possibility days | JENLISA

it means nothing

Persistent rustling wakes Lisa, and when she opens one eye, she catches the clock on Jennie's bedside table: 3:15. That wasn't sleep – that felt like a five-minute nap, she thinks, before barely registering the warmth that is now pressed up against her.

Shit. Her eyes may be heavy, but her brain is now wide awake, as Jennie snuggles closer, backing into Lisa and fitting herself into the careless curve of her body on the bed. It isn't clear to Lisa how they got from the kitchen to here – much less, from party dress to Jennie's oversized shirts – and the dull throb in her temple reminds her of the previous night's drinks. Damn. I am never drinking again, never drinking again, never--

Jennie shifts closer and Lisa tries to stifle a groan. The last thing she wants is to wake her in the middle of the night, and with a confusing sound at that. The taller tries to breathe in deeply, if only to calm herself – a mistake, actually, since the only thing it does is fill her with Jennie's scent, and if there's anything more damaging to her calm, it's that. Like this, Jennie smells so... human. Stripped of makeup and perfume and sunblock, this is the brunette at her purest form, and if Lisa hadn't woken up with a racing heart, right now it throbs mercilessly against her chest.

Fuck. It's not even like this is supposed to be new – she's held Jennie hundreds of times: For dozens of on-cam scenes. While napping at the sidelines, waiting for their next turn to shoot. While in their trailers, after a full day's work. This thing right here, Lisa reminds herself, trying to not be so attuned to the rhythmic rise and fall of Jennie's chest as she breathes, it isn't new. Get a grip. It means nothing.

Why would it, right?

She sighs and stretches, and it freezes the blood in Lisa's veins. Her hand stills where it is perched upon Jennie's hip lightly, forearm tensing as the girl's shirt hikes up slowly along with her movement, sleepy and languorous, and fuck, Lisa can't bring herself to take her hand away, not even when it is pressed against the bare skin of Jennie's side.

It means nothing.

Before Lisa could even count down from ten, Jennie is shifting again, and Christ, how is this girl not awake yet? She thinks, lifting her hand momentarily off her so she can move however she likes – and by however, it means that Jennie soon ends up with her face buried in the crook of her neck and her hand—

Christ. Lisa does not hazard a look, but she feels Jennie's hand move anyhow, brushing against hers as it goes lower. It means nothing, she repeats in her head. Just a fantastic story to tell the grandkids, maybe – oh hey, I was a young actress once upon a time, and one night I got drunk with a co-star and ended up spooning her, and at one point in the night I woke to find her sleeping with her hand halfway down her pants. Yes, that is a terrific story to tell our grandchildren.

Lisa shudders at the word our. Fucking go back to sleep, Manoban. Forget all of it in the morning.

Sleep comes for her after a handful of lifetimes. Jennie doesn't move from where she is nestled softly against her, legs tangled together under the covers, and at some point the steady rhythm of Jennie's breathing helps lull Lisa into slipping back into slumber.

*

Morning comes harshly.

It's been a while since she was last startled out of bed – an acutely uncomfortable feeling, Lisa is rediscovering, as she is jolted awake by the sunlight coming in through the window.

What the fuck. She blinks against the light, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she rolls out of bed, stomach grumbling. She hits something on the way down – damn it; where did that come from? – and it is only after a few moments that she remembers where she is.