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delicate

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Paige is not delicate: she is raging, she is a storm. She is thunder cracking deadly lines of white lightning into the dark sky. Her skin might be porcelain, but it’s not easy to shatter.

Paige is not delicate, and Becky knows that. She’s known it for as long as she’s known Paige. Back before they even came over to the States, when she teamed up with Paige and her mother on the independent circuit, when they became something, when she watched Paige sign to NXT, when Paige fiercely promised that she’d wait for Becky there.

(And she did, of course she did, but by the time Becky got there, Paige had already risen to the main roster and earned herself a couple of titles on the way up.)

Becky looks to where Paige’s head rests against her chest, dark hair soft under Becky’s fingers. Asleep.

Paige is softer in her sleep. Well – Becky thinks everyone probably is, but Paige especially seems to calm when she’s off dreaming, when she’s without all the angry eye make-up and the stay away from me expression she wears if she’s in a bad mood.

She doesn’t try to be scary around Becky. Even if she tried, Becky would just send a laugh Paige’s way and lean in to kiss her on the cheek. Now though, she just dips down to kiss the top of Paige’s head, and in her sleep, Paige gives a gentle, satisfied-sounding hum.

No, Paige is not delicate, but in these moments, in the quiet, the still, she may as well be.