Chapter Text
It’s a lovely afternoon, overcast, but warm. An afternoon blessedly free of work, of reports and papers and pathologies, and thus one she readily takes advantage of. Posted up on a bench where the park’s small pond meets the wooded hiking trails, she’s engrossed in her book—fiction, for once—that surprisingly holds her attention despite the complexity of the park’s soundscape. Birds and children screeching, dogs splashing along the shore, even a woman walking a small goat (much to the dogs’ amusement). Despite all this, she turns page after page, never bothering to look up. That is, until she realizes she’s being stalked.
A tiny pair of eyes stare at her from behind the bench railing held tight by a pair of equally small hands. Morana doesn’t even turn her head, just slides her gaze from her book to the little girl watching her intently. She quirks her brow, and chances a sly smile, huffing a laugh when the girl takes off in a fit of giggles only to reappear on the other side of the bench a moment later. Under scrutiny again, Morana sets down her book and takes a good look at her: eyes, one blue and one green, that flash brightly at the thrill of this little game, black hair wildly tussled by the summer breeze, and a pretty brown skin not too different from her own.
“Do you know that polar bears have black skin?” the girl’s little voice pipes up.
“Is that so?” Morana posits back, curious where their game is headed now.
“And their fur is clear. It just looks white ‘cus of their skin.” The little girl is visibly proud, now clambering onto the bench, no reservations about taking the empty space next to her new friend.
“Isn’t that something? And where did you learn a big fact like that?”
“Sophie!” a woman calls with a voice as big as at the body it comes from. Morana and the girl snap their heads towards the woods as the most massive woman Morana’s ever seen comes sprinting along the trail, hands dug into her hair as she pants, frantically searching for whoever she’s calling for.
“I’m right here, mama!” the girl shouts and waves from her seat. Relief visibly floods the woman—who Morana absolutely knows—as she approaches, hand over her heart as she calms.
“Baby, I’ve told you before you need to stay on the trail with me. It isn’t safe to wander off by yourself. I thought I lost you,” she chides gently, bending as she scoops the child up, planting a kiss to the mussed hair at her temple before settling her on her hip.
“Detective Székely, nice to see you,” Morana offers comfortably as she stands. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth at the display before her, widening some more when her coworker’s attention turns to her.
“Dr. Rahmani?” the woman recognizes. “Guess I can spare the lecture on stranger danger. I see you’ve already met my little trouble maker.” Morana has always enjoyed the way the detective’s accent curls around consonants, around her name.
“No trouble at all,” she waves off. “Though we haven’t been formally introduced.”
“Of course. This is my daughter, Sophie. Can you say hi to Dr. Rahmani, pui?” But she—Sophie—shies away, tucking herself into her mother’s neck and hiding in an equally wild nest of black hair. Morana only laughs, not bothered in the least by the sudden bashfulness. Children are precious like that.
“I think we’re past hellos. I was just taught a fascinating fact about polar bears.”
“Ah, bears are her favorite. Sometimes I think she’s more cub than kid,” the tall woman teases, giving the child a little jostle in her arms and making her giggle as she peeks from behind a curtain of black curls.
“I didn’t realize you had a family, Detective,” Morana says, her curiosity genuine.
“Striga, please,” she offers, and Morana is grateful to have been granted the familiarity.
“It’s just me and mama,” Sophie answers. “Sometimes my aunties.”
“Just the two of you? Well I hope you behave for your mama,” Morana chances a poke to Sophie’s torso, earning a little shriek and a new fit of giggles when her tickle lands just right.
“She’s a good girl, just a little too adventurous sometimes. And very curious, huh ursuleț?” Though Morana can’t translate the word, she recognizes the term of endearment for what it is, and finds something in her lifting. It’s the first time she’s seen Striga outside of work, and the change from the taciturn Special Victims Unit detective to being a doting mother showing such overt adoration of her child is, well, refreshing, to say the least. A little confusing—she never tagged Striga as the affectionate sort—but pleasant nonetheless. She’s always appreciated the detective’s dogged resolve and was continually impressed by her ethical and successful handling of cases, especially the ugly ones, the ones that no one quite knew how to discuss and that they all assuredly lost sleep to. After some of the things they’ve seen, she’s honestly surprised to see Striga smile at all, let alone beam as she does at the little girl in her arms. Truth be told, the pathologist had always had an interest in the woman, though could never get a crack in that stately expression. Now here she is, unhampered by her work, not in her usual black suit but in active wear (that Morana now realizes is very fitted and very flattering), and laughing as if she had not a care in the world, with a child no less. It feels like whiplash, but of the most welcomed kind. For a moment all she can do is stand and stare, somewhat awash in the delight of it all in a way she couldn’t have anticipated, before she realizes that Striga is asking her something.
“Sorry, what was that?” she asks, shaking her head to clear it.
“I said I hope you brought your umbrella.”
Shit. As she takes stock, it does appear that the clouds are closing in on them, the wind picking up and threatening her tidy bun. She had gotten so wrapped up in her book, then in Sophie and Striga, that she apparently lost all account of where she was and how much time had passed. Her apartment is a mile away, she’ll never make it back before the skies open, and her mouth pulls in a slight frown. It’s clear, even to Sophie, that Morana had not brought an umbrella.
“Mama can drive you.” Striga nods in agreement with her daughter.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’d hate to put you out,” she counters.
“Not at all. I’d be happy to. I parked close.” Striga nods her head in the direction of the parking lot. She sets Sophie down and waits for Morana to gather her book and other belongings before the three of them start towards the lot, Sophie taking the lead, though Striga warns her not to stray too far ahead. The little one circles back, weaving between Striga and Morana as she begins to talk a mile a minute, quick enough that it’s hard to catch what she’s saying. Morana’s pretty sure there’s some Romanian thrown in the mix as well, or what she assumes to be Romanian, at least, though she’d never really verified where Striga was from. Sophie doesn’t seem to notice how she uses the languages interchangeably, a particularly fun little peculiarity the pathologist’s scientific mind latches onto, even as she struggles to keep up with the conversation.
“And if they want to share food, they touch noses for permission, kinda like a kiss.”
“Polar bears,” Striga clarifies.
“They don’t mate for life. Moms can have a baby every three years, but they do it all by themselves. My mama is single too. Did you know that?” the girl asks, almost pointedly.
“Soph,” comes a gentle warning.
“It’s alright. Single moms are amazing. I was also raised by a single mom,” Morana shares, and Sophie lights up.
“Really? Do you also like girls? Mama only likes girl.”
“Sophie,” Striga admonishes, switching to Romanian to scold her daughter with something along the lines of we don’t ask people that. “I’m sorry,” she adds, in English again, even as her colleague gives a little laugh.
“Don’t be. Kids can be…painfully honest, sometimes. So I’ve heard.”
“Mm, as I’m learning every day. Honest enough to out you to your coworkers, apparently.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re in good company,” Morana says, with a hint of emphasis Striga isn’t quite sure how to take.
“O-oh. I didn’t realize.” A blush rises onto pale cheeks. Morana understands, though. She generally “presented” straight, whatever that looks like, though in her mind her presentation and preferences were separate aspects. And from her experiences, people are usually more complex than they’re credited for.
“It’s not like I go around the morgue waving a pride flag.” They share a laugh, something Morana has never gotten out of the stoic detective. “But it’s not as if it’s a secret. I’ve always liked pretty things. Women included.” Striga hums, but doesn’t press further.
“Do you think Mama is pretty?” Sophie inserts again.
“Alright, Chatty Cathy, that’s enough out of you,” Striga says sternly, reaching out to grab Sophie’s hand in her own comparatively massive one. Sophie quiets, though her eyes stay fixed on Morana, who smiles knowingly at her, though is observant enough to see that Striga’s blush has darkened. Indeed, she finds that particularly pretty, though doesn’t say as much.
“Do you…have your own family?” Striga asks, a bit awkwardly, but sensitively.
“No, I don’t. I’m ‘single’ too, as Sophie says.”
“You and Mama should—“
“Let’s get in the car before the rains starts, da?” her mother cuts her off, striding to her 4-Runner and loading her pack into the back hatch just in time. “Come here, cub,” she calls to Sophie, who reaches up so she can be buckled into her car seat. When she’s situated, Striga gestures to the passenger seat with an open hand, and Morana gratefully obliges. They chat for a minute over directions to Morana’s place nearby as the car warms up, and Striga’s about to pull out of the parking lot when rain begins to splatter the windshield.
“Not a moment too soon,” Striga says comfortably.
“Mama, can we have Old Timey?”
“We sure can. Good idea, baby.”
“What’s ‘Old Timey?’” Morana asks, and Striga smiles a bit shyly.
“Sometimes when it storms, we turn off all the lights and have dinner in the living room with lanterns and candles.”
“We sit on the floor!”
“Old Timey. Like olden times,” Striga clarifies, lighthearted and obviously happy to bow to her child’s whims.
“Mama makes fresh bread. Then we cuddle under the blankies and watch the rain and Mama sings old songs.”
“Hey now, don’t be giving away all my secrets,” the big woman teases. “Narc,” she adds, quietly enough that only Morana hears, and chuckles. She thinks to say how precious that sounds, but is promptly interrupted by a blinding flash of lightning too close for comfort, followed instantly by a huge boom of thunder just overhead.
“Wow, that was a big one, huh?” Striga asks, full of enthusiasm as she turns in her seat to look at Sophie. The girl laughs and claps, a stark contrast to Morana, who got very quiet very quickly, and is visibly tense as she raises a hand to her brow. Of course Striga notices, and her tone shifts abruptly.
“Are you alright?”
“Suppose if we’re sharing secrets…” she starts, albeit hesitantly. “I…I don’t do well with thunder storms.”
“I see,” Striga says, brow furrowing, serious as a car wreck. “We’ll get you back quick then.”
“Dr. Meenee should come to Old Timey!” Sophie bursts from the back seat. Morana manages a questioning look towards Striga.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude…”
“Everyone is welcome to join Old Timey, Dr. Meenee” the detective teases, but the offer is warm and welcoming and wholeheartedly sincere.
“If Sophie invites me, who am I to say no?” Morana accepts, smiling despite the tremor that runs up her spine when thunder booms again.
“Let’s go home then.”
“Yay! Old Timey, Old Timey!” Sophie squeals, and Striga puts the 4-Runner in drive and eases out of the parking lot.