Chapter Text
DECEMBER 21st - CARSON
The Hotel Edison is definitely not where Carson Shaw thought she would be spending Christmas this year.
True to her word, she didn’t go back to Charlie when the season ended in September. It was a long, complicated, and heartbreaking week in a hotel in Rockford, but they ended mostly amicably. Or as amicably as two broken people who loved each other but weren’t in love with each other could be.
It took a few days for the anger to fizzle out of their fight, and by then, they both knew they couldn’t stay together. It defied everything they knew, and everything their families and society expected of them, but they worked through it. It would’ve been so much easier to stay unhappily married than to untangle the last twenty years of their lives together, and if they hadn’t been best friends since they were six, Carson’s sure they couldn’t have done it.
Despite everything, in the end, they both agreed they were better for it. And they cried when they hugged goodbye.
She bought a ticket on the first train headed East, as far away from Boise as she could get, and ended up in Philadelphia.
She spent her days working in a canning factory, and her evenings in a small apartment above the storefront of a very old, Italian cobbler. She paid her rent early, and he left her alone—except for early Monday mornings, when he stopped her on her way out the door, handing over a couple leftover pastries his wife had made for their Sunday family dinners.
The first thing she did after signing the lease was send three letters: one to Sergeant Beverly, one to Mr. Baker Jr., and one to Greta.
She wanted the league to be able to find her now that she had moved, and she knew that even if Mr. Baker forgot, Bev would remember. And Greta…well, she had to know everything. It had only been three weeks, but Carson was going crazy not knowing how she was.
She spent three days writing and rewriting that letter until she was certain it was safe to send. She hoped Greta would be able to read through what was actually on the page, hoped she could hear what she would’ve said if they were face-to-face. But she could always see through Carson better than anyone—even when she didn’t want her to.
Dear Greta,
I hope this letter finds you well in New York. (Are you ok? I need to know if you’re ok.) Charlie is home (I didn’t go back to him.), and I’m visiting with my cousin in Philadelphia (You know I don’t have family here. I gave you space, but I’m only a train ride away.). It’s a beautiful city, and never thought I’d say this, but they have a sandwich here that might be better than pizza. Can you believe that? (Have you ever been here? Would you visit?)
How is your new job with Mrs. Hughes? I bet you’re doing great. You’ll have to show me all the new makeup trends when we see each other next. (I need to see you again.)
I miss Rockford. I miss the team. (I miss everything we had. I miss Jess and Lupe and Jo and the bar and all of it. Even that disgusting shed.) I wonder what everyone will be up to this off-season. Have you heard from anyone? (Have you heard from Jo? I hope you have.) . Hopefully it’s just an off-season and not the end. (This can’t be the end, right?)
It was only weeks ago, but I still can’t believe it was all real. (You were real. We were real.)
All my best,
Carson
Every day in the apartment was lonely and quiet, and she cried herself to sleep more than once thinking she’d made a huge mistake. On one particularly difficult night, she went so far as starting a letter to Charlie, begging him to take her back. She threw it out immediately the next morning, but that feeling lingered longer than she liked.
Then everything changed when she got her first piece of mail—a letter from New York City.
Dear Carson,
How nice to hear from you! I hope you are enjoying your time in Philadelphia. I have never been, but that sandwich does sound intriguing!
I like New York very much. The city is familiar, but it’s always changing. Vivienne has been teaching me a lot, and it’s going well. It keeps me busy.
If your schedule allows, perhaps you and your cousin could arrange a short visit to New York one weekend? I’d be curious how you’d find the city, and it would be nice to catch up in person. There’s no baseball this time of year, but perhaps we could take in a show?
The off-season is short, and we all need time to regroup and focus on things at home, so I’d understand if you couldn’t make it. Either way, I do hope you’ll keep in touch.
Your fellow fruit,
Greta
PS: Of course it was real.
She read it once, twice, five times. She took in every word, read deeply into each sentence, extracted dozens of possible meanings and tones. Greta sounded good, but Carson worried. She didn't mention Rockford, or Jo. She didn't even technically say she’s ok.
But two things stood out above everything, and she definitely didn’t imagine either one: “it would be nice to catch up in person” and “of course it was real.”
And really, nothing else mattered after that.
They kept up a casual correspondence for months, sending and receiving letters every couple weeks or so. But now it’s late December, and the factory is closed for the holidays, and Carson is here. In New York. Sitting on the bed in her room at the Hotel Edison on 47th Street.
She’s lost in the perfectness of this moment, watching Greta sit at the mirror and fix her hair, erasing the mess Carson made when she was running her hands through it just moments ago, when they were wrapped around each other in bed, kissing each other breathless.
Their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror, and Greta shakes her head slightly, her grin betraying the scolding tone in her voice, “Carson, you have to get ready!”
“I’m ready,” she answers automatically. She’s not, but she can’t look away.
“Oh yeah? Because those nylons are on backwards, m’dear,” she laughs.
Carson looks down, and Greta’s right. The seams are running down the tops of her thighs and shins. She shrugs one shoulder, “Maybe you should fix them for me…”
Greta spins in her seat and stares directly at her, then pitches her voice an octave higher with a goofy, fake high-society inflection, “Mrs. Shaw! That is simply not proper behavior for a lady!”
Carson bursts into laughter, throwing her head back, then snaps it back up suddenly when she feels two hands reach up the sides of her left thigh, under her skirt, “Ohmygod,” she gasps. She melts into the touch and closes her eyes, “G-Greta…” she breathes.
She drops back onto her elbows as Greta hovers over her, getting close enough that their lips brush, but she doesn’t kiss her. Carson doesn’t look away, but she can feel Greta’s nails hook around her nylons, and drag them down her leg torturously slow, peeling away the thin fabric.
When her hands move to grab at her right thigh, Carson can’t take it anymore. She closes the barely-there gap between them, and captures Greta’s lips with her own. She wants more of her—all of her—right now, but they really do have to go soon, and Greta will kill her if she makes messes up her hair (again) and makes them late.
Greta pulls away first, dipping her head lower and placing an open-mouthed kiss on Carson’s chest, where she still hadn’t buttoned her dress. She trails those kisses slowly back up her neck, finally meeting her lips with Carson’s and kissing her hard. Then she pulls away again, grinning mischievously at the disappointment on Carson’s face, and tossing the nylons into her lap, “Now move it, Shaw!”
Carson flops all the way back onto the bed, groaning in her torture, as Greta returns to her stool at the mirror, laughing, and immediately going back to applying her makeup and making sure her hair is perfect.
“Ten minutes. I’m not kidding. Move your ass, Carson.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, rolling off the bed and toward the bathroom, “What even is this show? It can’t be that good, right?”
“Probably not, but you’ll cry anyway. Bring tissues. And it doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad, because we’re meeting Vivienne and her husband there so we have to be on our best behavior, do you understand?”
Carson pauses with her hands halfway up the buttons of her dress and meets Greta’s gaze, all traces of their fun and teasing completely gone, “I do. I promise.”
Greta nods and returns to her mirror, but Carson can see the doubt on her face before she turns away.
She finishes getting ready while an uneasy silence fills the room. She dresses quickly, but carefully: buttoning her dress, putting her nylons on again—the right way this time—buckling her shoes, pinning her hat. Then she walks over to where Greta is sitting, steals her lipstick, and waits for her to make eye contact, “I will not mess this up for you Greta, I promise. We’ll be careful.”
She doesn’t answer, but she slips her hand into Carson’s, and Carson can feel her shaking slightly. She squeezes gently, and tries to look reassuring, “We follow the rules. No exceptions.”
“You know I hate the rules, right?” Greta whispers, “I don’t want to—”
“I know.”
“We just have to.”
Carson nods. She knows. She knows they have to be careful here—everywhere, truthfully. Even now, she occasionally wakes up from nightmares of cop raids that end so differently than the one they lived. But she doesn’t tell Greta that. She plasters on a fake smile instead, “I’m just so happy we can spend some time together before I have to rush off to my Uncle’s house in Albany for Christmas!”
Their fake cover story does exactly what Carson hoped it would, and Greta finally cracks a smile, “Ah, yes. Good ol’ Uncle Chester. In Albany!”
Carson grins, relieved she can calm Greta’s fears, even if only a little bit, “Yes! Uncle Chester and Aunt Fanny are hosting—”
“Aunt Fanny!” Greta laughs out loud, “You’re not serious?!”
She pretends to be insulted, “Hey! Don’t talk bad about my Aunt Fanny! She makes the best pumpkin pie!”
Greta smirks at that, “Now, would you say it’s a…conversation pie…?”
Carson huffs and crosses her arms, “Well now I won’t even have to pretend to not like you tonight.”
Greta only laughs harder, throwing the last of her things into her purse, leaving Carson pouting in the middle of the room as she walks to the door, “Come on, Mrs. Shaw. Let’s not keep my boss waiting, please!”
Carson sulks all the way to the door Greta is propping open, and right before she steps into the hall, Greta slaps her butt, essentially getting the last word in the last possible second—and most annoyingly, leaving Carson out in the hallway, unable to fight back.
She opens her mouth to utter a retort, but an older couple suddenly appears down the hall, and it dies in her throat. The four of them walk toward the elevator in silence. But the moment they aren’t looking, Greta winks at her with that devious look on her face, and Carson can only bite back a grin and roll her eyes.
God, she really does love this woman.