite certain how long they stay here, swaying to the music, talking quietly now and then. Hecate lets slip a few more colorful comments about the attendees of the wedding, and Pippa giggles helplessly into her shoulder. But she also mentions that the ceremony itself was “quite lovely” and “appropriately succinct,” which makes Pippa snort.
“I once attended a wedding where the vows were thirty minutes each.”
“That seems a ridiculous waste of time.”
“It’s a waste of time to tell another person how much you love them?” Pippa asks, and she means it as a joke, but there must be something in her voice, some worry or insecurity, because Hecate’s answer is careful, serious, when she replies,
“Hardly that. But rather, to my understanding, weddings themselves abide by certain social contracts, namely the entertainment of guests in exchange for support of a given union. And,” she adds, a bit softer, “Vows of that length, in that setting, seem to me more about proving one’s heart to an audience, rather than to the person who matters the most.”
Pippa looks up at her, studies her face, the honest, slightly worried expression on her face, as if she’s done or said something wrong, something that will hurt Pippa’s feelings.
Instead, Pippa feels the exact opposite—thinks about all the quiet things Hecate does for her: the way she stopped transferring them without Pippa’s permission after Pippa explained why it bothered her so; the way she always lights rose-scented candles in her rooms before Pippa comes over, because it’s Pippa’s favorite smell. She thinks about the way Hecate keeps a drawer of Pippa’s things, carefully and neatly folded; the way she holds her in the middle of the night; the way she kisses her, so sweetly. Hecate rarely says I love you, rarely expresses her emotions in words, and Pippa has been perfectly fine with that; but she understands, just a little bit better now, why. Hecate doesn’t do things for an audience; she does them for Pippa.
She’s been staring a bit too long, sees Hecate’s expression drop before she says, “Is that not correct?”
Pippa shakes her head quickly. “No, no that’s—that’s perfectly fine, darling. That’s more than fine.” She smiles, and arches up on her toes to press a kiss to Hecate’s forehead. “You’re brilliant.”
Hecate flushes slightly, and Pippa giggles. Hecate rolls her eyes, and Pippa curls back against her shoulder, tightens her arms around her. The music lulls them both back into a slow sway, and she breathes in Hecate’s scent, earthy, like dust after rain.
They’re both quiet for a long time, simply moving, simply together, and Pippa wants to relax and enjoy it but there’s a nagging thought at the back of her head, something she’s been wondering all day, thinking about in all the quiet moments that she just can’t shake.
She thinks of Amos and Thomas, gazing into one another’s eyes. Thinks of their vows, of the flowers and the way they’ve gone home together, bound together for life.
It’s Hecate’s slow breathing, the quiet, the soft music and the warmth of their bodies pressed together that gives Pippa the courage to ask, so softly,
“Do you think you’d ever want to...”
“To what?”
Pippa hesitates. Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe it will break the spell, will frighten Hecate away. Maybe it’s too much too soon.
But Hecate stops moving, pulls away just enough to crook a finger under Pippa’s chin and lift her eyes to hers.
Pippa swallows. Hecate’s expression is open and curious, but sometimes she’s afraid of saying the wrong thing, in the wrong way, of being too much. It isn’t Hecate’s fault—she’s done a lot to assure Pippa of her place in her life, of the way she feels about her—but there are old scars, old wounds, and she worries, sometimes, that she asks too much of Hecate. That someday, Hecate will realize that she isn’t perfect. Isn’t always kind. Isn’t everything Hecate wants or needs.
“To what, Pippa?” she asks softly, and it sounds like permission. Like longing.
“To get married,” she whispers, her voice strained. “To me.”
Hecate blinks, surprised, and for a moment, Pippa thinks she’s pushed too far. But then Hecate calms, the brief moment of panic disappearing from her face, and she smiles just a little. Just enough.
“As if I would marry anyone else,” she says, and it isn’t quite a yes, but it isn’t a no, and she isn’t running, and there’s something so adoring in Hecate’s gaze, something like desire, and when she lifts a hand to brush Pippa’s hair back from her cheek, Pippa leans into her touch.