Work Text:
Betsy Swain had discovered three things within the first twenty minutes of helping Carla Connor write wedding vows.
One: Carla’s tolerance for wine was wildly overstated, the older she got.
Two: Carla Connor, feared businesswoman of Underworld and terror of half the street, became dramatically useless the moment feelings were involved.
And three: this was, unexpectedly, one of the nicest evenings Betsy had had in ages.
They were sprawled across the Connor sofa with notebooks, crumpled paper, and an aggressively expensive bottle of red Carla had declared necessary for the creative process. Despite it being for Lisa’s emergency wine shelf.
Music drifted in from the kitchen. Carla was barefoot, curled sideways with her glasses balanced low on her nose, glaring at a blank page like it had personally offended her.
“I can’t do it,” Carla announced.
“You’ve written three words.”
“Exactly. I’m spent.”
Betsy snatched the notebook from her lap.
“Lisa. You are…” She looked up. “That’s it?”
Carla reached for it. “Give over.”
“Nope.” Betsy tucked it behind her back. “You’re supposed to be declaring eternal love, not filling in a birthday card.”
Carla narrowed her eyes. “You’re very mouthy for someone drinking my wine.”
“I’m inspiring you.”
“You’re freeloading.”
Betsy grinned. “Same difference.”
Before adding again “Actually it’s mums wine if I remember correctly.”
Carla tried not to smile and failed.
It still caught Betsy off guard sometimes, how easy things had become between them. There’d been a time when Carla was just this glamorous, terrifying woman in designer coats who made her mum go all soft-eyed and distracted.
Now Carla nicked her chips, shouted at her for leaving mugs everywhere, and texted her memes she pretended not to understand.
Somewhere along the line, without anyone making a fuss of it, Carla had become family.
“Right,” Betsy said, flicking to a clean page. “Tell me why you love her.”
Carla groaned theatrically. “You sound like a hostage negotiator.”
“Tell me.”
Carla took her glass, buying time. “She’s annoying.”
“Good start.”
“She’s stubborn.”
“Romantic.”
“She’s got this face she does when she thinks someone’s lying.”
“I know the face.”
“And she never gives up on people.” Carla’s tone shifted, quieter now. “Even when they’ve given up on themselves.”
Betsy looked at her.
Carla stared at the wine in her hand. “Write that bit down, then.”
Betsy did, more carefully than she’d expected to.
The room settled into something warm after that. Carla dictated in fits and starts, pretending not to care whenever Betsy crossed things out and improved them. Betsy teased her mercilessly for using phrases like steadfast presence and emotional sanctuary.
“You sound like a greetings card written by a solicitor,” she said.
“I am not saying ‘you’re fit and I fancy you loads,’ Betsy.”
“It’d be honest.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Carla smiled into her glass. “No. I don’t.”
Betsy tipped the bottle to refill both glasses, then eyed Carla over the rim.
“So while we’re talking honesty.”
Carla immediately looked suspicious. “Why do I hate that tone?”
“I was just thinking,” Betsy said innocently, “with you marrying Mum and all, we’re basically family now.”
“We were having such a nice evening.”
“And families support each other.”
“They do.”
“Financially, sometimes.”
Carla barked out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
Betsy clutched a hand to her chest. “Wow. Cold.”
“You’ve got two functioning legs and a job that I pay you for by the way.”
“Barely functioning.”
Carla pointed a warning finger at her. “My purse is shut, remember.”
Betsy held her stare for one solemn second.
Then shrugged.
“Worth a shot.”
She collapsed into drunken laughter so suddenly she nearly slid off the sofa. Carla lasted about three seconds before joining in, head tipped back, shoulders shaking.
“You are unbelievable,” Carla said through laughter.
“I’m entrepreneurial.”
“Do you even know what means?.”
“Nope.”
“You’re a menace.”
Still your favourite future stepdaughter.”
“My only future stepdaughter.”
“Details.”
A little later, after another page had been abandoned to wine stains and laughter, Betsy asked lightly, “Were you nervous? About all this?”
Carla glanced over. “What, marrying your mum?”
“Yeah.”
Carla considered it, unusually serious. “Terrified.”
Betsy barked a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Course seriously. Your mum matters.” She shrugged one shoulder. “And so do you.”
Something in Betsy’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
“You didn’t have to bother with me, you know,” she said, trying for casual and missing by miles.
Carla’s expression softened.
“Oh, don’t be daft.” She nudged Betsy’s knee with her foot. “You came with the package.”
“That’s rude.”
“It’s affectionate.”
Betsy rolled her eyes, blinking too fast. “You’re still not putting that in the vows.”
“Shame. It’s heartfelt.”
They were both giggling by then, shoulders pressed together as Betsy read back Carla’s increasingly chaotic attempts.
“Lisa, from the moment I met you.”
“No, too cheesy.”
“Lisa, you’re a pain in the arse but unfortunately I adore you”
“Better.”
“Lisa, thank you for putting up with me and your gobshite daughter”
“Perfect.”
Carla laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
That was the moment the front door opened.
Both of them froze.
Then came the unmistakable sound of Lisa Swain setting down her keys in the hallway.
Betsy turned slowly to Carla, eyes wide.
“You’re dead,” she whispered.
Carla straightened her blouse, attempted dignity, and immediately hiccupped.
“Oh God,” Betsy said, dissolving into laughter just as Lisa stepped into the room.
The front door clicked shut.
The sound cut through the music and laughter like a starting pistol.
Betsy froze halfway through pouring more wine into a glass that was already full. Carla froze with a pen tucked behind one ear and three sheets of paper balanced on her knee. For one suspended second, both of them stared at each other.
Then chaos erupted.
“The vows!” Betsy hissed.
“The bottle!” Carla hissed back.
“The other bottle!”
“Why are there so many bottles?”
“Because you said we needed inspiration!”
“I said a bottle!”
Betsy lunged for the coffee table, grabbed the nearest empty bottle and attempted to stuff it behind a cushion. Carla tried to gather the loose pages, missed entirely, and sent them floating onto the rug like confetti.
From the hallway came Lisa’s voice.
“Why is Whitney Houston shouting at me from three rooms away?”
“Turn it off!” Betsy whisper yelled.
“You turn it off!”
“I can’t find my phone!”
“It’s in your hand!”
Betsy looked down at it and burst into helpless laughter.
“Oh my God, it is.”
The music abruptly cut off.
Silence flooded the house.
Then came the unmistakable sounds of Lisa setting down her keys, taking off her coat, and walking toward the living room with the slow, steady tread of someone who already knew nonsense awaited her.
Carla sat bolt upright, smoothed her blouse, crossed one leg over the other, and arranged her face into what she presumably believed was sober elegance.
Betsy copied her.
Neither of them could stop grinning.
Lisa stepped into the doorway and stopped dead.
The room was a disaster.
Wine glasses. Crisp packets. Pens without lids. Pages everywhere. One heel under the radiator. Fairy lights on when no one remembered turning them on. Betsy with flushed cheeks and mascara smudged under one eye. Carla looking expensive and dishevelled in equal measure.
Lisa slowly blinked.
“What,” she said, voice dangerously calm, “is this?”
“No idea,” Betsy said immediately.
“An ambush,” Carla said at the same time.
Lisa put her bag down very carefully. “I leave for one shift.”
“We’ve missed you terribly,” Carla said.
“You’ve been gone for years,” Betsy added mournfully.
“It was eight hours.”
“A lifetime,” Carla murmured.
Lisa folded her arms. “Have you two been drinking all day?”
“No,” Betsy said.
“Yes,” Carla said.
Betsy whipped round. “Traitor!”
Lisa stared at them. “I can’t believe you spent the day getting drunk.”
“We were not getting drunk,” Carla objected, scandalised. “We were being productive.”
Lisa looked around the wreckage. “This is productive?”
“We were writing vows,” Carla said, then pointed straight at Betsy. “And it was Betsy’s ideas.”
Betsy gasped so dramatically she nearly inhaled her fringe.
“Oh yeah, throw me under the bus!”
“You said I should mention your mums arms.”
“They’re very nice arms.”
“Thank you,” Lisa said automatically.
Both of them turned to look at her.
Lisa frowned. “That’s not the point.”
Betsy pointed at Carla accusingly. “She said steadfast presence three times.”
“It’s romantic!”
“It’s boring!”
“It’s elegant!”
“It sounds like a parking permit!”
Lisa pressed fingers to her temple. “Why are you both shouting?”
“We’re passionate,” Betsy said.
“We’re drunk,” Carla corrected.
Betsy snorted, then nudged Carla hard in the shoulder. “Grass.”
Carla let out an offended groan. “Did you just shoulder check me in my own home?”
“You deserved it.”
Carla nudged her back.
Betsy gasped. “Mum! Witnessed assault!”
“You hit me first,” Carla said.
“That was corrective.”
They glared at each other for roughly half a second before Betsy lunged for the cushion beside Carla and smacked her with it.
Carla shrieked.
Lisa actually took a step back.
“Absolutely not,” Carla cried, grabbing another cushion and swinging wildly. “You little menace!”
Betsy doubled over laughing and tried to block the blows with her forearm. “Too slow, old woman!”
“Old woman?!”
Carla launched herself across the sofa with all the coordination of a newborn deer. Betsy squealed, slid sideways, and both of them ended up tangled in cushions and limbs, swatting uselessly at each other while laughing so hard neither could breathe.
Lisa stood in the middle of the room, still in her work clothes, watching her fiancée and daughter wrestle like unsupervised children.
“I’m actually embarrassed for both of you.”
“No you’re not,” Betsy wheezed from under a cushion.
“No, I’m not,” Lisa admitted.
Carla managed to pin Betsy’s wrist triumphantly. “Yield.”
“Never.”
“I’m marrying your mother.”
“Condolences.”
Carla yelped as Betsy poked her in the ribs. Carla retaliated immediately, fingers digging into Betsy’s sides until Betsy shrieked with laughter.
“Mum! Help! She’s using torture!”
“You started it,” Lisa said, though she was smiling now despite herself.
Carla looked up at Lisa, hair fallen loose, cheeks flushed, grin bright and unguarded.
“Back me up, Detective Sergeant.”
“You’re literally ancient.” Betsy squealed under Carla
“And winning.”
“You are sat on my daughter.” Lisa said
Carla glanced down. “Technicality.”
Betsy wriggled free, shoved Carla sideways, and they both collapsed back against the sofa in a heap, breathless and still giggling.
Carla groaned dramatically, one arm over her eyes.
“That’s it,” she declared. “I’m never drinking with her again.”
Betsy sat up at once. “Liar.”
“Absolute menace.”
“You love me.”
“Debatable.”
“You bought me chips last week.”
“That was pity.”
Betsy beamed and leaned over to flop half across Carla, who groaned louder but made no move to push her off.
Lisa shook her head slowly. “I genuinely cannot believe I came home to this.”
“You should be grateful,” Betsy said. “We’re delightful.”
“You’re sticky,” Lisa replied.
Betsy sniffed her sleeve. “Bit rude.”
Carla peeked out from under her arm. “Come here.”
Lisa gave her a flat look. “Why?”
“Because we’ve had a long day.”
“You’ve had wine and stationery.”
“It takes it out of you.”
Betsy held out both hands dramatically. “Family cuddle.”
Lisa laughed once under her breath. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet beloved,” Betsy said.
After a beat, Lisa sighed and crossed the room.
The second she was close enough, Betsy grabbed one hand and Carla caught the other, tugging her down between them onto the sofa.
“Oh, for”
Lisa barely got the words out before Betsy wrapped around one side of her and Carla tucked herself into the other.
“You smell like outside,” Betsy informed her.
“You smell like wine,” Lisa replied.
“Expensive,” Carla corrected into her shoulder.
Lisa looked down at the two of them clinging to her and tried, unsuccessfully, to stay stern.
“You pair of disasters.”
“Your disasters,” Carla murmured.
That did it.
Lisa’s face softened completely.
She pressed a kiss to Betsy’s hair, then another to Carla’s temple.
“Right,” she said quietly. “Five more minutes of this, then water, painkillers, and bed.”
Betsy pumped a fist. “Victory.”
Carla snorted. “You’re thirty seconds from being sick on the rug.”
“Still worth it.”
Lisa closed her eyes briefly, smiling despite herself, while either side of her the two most chaotic people in her life continued to bicker affectionately over who had won the fight.
For a few blissful minutes, Lisa let herself be pinned in the middle of the sofa.
Betsy was draped over one side of her like an overgrown cat, head on Lisa’s shoulder, talking complete nonsense in a lazy stream that barely paused for breath.
Carla was tucked against the other side, one hand curled possessively around Lisa’s wrist as though she might vanish if not physically secured.
The room smelled of wine, crisps, and Carla’s perfume.
It was ridiculous.
It was, Lisa had to admit privately, also rather nice.
“and then,” Betsy was saying, eyes half shut, “if pigeons had jobs, right, they’d all work in middle management because they’ve got the vibe for it.”
Lisa stared ahead. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Betsy said solemnly, “look at one next time. Clipboard energy.”
Carla snorted into Lisa’s shoulder.
“Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m not encouraging,” Carla murmured. “I’m appreciating.”
Betsy pointed triumphantly. “See? Carla gets me.”
“Carla is drunk.”
“And wise.”
Lisa sighed. “You’re both impossible.”
Betsy sat up abruptly, nearly headbutting Lisa in the chin.
“I’ve had an idea.”
“That sentence never ends well,” Lisa muttered.
“We should go the Rovers.”
Lisa blinked. “No.”
“Family bonding,” Betsy continued, undeterred. “One more drink, packet of nuts, maybe karaoke if they’ve got that machine back.”
“No.”
Carla lifted her head at once, instantly interested. “Actually…”
Lisa turned to her slowly. “Don’t.”
Carla gave her the sweetest smile she possessed, which was saying something.
“I think Betsy’s onto something.”
“She is onto her third bottle.”
“Fresh air would do us good.”
“It’s night.”
“Night air then.”
“You can barely stand.”
Carla considered this. “Rude.”
Betsy clapped enthusiastically. “Come on, Mum. Pint with your girls.”
“My girls?”
“Yes,” Betsy said. “Your wife-ish one and your daughter one.”
Lisa folded her arms. “Absolutely not.”
Both Carla and Betsy groaned in unison.
“Detective Sergeant Buzzkill,” Betsy announced.
Carla nodded gravely. “Terrible affliction.”
“I am not called Detective Sergeant Buzzkill.”
“You have the energy,” Betsy said.
“You suck joy out of rooms,” Carla added.
“I literally walked into this room and found chaos.”
“And improved it,” Carla said.
Lisa opened her mouth to retort and got nowhere because Betsy suddenly poked her in the side.
Lisa jerked. “Betsy!”
“Nope,” Betsy said. “Weak spot confirmed.”
Carla’s eyes lit up wickedly.
“Oh no,” Lisa said.
“Oh yes,” Carla purred, and poked Lisa’s other side.
Lisa twisted away with a startled laugh she tried to disguise as annoyance.
“Stop it.”
“Make us,” Betsy said.
Two more pokes landed from opposite sides. Lisa grabbed at wandering hands while both of them cackled like children.
“You’re both out of your minds.”
“Correct,” Carla said, then immediately softened and slid closer until she was practically in Lisa’s lap.
“There,” Carla sighed contentedly, tucking herself against Lisa’s chest. “Better.”
Lisa looked down at the elegant, formidable woman now behaving like a needy housecat.
“You’re clingy when you’re drunk.”
“I’m clingy when I’m sober,” Carla replied. “I just hide it better.”
That disarmed Lisa more than she cared to admit.
She wrapped an arm around Carla automatically, thumb stroking along her side.
Betsy gasped dramatically.
“Wow.”
Lisa glanced over. “What now?”
“Where’s my involvement?” Betsy demanded. “Favouritism in front of witnesses.”
“You’re eighteen years old.”
“And emotionally delicate.”
Carla, eyes closed and smug against Lisa’s shoulder, opened one arm without looking.
“Come here then.”
Betsy grinned and launched herself across the sofa.
The three of them collided in a heap of limbs and laughter, both Betsy and Carla squashing Lisa into the cushions from either side.
“I can’t breathe,” Lisa complained.
“You’re welcome,” Betsy said into her neck.
“Family bonding,” Carla mumbled.
Lisa tried to wriggle free, failed, then gave up.
Instead she let her head rest back and held them both there.
Betsy’s hair tickled her jaw. Carla’s hand was warm where it rested over Lisa’s ribs. Somewhere beneath the chaos, beneath the wine and the teasing and the noise, was something steady and precious.
Home.
Lisa’s arms tightened around them both.
For one quiet moment, neither Carla nor Betsy noticed.
Then Betsy lifted her head.
“Did Mum just cuddle us willingly?”
“No,” Lisa said at once.
“She did,” Carla said smugly.
“I slipped.”
“Emotionally,” Betsy added.
Lisa rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the smile.
Then Carla frowned suddenly.
“Hang on. Why does she get the left side?”
Betsy sat upright. “Because I was here first.”
“I’m the fiancée.”
“I’m the daughter.”
“I outrank you.”
“That’s not how families work!”
“It is in my head.”
Lisa closed her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Betsy shoved Carla lightly. Carla shoved back harder. Within seconds they were bickering over cushion territory and elbow space, talking over each other in indignant, slurred outrage.
“I need more room!”
“You’re all limbs! You’re like a baby giraffe.”
“You’ve got pointy knees!”
“You’ve got sharp opinions!”
Lisa sat between them, trapped and deeply fond.
Five minutes ago they had been one perfect warm embrace.
Now they were arguing over who had stolen whose blanket.
And somehow, impossibly, Lisa loved them even more for it.
Betsy untangled herself first.
It took three attempts.
On the first, she pushed herself upright too quickly and immediately toppled sideways into Lisa’s shoulder.
On the second, she stood, swayed dramatically like a tree in high wind, and had to catch herself on the coffee table.
By the third attempt she was upright, chest puffed out in triumph.
“See?” she announced. “Graceful.”
“You nearly concussed yourself on the lamp,” Lisa said.
“Technicality.”
Betsy blinked down at the empty wine glasses on the table, then at the bottle lying on its side.
Her face lit up.
“Come on, Mum,” she said, turning with exaggerated excitement. “One glass. What do ya say?”
“No,” Lisa replied instantly.
Carla, however, was already sitting up straighter.
She turned to Lisa, batted her eyelashes with shameless exaggeration and clasped her hands together.
“Pleaaaaseeeee.”
Lisa stared. “Have some dignity.”
“I left that behind two bottles ago.”
“Pleaaaase,” Carla repeated, dragging the word out while leaning in to nuzzle into Lisa’s shoulder. “Me and Bets have had the best bonding day today.”
Betsy nodded earnestly. “Historic levels of bonding.”
“We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, she tried to extort me”
“Entrepreneurship,” Betsy corrected.
Carla waved that away and pressed another kissy little nuzzle into Lisa’s neck. “One glass.”
Lisa looked between them: Betsy swaying with hopeful excitement, Carla soft and clingy and very clearly working every charm she had.
She lasted another three seconds.
“Okay, fine. One glass, then it’s bedtime. Some of us have worked today.”
“Hey!” they both cried in outrage.
“We worked,” Betsy added indignantly, already marching toward the sideboard.
“At what?”
“Emotional labour.”
“Creative writing,” Carla said loftily.
“Menace training,” Lisa muttered.
Betsy opened the cupboard and whooped.
“There she is.”
Carla’s head snapped round. “Oi, you. That’s my emergency wine.”
“Okay and?” Betsy said, already cracking it open.
Lisa pointed accusingly. “You managed to drink my emergency wine.”
“I was struggling writing my vows,” Carla said with zero shame. “Made me feel closer to you.”
“No excuse,” Lisa said dryly.
“Bit harsh,” Betsy muttered, pouring anyway.
Carla slid off Lisa at once, suddenly motivated, and stalked over to reclaim some authority.
Instead, Betsy handed her a filled glass.
Carla took it immediately.
“Cheers, love.”
“You are spineless,” Lisa informed her.
“I’m hydrated.”
Betsy filled another glass and pressed it into Lisa’s hand before taking one for herself. Then she climbed back toward the sofa, nearly tripped on the rug, corrected course with a dramatic windmill of arms, and stood in front of them both like she was addressing parliament.
“Oh no,” Lisa said.
“Oh yes,” Carla murmured, settling back with interest.
Betsy raised her glass high.
“I would like to make a speech.”
“Can anyone stop you,” Lisa said.
“They should,” Carla muttered into her wine.
Betsy cleared her throat three times.
“To the best mums a girl could wish for.”
Lisa’s expression softened instantly.
Carla looked suspiciously touched.
Betsy pointed her glass at Carla first.
“Carla I may have called you a hard-faced cow—”
“Oh charming,” Carla said.
“but,” Betsy continued loudly, “you have made my life so much better. I’m grateful for you every single day and for having you as a step mummy in my life.”
She wiggled her eyebrows outrageously on the words step mummy.
Carla nearly choked on her drink.
“The only extra mum you’ll get,” Carla winked.
Betsy grinned. “You love it. You’re the only other mum I want in my life”
“Oh aren’t I lucky.” Carla teased.
But her smile gave her away.
Then Betsy turned solemnly to Lisa.
“And Mum even though I’m a bitch—”
“Language, Bets.”
“I’m eighteen, come on. Can I carry on my speech or not?”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “Okay, go on.”
“I’m thankful for you every day,” Betsy said, voice softer now. “And Carla’s brought out the best side in you and has truly made us so much closer as a family unit.”
The room went quiet for a beat.
Lisa looked down into her glass, blinking once.
Carla’s face gentled completely.
Then Lisa stood and reached out to clink Betsy’s glass first.
“You sap.”
“Takes one to know one,” Betsy said, sniffing dramatically.
Carla lifted her own.
“To becoming the Connor-Swain family.”
“The Connor-Swain family,” Betsy echoed proudly.
Lisa smiled and touched her glass to theirs.
“To us.”
They drank.
The warmth of it settled over the room.
Then Carla looked at Betsy over the rim of her glass.
“You’re still not having any money.”
Betsy groaned as though personally betrayed and flopped sideways onto the sofa beside Carla, throwing herself across her lap.
“You are heartless.”
“I’m sensible.”
“What happened to buying people’s affection and your love language of buying gifts.” Betsy winked before adding.
“Please,” immediately turning on the charm. She batted her eyelashes in a truly horrifying imitation of Carla’s earlier tactic. “I just really, really want this new bag.”
Carla rolled her eyes. “How much?”
Betsy smirked while cuddling further into her, then sat up and shoved at Carla’s shoulder playfully.
“Fifty quid but we could call it a hundred, just for benefit purposes.”
Lisa barked a laugh.
“What do you think Carla pays you in wages, pretend money?”
Betsy gasped. “Mum! This is between me and my other mummy.”
“She’s got a point,” Carla said.
“She doesn’t know the wage I get paid and how expensive it is being me.”
“Oh trust me I do,” Lisa corrected.
Betsy folded her arms and pouted dramatically.
Carla took another sip, then looked at her for a long moment.
“Go get me my purse.”
Betsy froze.
Lisa froze.
Then Betsy shrieked so loudly all three of them winced.
“I KNEW YOU LOVED ME!”
She launched off the sofa at speed, stumbled, righted herself, and tore upstairs like an overexcited puppy.
Lisa turned slowly to Carla.
“You are not giving her a hundred pounds for a bag.”
Carla shrugged, looking entirely pleased with herself.
“I might give her fifty.”
“You are soft.”
“I’m drunk.”
“Same thing. You do it not drunk!”
Carla reached for Lisa’s hand and tugged her closer until their knees touched.
“Mm,” she said contentedly. “Still your fiancée though.”
Lisa sighed as if put upon, then leaned down to kiss her anyway.
From upstairs came Betsy yelling:
“IS IT THE BLACK PURSE OR THE BROWN ONE?”
Carla pulled back just long enough to shout.
“THE BLACK ONE, YOU LITTLE THIEF!”
Then she kissed Lisa again while they both laughed.