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intheheartTitle: Regrets
Rating: PG for some swearing.
Summary: "Any regrets?" Allison asked.
Date: July 1999
AU: Regrets
Notes: Beta-read by the lovely Sara. Dave and Finn belong to my friends Bex and Puck and are used with their kind permission.
Allison paused, her fork halfway to her mouth, staring into space. She looked contemplative, Gail thought, and a little worried, which probably meant that she was thinking too much again. Allison liked to think; it suited a writer, but didn’t necessarily make for good dinner conversation.
“Any regrets?” Allison asked.
Yep. Bad dinner conversation.
Gail raised an eyebrow. “It depends on what sort of regrets you’re talking about,” she said. “With us? No.”
Allison shrugged, and propped her chin in her hands. “Not exactly us, no,” she said. “More like life in general. For example, I regret not being able to talk to my parents in a normal tone of voice for the past fifteen years.”
Her tone was wry, but Gail could hear the hurt underneath. Not for the first time, she thanked God that her own parents were... tolerant, if not accepting. Even if they treated her life and her relationship with Allison as some youthful peccadillo that she’d grow out of, at least they didn’t refuse to acknowledge it at all. “Yes, well,” she said. “I try not to regret things I can’t change.”
“Hmm.” Allison reached up and tugged a strand of brown hair loose from her sloppy bun. She wound it around her finger absently, as she always did when she thought. “You don’t regret teaching?”
That was uncomfortably near the bone. Gail set down her fork and shoved her plate away, suddenly not hungry. “It’s just a job,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “And I do teach.”
“ESL night classes are not exactly what you wanted to do,” Allison said, more gently than Gail had expected. “Cecily mentioned kindergartners once.”
“Cecily talks too much.” Gail picked up her fork again and played with it, for lack of anything better to do. “It’s nothing, Allison.”
Even though it wasn’t. Even though she’d tried, tried so hard... she’d lied, even. She’d lost her first two girlfriends to that lie, and she hadn’t even managed to keep the job.
It wasn’t losing the job that had hurt the most, though. It was the look on the principal’s face when he’d called her into the office— a sort of disgusted sneer, tinged with outrage. How dare you try to come in here. How dare you teach our children.
As if she was any different from them. As if she loved children, loved teaching, any less.
“Gail?” Allison touched her hand.
Gail shook off the memory with a lurch. “I’m okay,” she said, and patted Allison’s hand reassuringly. That had been long ago, long before she’d even met Allison, and she was over it.
Or, well, not really, but at least she didn’t obsess over it anymore.
“I’m a teacher,” she told Allison. “It doesn’t matter what or who I teach, I’m a teacher. That’s all that matters.”
“Okay,” Allison said, peacably. She didn’t believe that, probably, and she was right not to, but at least she was letting it go. “Speaking of teaching, do you have class tonight?”
“No, but I have a ton of grading to do,” Gail said, and let the conversation turn to other things. Allison’s job and how it exhausted her, other employment possibilities, Gail’s grading, the latest adorable outrages Cecily’s children had committed. She thought she caught Allison looking at her a little too shrewdly during when she talked about Rachel pulling down the curtain during her school play. But she thought that she’d covered the little pricks of pain, like tiny arrows in the heart, well enough.
She obviously hadn’t, because Allison brought it up again that night, when they both lay sleepless in bed, staring into the dark.
“I regret not having children,” Allison said, quietly. “I know you do too.”
Gail shifted, felt the cool sheets slide around her. They lay apart from each other, not touching, and the distance between them felt endless.
“Yes,” she said, when the silence stretched too long and became unbearable. “I do. But what could I have done?”
“I don’t know,” Allison said. “I don’t know how to fix any of this. I just... thought we should say it. So it isn’t hiding anymore.”
Gail inhaled sharply, and blinked back tears. “I was doing just fine not thinking about it,” she said, her tone shading into anger again. “There’s things we can’t fix, and I don’t want to think about it.” It hurt too much when she did.
Allison shifted at that, and sat up, the sheet slipping down her body and the shadow of her hair falling over her shoulder. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “It’s getting better, a little bit at a time. Who says we can’t fix everything, if we give it enough time?”
“You really think your parents are going to magically change their minds?” Gail snapped. Allison sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. That was cruel.”
“No, it was true,” Allison said. “And fair enough, I guess, but that... Gail, why can’t we have children?”
Oh. So that was what she’d been getting at. “You need a man to have children,” Gail said. “Or sperm, at least.”
“They have sperm banks,” Allison said. “Or there’s Dave and Finn. We could swap them one for one.”
Gail propped her head up on one arm, interested in spite of herself. “You mean we have two and give them one?”
“We could raise them communally,” Allison said. “It could work.”
It could, actually. But Gail hesitated. “Ally... do we have the right?”
Allison reared back, and what little Gail could see of her expression looked offended. “The right? The right to have our own goddamn children if we want them? What the hell kind of question is that, Gail?”
“Not the one I asked,” Gail said, forcing herself to stay calm. “I mean we live in a world where our love and our life isn’t recognized as valid. Do we have the right to bring a child into that mix? It feels... irresponsible, somehow.”
Allison opened her mouth, then shut it again, and pulled her knees up to her chest. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice small. “It’s only... it’s getting better, every day. And you and I would be such wonderful parents.” Her voice shrank even more. “And I want a child.”
“Me too,” Gail said, and reached out across that vast abyss between them to touch Allison’s hip. “We don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I know,” Allison said. She sighed, then relaxed all at once, flowing backwards into the bed and slumping on to Gail’s shoulder. “I just wanted to start the conversation. We went a lot further than I thought we would.”
“We’re overachievers,” Gail said, and kissed her forehead. “It could work, Ally. I don’t want you to think it couldn’t. I just think we need to think it through first. A baby is a big responsibility, and for us even more so, because it’d have so much to face.”
“I guess,” Allison said, then laughed suddenly. “But it’d have you to back it up. You’re scary as all hell when you’re pissed.”
“Am I really?”
She nodded, her hair sliding against Gail’s skin like silk. “Terrifying. I pity anyone who goes up against your kid.”
“I guess,” Gail echoed, still chewing that thought over. “Would you want a boy or a girl?”
“A girl,” Allison said. She shifted to throw her arm over Gail’s middle, and yawned. “I want a little daughter to fuss over.”
“She wouldn’t stay little for long,” Gail said, and yawned herself. Sleepiness was catching. “Soon she’d be a big, grown-up girl and she wouldn’t need us anymore.”
“Mm,” Allison said, sleepily. “We could name her Sarah. It means princess.” She snuggled closer to Gail’s side.
“Or Ivy,” Gail said. “I’ve always liked the name Ivy.”
But Allison was asleep.
Rating: PG for some swearing.
Summary: "Any regrets?" Allison asked.
Date: July 1999
AU: Regrets
Notes: Beta-read by the lovely Sara. Dave and Finn belong to my friends Bex and Puck and are used with their kind permission.
Allison paused, her fork halfway to her mouth, staring into space. She looked contemplative, Gail thought, and a little worried, which probably meant that she was thinking too much again. Allison liked to think; it suited a writer, but didn’t necessarily make for good dinner conversation.
“Any regrets?” Allison asked.
Yep. Bad dinner conversation.
Gail raised an eyebrow. “It depends on what sort of regrets you’re talking about,” she said. “With us? No.”
Allison shrugged, and propped her chin in her hands. “Not exactly us, no,” she said. “More like life in general. For example, I regret not being able to talk to my parents in a normal tone of voice for the past fifteen years.”
Her tone was wry, but Gail could hear the hurt underneath. Not for the first time, she thanked God that her own parents were... tolerant, if not accepting. Even if they treated her life and her relationship with Allison as some youthful peccadillo that she’d grow out of, at least they didn’t refuse to acknowledge it at all. “Yes, well,” she said. “I try not to regret things I can’t change.”
“Hmm.” Allison reached up and tugged a strand of brown hair loose from her sloppy bun. She wound it around her finger absently, as she always did when she thought. “You don’t regret teaching?”
That was uncomfortably near the bone. Gail set down her fork and shoved her plate away, suddenly not hungry. “It’s just a job,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “And I do teach.”
“ESL night classes are not exactly what you wanted to do,” Allison said, more gently than Gail had expected. “Cecily mentioned kindergartners once.”
“Cecily talks too much.” Gail picked up her fork again and played with it, for lack of anything better to do. “It’s nothing, Allison.”
Even though it wasn’t. Even though she’d tried, tried so hard... she’d lied, even. She’d lost her first two girlfriends to that lie, and she hadn’t even managed to keep the job.
It wasn’t losing the job that had hurt the most, though. It was the look on the principal’s face when he’d called her into the office— a sort of disgusted sneer, tinged with outrage. How dare you try to come in here. How dare you teach our children.
As if she was any different from them. As if she loved children, loved teaching, any less.
“Gail?” Allison touched her hand.
Gail shook off the memory with a lurch. “I’m okay,” she said, and patted Allison’s hand reassuringly. That had been long ago, long before she’d even met Allison, and she was over it.
Or, well, not really, but at least she didn’t obsess over it anymore.
“I’m a teacher,” she told Allison. “It doesn’t matter what or who I teach, I’m a teacher. That’s all that matters.”
“Okay,” Allison said, peacably. She didn’t believe that, probably, and she was right not to, but at least she was letting it go. “Speaking of teaching, do you have class tonight?”
“No, but I have a ton of grading to do,” Gail said, and let the conversation turn to other things. Allison’s job and how it exhausted her, other employment possibilities, Gail’s grading, the latest adorable outrages Cecily’s children had committed. She thought she caught Allison looking at her a little too shrewdly during when she talked about Rachel pulling down the curtain during her school play. But she thought that she’d covered the little pricks of pain, like tiny arrows in the heart, well enough.
She obviously hadn’t, because Allison brought it up again that night, when they both lay sleepless in bed, staring into the dark.
“I regret not having children,” Allison said, quietly. “I know you do too.”
Gail shifted, felt the cool sheets slide around her. They lay apart from each other, not touching, and the distance between them felt endless.
“Yes,” she said, when the silence stretched too long and became unbearable. “I do. But what could I have done?”
“I don’t know,” Allison said. “I don’t know how to fix any of this. I just... thought we should say it. So it isn’t hiding anymore.”
Gail inhaled sharply, and blinked back tears. “I was doing just fine not thinking about it,” she said, her tone shading into anger again. “There’s things we can’t fix, and I don’t want to think about it.” It hurt too much when she did.
Allison shifted at that, and sat up, the sheet slipping down her body and the shadow of her hair falling over her shoulder. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “It’s getting better, a little bit at a time. Who says we can’t fix everything, if we give it enough time?”
“You really think your parents are going to magically change their minds?” Gail snapped. Allison sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. That was cruel.”
“No, it was true,” Allison said. “And fair enough, I guess, but that... Gail, why can’t we have children?”
Oh. So that was what she’d been getting at. “You need a man to have children,” Gail said. “Or sperm, at least.”
“They have sperm banks,” Allison said. “Or there’s Dave and Finn. We could swap them one for one.”
Gail propped her head up on one arm, interested in spite of herself. “You mean we have two and give them one?”
“We could raise them communally,” Allison said. “It could work.”
It could, actually. But Gail hesitated. “Ally... do we have the right?”
Allison reared back, and what little Gail could see of her expression looked offended. “The right? The right to have our own goddamn children if we want them? What the hell kind of question is that, Gail?”
“Not the one I asked,” Gail said, forcing herself to stay calm. “I mean we live in a world where our love and our life isn’t recognized as valid. Do we have the right to bring a child into that mix? It feels... irresponsible, somehow.”
Allison opened her mouth, then shut it again, and pulled her knees up to her chest. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice small. “It’s only... it’s getting better, every day. And you and I would be such wonderful parents.” Her voice shrank even more. “And I want a child.”
“Me too,” Gail said, and reached out across that vast abyss between them to touch Allison’s hip. “We don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I know,” Allison said. She sighed, then relaxed all at once, flowing backwards into the bed and slumping on to Gail’s shoulder. “I just wanted to start the conversation. We went a lot further than I thought we would.”
“We’re overachievers,” Gail said, and kissed her forehead. “It could work, Ally. I don’t want you to think it couldn’t. I just think we need to think it through first. A baby is a big responsibility, and for us even more so, because it’d have so much to face.”
“I guess,” Allison said, then laughed suddenly. “But it’d have you to back it up. You’re scary as all hell when you’re pissed.”
“Am I really?”
She nodded, her hair sliding against Gail’s skin like silk. “Terrifying. I pity anyone who goes up against your kid.”
“I guess,” Gail echoed, still chewing that thought over. “Would you want a boy or a girl?”
“A girl,” Allison said. She shifted to throw her arm over Gail’s middle, and yawned. “I want a little daughter to fuss over.”
“She wouldn’t stay little for long,” Gail said, and yawned herself. Sleepiness was catching. “Soon she’d be a big, grown-up girl and she wouldn’t need us anymore.”
“Mm,” Allison said, sleepily. “We could name her Sarah. It means princess.” She snuggled closer to Gail’s side.
“Or Ivy,” Gail said. “I’ve always liked the name Ivy.”
But Allison was asleep.
