Chapter Text
“I am a twenty-seven year old professional soccer player,” she says, huffing into the scarf that’s wound so tight it’s covering her mouth, “and I’m about to outsled this entire hill of fourth graders.”
There’s a flash of dark hair and she shifts to the side as Ali bumps against her shoulder, her mittened hands flexing, eyes just visible below the brim of her hunting-style hat and bright with mischief that Ashlyn feels down to the bone. “Not without me, you’re not.”
If she were going to feel self-conscious about spending her morning sledding with eight-year-olds (which is doubtful to begin with), the look of intense focus on her best friend’s face would have quieted her instantly.
“Come on,” she says, hefting the sled up onto her shoulder, “it goes faster with two.”
.,.
It does go faster.
Ali isn’t allowed to steer (the last time she did she knocked over a small child and then rammed the sled into a tree), so she sits behind Ashlyn, tucking her hands into the taller woman’s pockets and stretching out her legs. After a quick check over her shoulder, Ashlyn pushes them off over the top of the hill and they fly.
It’s there that Ali realizes this isn’t normal.
Among other things, of course- like Ashlyn following her to Germany, and the fact that her name in Ashlyn’s phone is ‘Princess Babe’, and Ashlyn’s incessant flirtatiousness- but it’s this moment, clinging to Ashlyn as they race down a slope with the shouts of children all around them and the wind whipping into her so hard her eyes water- that she realizes something’s off.
More accurately, she realizes that what they have is essentially a romantic relationship without the romance. And it’s not even that part that throws her for a loop- it’s the fact that the lack of romance, now that she’s identified it, bothers her.
Ashlyn sticks a leg out like she’s trying to steer them but somehow it backfires and before Ali can even try to stop them they’ve flipped over and she’s on her back in five inches of snow with Ashlyn lying half on top of her, too breathless even to laugh, blinking snow out of her eyes and reaching up to brush some off of Ashlyn’s hat.
.,.
The first time she dreamt about Ali Krieger she was twenty.
It wasn’t a surprise. Ali is and always has been quintessentially her type- ladylike, sweet, freckly, smart, and quick as hell on her feet and with her humor- but when they had just met and she was still kind of hoping she could coerce Ali into a makeout session or something, it would never have occurred to her they’d be friends eight years later.
Because at that time, Ali had been ‘straight’. Not that she was closeted, exactly, just that she wasn’t aware of her bisexuality yet, so Ashlyn’s advances had fallen on politely disinterested ears. By the time Ali had made out with another girl they were already best friends and Ashlyn had already long dismissed the idea of them ever being anything else. Anyway, she doesn’t really do relationships, and Ali’s too good of a friend to her for her to fuck it up for something as stupid as sex. That’s if Ali would even be interested, which Ashlyn doubts- just because Ali is into both genders doesn’t mean she’s automatically attracted to everyone.
But it’s things like this that remind her of dreaming about Ali, the snow and the red tint of her cheeks and the way her laugh dies a little when she reaches out to brush away the snow like she’s losing concentration on anything else but making sure every flake is taken care of.
“Next time either stick both feet out or don’t bother,” she says, and Ashlyn laughs, vowing to herself that she’s going to flip them as many times as she can before Ali gives up on the sled.
.,.
It doesn’t take too long before Ali realizes that Ashlyn is flipping them on purpose, and by then she’s frostbitten and craving hot coffee and they’ve scared off most of the kids that had been sharing their hill. Apparently something about two women consistently tumbling into the snow onto and around each other freaked them out, not that she can blame them. With her little epiphany it’s gotten harder and harder to act like everything’s normal.
Mostly she’s trying to figure out how long it’s been going on and how long she’s been quietly pretending she doesn’t want more. But she sucks it up and follows Ashlyn home, knowing the promise of coffee is a second to the promise of a few more hours in Ashlyn’s company, and promising herself she’ll try to figure it all out once she’s back at her apartment in Frankfurt alone.
.,.
Ali’s doing that thing she does when she tries to leave but also tries to show that she wants to be asked to say- that thing that Ashlyn thinks is ridiculous considering how long they’ve been friends, but still thinks is kind of funny. She likes playing this game. She likes playing at convincing Ali to stay with her, whether it’s some weird friendly seduction or not.
She tends not to overthink it.
“I have to get going if I’m going to drive back without dying on the black ice,” Ali says, tugging on her pea coat. Ashlyn grabs it by the halves and pulls Ali back towards her, singing at the top of her lungs- “but baby, it’s cold outside.”
Ali laughs but her next excuse is a little weaker (like it always is, only this time it’s all seasonal and Christmassy and Ashlyn’s hands are still fisted in Ali’s jacket and it feels weird but not wrong), “Ash, it’s getting late. You can’t hold me hostage.”
“Try me.”
“Is that a challenge?”
.,.
Ashlyn’s smirking at her again and she swears that happens more than it needs to. Ali carefully pries Ashlyn’s hands from her coat and concedes with a sigh: “Fine, I’ll stay. But only because I don’t want to drive this late.”
That’s another twelve hours in limbo, uncertain of her feelings, but she can manage it. She’s sure of it.
Well, she’s sure of it until she’s in an oversized UNC shirt and a pair of Ashlyn’s sweatpants and they’re curled up watching Elf in German (Ashlyn knows every word in English and insists it’s a ‘learning experience’ but what it really is is Ashlyn reading the script over badly lipsynced German voice actors). The couch is long enough that Ashlyn can lay out on her side and rest her head in Ali’s lap, which she does, wriggling until she’s comfortable. It’s not the situation that’s shocking: it’s the normalcy of it. It’s the completely obvious fact that the only difference between them and a couple is that Ali is not about to lean down and kiss Ashlyn to shut her up.
But it occurs to her. And that’s never happened before.
.,.
She falls asleep ensconced in the warmth of an electric blanket and Ali’s hand in her hair and when she wakes up they’re both still on the couch, but Ali is laying down, too, knees bent awkwardly so that Ashlyn’s head rests on her hip, her own head resting on the arm of the sofa and a light crocheted blanket draped over her. The house is freezing and Ashlyn doesn’t think twice before she prods Ali awake.
They don’t even have to speak. They’ve done this plenty of times, though it’s been a while since they both passed out on the couch together, but a day of sledding is apparently more exhausting than she’d imagined it would be.
Ali follows behind her on bare feet and they go to their designated sides of the bed (of any bed; they’ve shared many)- Ali to the right, Ashlyn to the left. Ashlyn digs into her sock drawer and tosses the first folded pair to Ali, who has perpetually cold hands and feet, and they collapse into silence and sleep and warmth again like they never woke up in the first place.
Ashlyn dreams of Ali.
.,.
Ali doesn’t dream. She wakes up pressed against Ashlyn’s back with the blanket halfway off the bed and knows instinctively that the only reason they’re so close together is because that would have been the only way, unconsciously, for her to get any warmth. It’s happened before, plenty of times, and she’s the first awake because Ashlyn is still snoring softly into her pillow.
It's not out of character for her to leave, but before she does she makes herself some coffee and steals a travel mug. She also makes the quickest omelet of her life (because Ashlyn is incapable and Ali knows she misses real food) and hides it in the microwave before she scribbles down a note:
“Had to get home before the Christmas Eve festivities started. Will definitely be back Christmas Day with your travel mug (and interest). Check the microwave if you even know where it is.”
She pauses, clicking the pen, and, for the first time, debating on the last line that they both throw around so often before she adds it, cheeks burning:
“Love you.”