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When she enters the bedroom, Serena places the bottle and glasses on the chest of drawers. She can't help but sigh when the bottle nudges a framed photo of Bernie and her children - one that she'd taken, and framed, and placed herself, back when Bernie was still full of self doubt, and she herself was confident, and assured, and had a child that was full of assurance and confidence, and alive - but swiftly turns her attention to the haphazardly made bed, the pillows still squiffy from where Bernie had undoubtedly thrashed and clutched in her sleep.
Tuning in to her surroundings, Serena hears the shower running. She looks again at the photographs, and almost decides to retreat back to her own house, until her eyes land on a photo of her and Bernie, caught mid conversation, glasses of wine in one hand, other hands touching arms, crinkle-cornered eyes only for each other, and she stops, Bernie memories flooding her, her head resting against the doorframe and her brow furrowing into melancholic as opposed to the frustration that was always just a thought away.
She glances towards the bathroom door, and shrugs off her overshirt with a half roll of her eyes as she tries to drape it over the back of the chair that already seems to house two thirds of Bernie's wardrobe. Pushing the bathroom door completely open, Bernie's name escapes her in a rush of whispered breath as she takes in the vision before her: Bernie's standing in the bath, the overhead shower cascading down her back, her head resting on her bent arm against the tiles. She's a vision; skin pinking under the jet, steam clouding around her glistening body, and her right hand....
Serena's thighs unconsciously clench as she stares at Bernie's arm muscles, tightening and rippling as she works her hand between her legs. She can just make out Bernie's face underneath the crook of her elbow, her brow creased in concentration, mouth open, tiny whimpers escaping before she bites her lip. Bernie's left hand buries into her hair and pulls as her knee bends, her fingers evidently pushing inside before coming back out and resuming a frantic, rhythmic pace.
Serena hears the groan of frustration, takes a step further into the doorway, but stalls. She wants to go to her, part of her screaming to just get into the shower, maybe not even shedding clothes, wants to plaster herself against Bernie's back, cover her hand with her own and bury her fingers deep into swollen wetness and hold her tight as she crumbles.
But she's tired, always and oh, so weary, and there's a distance within herself she cannot bridge, cannot align this new existence within herself. It's jarring, and something she never thought she'd have to deal with again, on this level, this battle against herself. So when Bernie's hand jerks away from her cunt, and both of her elbows come to rest on the tiles, fists balled into her hair and an agonised look on her face, Serena retreats into the bedroom.
She eyeballs the door, knows how easy it would be to walk out and Bernie not even realise she'd been here. But she fights against it; wants Bernie to know that she's trying to be present, even when her physical appearance doesn't quite manage to cover her emotional absence.
She sits down on the bed and leans back, and it's not long before Bernie appears in the doorway, a ludicrously small towel tied around her body, and vigorously drying the hair in front of her face. When Bernie drops the towel and flicks her head back, Serena can't help but smile as she jumps a foot back into the bathroom with a swear, her flailing hands finally coming to rest on her chest as she slumps against the doorway, her towel having dropped enough to afford Serena a gorgeous view of half concealed nipples.
"Jesus Christ, Serena!”
Despite her tone, and still looking a bit terrified, Bernie smiles tentatively as she adjusts her towel, and sits next to Serena, swinging her legs up onto the bed so that she can bump Serena’s hip.
“I wasn’t really expecting to see you,” she ventures, lolls her head back on to the headboard and graces Serena with a lopsided grin and crinkled eyes.
Serena’s heart cracks again at the sight of her, so open and adoring, and she wants nothing more than to reach for her, to throw the towel open and pull Bernie’s heated skin against her, to drag her on top of her and have her eyes involuntarily close as Bernie nestles into her neck, drag kiss swollen lips along her collarbones, hear her whimpers when she wastes no time in bending her knee, offering Bernie the pressure to grind against, slide her fingers between her thigh and Bernie’s cunt as she rocks and stutters, to feel Bernie’s hands clench around her shoulder and into her hair as she rides the aftershocks.
Serena wants nothing more, can see it all playing out in her mind, but she cannot find it in herself to close that gap, watches, instead, as Bernie’s smile falters, as her eyes dim a bit at the lack of response.
She can’t stand to see it; her jaw clenches and she reaches for Bernie’s hand, squeezes it within her fist, needs something to rid her of this war within herself; needs something to concentrate on.
She meets Bernie’s eyes, tries to box up everything else in her mind apart from the burning intensity she finds.
“You didn’t finish,” she states, sounding calm despite the shake she feels from her stomach to her throat.
Bernie’s brow furrows, her thumb managing to break free from Serena’s almost crushing hold to stroke minute patterns along her finger.
“Come again?”
Serena huffs a laugh. “That’s the problem, isn’t it; you didn’t,”
Serena notes the blush creeping onto Bernie’s already pink-tinged cheeks, but addresses the look of confused embarrassment, instead, before Bernie can utter the word.
“I saw you. In the shower. I wanted to…but…I hoped you’d… I don’t know…” Serena shakes herself; doesn’t want the conversation to take a maudlin turn, wants Bernie to realise what she’s getting at; wants what they both seem to need, to happen. “Anyway,” she shifts to rest on her side, props her head up on her right hand, and with a quick flick, Bernie’s towel falls into folds on the bed and Serena is already twisting Bernie’s hand within her own, languidly dragging her palm down between rapidly, painfully pebbling nipples. “You didn’t finish,” she repeats, deeper, now, her intent clear as she leads Bernie’s hand down further, brings their entwined fingers to rest between Bernie’s legs, approving of the way her knees subconsciously spread, even as she frowns.
She knows Bernie is about to inject too much reality, so she presses her fingers, her eyes darkening at Bernie’s gasp. She squeezes Bernie’s fingers, makes sure every one of her digits glides across Bernie’s clit before she disentangles and removes her hand completely.
“You didn’t finish, and I want to watch you…”
“S’rena, I…” Bernie’s words whisper out as Serena shushes her, lips pressed close to her ear.
“Please, just let me see you,”
And despite her frown, her misgivings, Serena’s hand pushing her own is igniting everything that she couldn’t reach in the shower, so when Serena’s hand falls away, hers keeps moving. She opens her eyes once more, tries to search Serena’s, tries to shift onto her side, pull Serena closer, but Serena keeps one hand on her stomach, tucks her lips closer to Bernie’s ear.
“Just let me watch you. I need to see you.”
Bernie moans, hips arching into her own hand as her fingers move in earnest. Serena watches avidly, one hand propping up her head, the other now clenched at Bernie’s side. She watches as Bernie’s rhythm changes, watches her face when her moans change pitch, watches her mouth as she gasps.
She wants to lean forward and capture her lips, lick into her warmth and swallow all the lush noises Bernie makes, but the barrier her brain has erected is a solid mass between desire and deed and she shuts her eyes against it, the force of the wanting and needing and violence of not being able to do anything about it. She feels Bernie still, hears her name in that soft, worried tone underpinned by yearning, and she can’t stick it, opens her eyes as she shifts to fist Bernie’s hair, wills her eyes to show everything she cannot say, except for
“Please,”
She holds Bernie’s searching gaze until she sees her fingers start moving again, tentatively at first, her eyes still wary, so she grips Bernie’s hair, hard, watches her eyes widen then darken, her hand moving with clear intent now, her eyes fluttering closed, and so Serena relaxes incrementally, her fisted fingers relaxing to massage Bernie’s scalp, tightening again when she hears her whimper, tightening and releasing as Bernie’s fingers move faster, as her hips rise up to press against her own hand, and when Bernie finally stops biting her lip and her mouth opens, releases small cries as she turns onto her side, hand moving faster now, more fingers rubbing her clit, Serena moves her face closer, as close as she can stand without fear of kissing, lifts her chin a bit higher to ghost words into Bernie’s ear, words like yes, please, come on, just like that, and her fingers dig into Bernie’s scalp again and she cries out, fingers moving in a frenzy as her back arches and freezes for milliseconds before she folds in on herself, around her hand buried between her thighs, panting and twitching, face turned into the pillow.
When Serena sees Bernie’s muscles fully relax, she releases her grip on her hair, lets the strands fall through her fingers as she pulls away, pretends not to see Bernie pushing her face a bit further into the pillow to wipe her cheek, pretends not to feel her muscles tensing again. Her fingers hover, not quite touching as she reaches down for the duvet, pulls it up over Bernie, tucks it in over her shoulder, hand finding her hair again. Her lips hover by Bernie’s ear, trembling as the apology dies in her throat, even as she feels Bernie try to bury a sob. She tucks the duvet tighter, tangles her hand again in Bernie’s hair, grips it tight in lieu of words, tries to slow down the agitated scratching of her fingers into a soothing motion until Bernie relaxes slightly into the mattress.
“It’s alright.”
Serena’s hand stills as she registers the words, muffled in the pillow.
“It’s alright,” Bernie says again, turning her head completely, eyes crinkled as she smiles softly, before raising them fully to look at Serena. “It’s ok.”
“Go to sleep,” Serena whispers, again willing Bernie to read everything behind the words, in the look, willing herself to keep eye contact, holding the duvet tight around Bernie until her breathing evens out, and she does.
–
Bernie's eyes blink open, frowning into the darkness as her brain tries to catch up. She registers her nakedness, the funny texture underneath her telling her she fell asleep on her towel, and she's about to stretch when she feels the bed shake, a small, warm bumping at the nape of her neck an indication of what's stirred her to consciousness.
Her brain fully catches up, freezes her body from showing signs of wakefulness as she registers the small huffs of breath on her shoulder, tunes in to the movements of the bed, and her stomach lurches when she realises that Serena is actually in her bed, and what she’s doing behind her.
The duvet slips further off her body as Serena moves, although Bernie can tell she's trying to keep her movements and sounds to a minimum. She thinks about turning over, about saying something, when she remembers the look on Serena’s face earlier on, the fact that her eyes begged for everything and nothing else whilst her hand grabbed Bernie’s hair, the fact that she couldn’t even touch when she tucked the duvet around Bernie’s shoulders, despite the fact that Bernie knew she wanted to.
Bernie keeps still, doesn’t flinch as Serena’s fist unclenches and then clenches again by her neck, catching the ends of her hair; doesn’t flinch as Serena’s fingers pull at the ends of her hair; doesn’t flinch as she feels a knee pressed against her own leg, shaking; knows that Serena’s whole body is tense from the way the fist shakes against her head, the way the bed stops rhythmically bumping but almost vibrates; the way that the breath against her shoulder, held for moments, releases in gasps and then sobs, muffled eventually in the pillow, right next to Bernie’s ear.
It’s when the semi muffled gasps turn into barely concealed sobs that Bernie takes a deep breath, giving Serena a split second to realise she’s awake before she turns, keeps a hold of Serena’s arm when she feels her tense, turns fully to wrap herself around Serena, doesn’t even have to wait a few seconds until Serena is shifting closer, burying her head into Bernie’s chest, the arm around Bernie’s back pulling almost violently, nails scrabbling at her spine, until Bernie raises her chin, tucks Serena’s head under it, squeezes as tight as she can, until the hand at her back loosens and the sobs turn to sniffs, turn to light snores, and Bernie’s grip turns to relief.