the chief of affections
There was a certain comfort in Misty that Claire hadn’t expected.
In terms of people who had their shit together, Claire’s experience was limited. There was her mother, of course, which was a lot more of a blessing than Claire ever realized until she was grown – but chillin’ with one’s mama didn’t totally count as social time.
Any and all superheroes were out – superheroes, she found, were generally hot messes in every other aspect of their lives. It made sense on some level – if you get superpowers slash the inclination to use those superpowers to save the city or the world, it makes sense that you’re gonna have some imbalance in other aspects of your life.
But as Claire had learned the hard way, this didn’t bode well for lovers or romantic partners.
But Misty wasn’t a superhero, and she’d taken up checking in on her at the station, and Misty had taken up checking on her at the clinic where she was working since leaving Metro General.
This was how Claire had ended up in Misty’s kitchen, cooking picadillo, arroz con frijoles negros, and maduros.
They’d taken to cooking for each other about once a week. It was a simple ritual, but one that Claire had rapidly gotten used to.
When Misty walked in, Claire grinned, her back to her.
“Did you find it?” she called.
“Yeah,” Misty said; Claire could hear the jangle of her keys as she set them down, the rustle as she put down her bag and took off her coat. When she came into the kitchen and set down a bottle of cooking wine from the bodega, Claire nodded toward the counter.
“I found a bottle of not-cooking wine, so I poured us a couple of glasses.”
“Hmm,” Misty said, opening the fridge.
As Claire stirred the sofrito, she cast a look at Misty. “That OK?”
“Fine,” Misty replied.
“Doesn’t seem fine,” Claire replied. “I’m sorry – were you saving it for something?”
“I said it was fine, Claire,” Misty said, a little edge in her voice.
Claire lowered the heat on the picadillo and the beans, picking up the cooking wine and cracking it open.
“You sure did,” Claire replied. “Twice, even.”
She poured some of the wine into the pot of simmering, stewing beef. “Something on your mind?”
Misty picked up one of the wine glasses, huffing a sigh.
“Jesus Christ, Claire, I just – I’m used to having my space, you know?”
Claire arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who invited me over here, Misty.”
“No, I know,” she said, huffing another sigh, taking a long sip of wine.
Claire wet her lips, then pursed them.
“OK, so, tonight’s not a good night.”
She untied Misty’s apron and hung it up on a hook on the side of the fridge.
“The beans need another half hour, I’d say, and same for the picadillo. You can leave them on for as long as you want, just make sure to put the rice on twenty minutes before you wanna eat ‘em.”
“Where you goin’?” Misty asked, watching her.
“Oh, I’mma be out,” Claire replied, checking the burners to make sure they were on the lowest possible setting.
“Claire, you don’t have to –”
“It’s cool, Misty,” she said, shifting past her to leave the kitchen.
“Claire,” Misty said, reaching out for her, sliding her hand around her wrist. Claire looked up at her expectantly.
“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “I’m sorry, Claire. I just – I like this. I like us. I just – I’m feeling –”
“A little wifed up?” Claire supplied. Misty laughed, pushing her hair back from her face.
“Maybe a little,” she said. “I dunno – I want you to be here, but I also don’t know how to handle… all this.”
Claire slipped her wrist out of Misty’s grip.
“Nothin’ to handle, mama,” she said with a slight smile. “I’mma go.”
She left the kitchen then, though Misty followed her.
“Claire –” she said as Claire picked up her coat.
“Don’t forget, start the rice twenty minutes before you wanna eat,” Claire said as she shifted into her coat and wrapped her scarf.
“Claire, don’t go,” Misty said, moving closer to her.
“Misty, it’s cool. Gimme a call when you wanna talk.”
With that, Claire slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
“Fuck,” Misty muttered.