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Put That Thing Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me
Desolation. That's what Harrow feels when the King Undying tells her that what she wants most is impossible. Not even what she wants, but what she needs. She cannot live without Gideon Nav, and she will not. Unending life, in spite of being what she had sought after in the beginning, is now unthinkable. She looks up into his surprisingly normal face, his unearthly eyes, and lets her gaze drop.
A horrible certainty rises in her, and becomes a morbid hope. Her face is serene with unspeakable grief, none of her wild plan showing as she asks to see the body of her cavalier. He grants her this, and she walks like a woman to the gallows down the ship to the cold storage. He has the grace to leave her alone with her grief, of course, and she opens the door with her heart in her throat.
The chill of the corpsetorium echoes the cool calm of her mind. Her chest aches, her throat is sore from screaming, but the sight of Gideon, hole in her chest, laying on a slab like so much dead meat does not inspire the crushing grief she had expected to. It fuels her. Motivates her to think harder, to dissect the theorems she studied and the one megatheorem that led to this cursed conclusion (damn Sextus for being right).
Harrow has no idea how long she sits there, her mind working in overdrive, peering inward to slowly pull out the stitches she had made in her own soul only mere hours before. It feels like only seconds at the same time it feels like eons. She has to do this carefully, slowly. I will not live without you. she thinks to herself and to the traces of Nav that exist inside her. She repeats it like a mantra. I told you that I am undone without you. We are both undone if I must go on alone.
It's the most delicate work she's ever done, and it hurts. It's a pain right down to her marrow, like she's trying to peel layers of calcium off of her own bones. At the end of it, it feels like she's holding a doll in her metaphysical hands. A little gauzy imitation of Gideon Nav. She pulls it free of herself, feels blood drip from her forehead into her eyes, and with all of the ferocity she had to hold back during the excavation, she slams the soul back into its rightful body.
A horrible certainty rises in her, and becomes a morbid hope. Her face is serene with unspeakable grief, none of her wild plan showing as she asks to see the body of her cavalier. He grants her this, and she walks like a woman to the gallows down the ship to the cold storage. He has the grace to leave her alone with her grief, of course, and she opens the door with her heart in her throat.
The chill of the corpsetorium echoes the cool calm of her mind. Her chest aches, her throat is sore from screaming, but the sight of Gideon, hole in her chest, laying on a slab like so much dead meat does not inspire the crushing grief she had expected to. It fuels her. Motivates her to think harder, to dissect the theorems she studied and the one megatheorem that led to this cursed conclusion (damn Sextus for being right).
Harrow has no idea how long she sits there, her mind working in overdrive, peering inward to slowly pull out the stitches she had made in her own soul only mere hours before. It feels like only seconds at the same time it feels like eons. She has to do this carefully, slowly. I will not live without you. she thinks to herself and to the traces of Nav that exist inside her. She repeats it like a mantra. I told you that I am undone without you. We are both undone if I must go on alone.
It's the most delicate work she's ever done, and it hurts. It's a pain right down to her marrow, like she's trying to peel layers of calcium off of her own bones. At the end of it, it feels like she's holding a doll in her metaphysical hands. A little gauzy imitation of Gideon Nav. She pulls it free of herself, feels blood drip from her forehead into her eyes, and with all of the ferocity she had to hold back during the excavation, she slams the soul back into its rightful body.
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It feels like crossing another bridge together, the way Gideon leans into her hand and allows Harrow to hold her up. A sign of trust that banished her previous fears about not being forgiven.
She carefully rinses red hair with passes of clean fingers, careful to keep water out of the other's eyes and ears. When she deems Gideon well enough rinsed she settles her other hand behind the cavalier's head and smiles down at her, lowering her own face until their brows and noses slot together, frontal sinus to frontal sinus.
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The whisper of her name makes Harrow's insides squirm. It's strangely not unpleasant. The fingers in Gideon's hair curl a little more, blunt nails lightly scraping scalp.
"Gideon." She responds, softly spoken and with a hint of amusement.
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Harrow feels a tightening in her chest, a rising of her heart into her throat... anticipation for something, but Gideon trails off and then the moment breaks. It's obvious that she changed her mind on what to ask, and that strange squirming feeling in her stomach returns.
She releases her hold on Gideon, gently pushing up to encourage her to sit and not just fall into the water, looking sideways at the unspeakable color the bath has turned. Her nose wrinkles. "Yes." She agrees, though part of her sounds hesitant, still drawn to chase after that aborted question.
Harrow is a smart girl, she can sense the tension. She suspects. But even if she's right... what they are to each other is complicated enough as it is! There are so many reasons to pretend she does not see it! She fills her mind with the reasons and excuses as she pulls herself out of the water.
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"They have beds around here? I wanna sleep for a Myriad."
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Harrow pulls the towel around herself like a shroud, hugging herself and letting her wet hair drip for a moment, just to bask in the warm feeling the moment inspires.
But the moment has to pass and Gideon makes a good point: she's exhausted. Surely they both are. She lifts the towel over her head and starts to try herself, pointedly not peering up at Gideon's naked wet muscular body, flushed from the heat of the bath. Nope. Definitely not looking.
God those arms, though.
"If they don't, I'm sleeping on the fucking floor," she announces with a little smirk as she stands, wrapping the towel around herself like a dress.
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“How about trousers?”
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Saints save her Gideon steams like fresh tea. The towel doesn't reach around her and there's still a sliver of warm-toned flesh visible. The side of her abs, a hip, some thigh...
Harrow swallows visibly and turns to snatch a comb, running it through her stringy hair so it's smoothed back over her head.
"They brought spares for us," she gestures behind herself toward a shelf with two sets of neatly folded cohort-issue clothes. One in several sizes larger than the other. Is she watching Gideon in the mirror as she combs? Maybe.
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She takes the trousers, and tries not to think about the circumstances she expected to put on the uniform for. Instead let's think about terrorizing Harrow.
"See something you like?"
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No they're not they are very subtle! Stop noticing her staring!!!! Harrow can only hope that Gideon is confused enough, or still embarrassed enough after their mini-fight to not say anything.
She hopes in vain.
She doesn't even get a chance to try to control her reaction. The reaction just happens. The noise Harrow makes is something close to "gurk" followed by coughing on her own aspirated saliva. The fluorescent blush on her face that reaches out to her ears completes the damning picture.
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A single perfect brow raises slowly. She secures the trousers with as much of a casual affect as she can manage. Then she slings the towel over her shoulders, so that the ends barely cover her breasts. She closes the distance between them with as admirable swagger and leans one arm against the wall next to her, effectively pinning her against the counter, "What was that, Nightboss?"
Instead she replies, "Whaaaat???" and slaps Harrow on the back awkwardly.
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A vision comes to Harrow, too, in the form of a memory. Gideon, half delirious, sprawled on the tiles and reaching up to touch her face. Not exactly how I wanted to get naked with you.
The slap to the back does actually clear the burning from her airway, so there's that.
She turns around, a hand still clutching the towel to the side of her chest, her face more exposed than it has probably ever been in the presence of another person- no facepaint, no hood, not even a loose strand of hair to mar the view. She looks intensely into Gideon's face, peering with hard, coal black eyes. Her perfect cupid's bow is pouted out a little in thought as if she could think hard enough and see an answer written on Gideon's face.
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Out loud she manages, “y’know, if you wanted to kiss me, that would be a pretty normal reaction.”
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The thing, the really stupid thing is, Harrow does want to kiss her. Probably would have kissed her, but then Gideon had to go and say stupid bullshit with her mouth! One hand finds its way to a bony hip and Harrow puts on her best sassy pose.
"Right, a very normal reaction for all the other girls our age we've had the chance to spend time with or kiss." The sass isn't as bladed as her usual, and the corner of her lips twitch.
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A deep inhale that lifts her chest and seems to gain her a centimeter in height, and then a rush of exhale. Is that what this is...? Gideon just being... stupid and horny and stroking her own ego, like always? Harrow felt so sure a moment ago and suddenly the insecurity returns.
"Oh go put a shirt on," she complains, reaching out to push Gideon away by the abdomen as that seemed a safe enough place to put her hand.
But then her hand alights on the abs and she realizes it was, in fact, a mistake. Soft skin and a thin layer of softness over rock-hard abs and Harrow freezes with her hand there, the flush on her face creeping down her neck.
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"And if I wanted to kiss you... that would... uhm... be, my feelings."
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She's staring at abs, and then at Gideon's hand around her wrist. She's still staring when she hears a voice. A voice that it takes her several heartbeats to process. Slowly she looks back up at Gideon's face, feeling so warm she might start steaming herself.
For a blink, her face is a searching, confused blank. Then she breaks into a playfully wicked smile that pulls the bow of her lips out.
"You idiot," she laughs. Both hands move to grab the towel around Gideon's neck, dragging her down to the necromancer's height and planting a decisive kiss on her lips.
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But here she is, freshly resurrected and a hot mess smooching on a bone goblin.
Their lips brush together, and she thinks maybe she should slip a tongue? But she manages to tamper that particular whim down. After an awkward moment, she puts her hands on Harrow's shoulders.
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That's Lady bone goblin to you, Nav.
Harrow has imagined kissing Gideon before. Usually it involves Gideon being more vulnerable. Maybe Harrow standing over her, being prim and in control. Sometimes in the darkest pits of the night she imagines being picked up by those stupid buff arms or bore down on... She'd still rather die than admit that particular fantasy. Gideon's insufferable enough as she is.
Insufferable and her lips are soft and she smells like soap and home. Harrow finds herself lingering, unwilling to break away from the softness that makes her skin feel so tingly. Gideon's hands will find her necro's shoulders broken out into goosebumps. She sighs prettily out of her nose and embraces the blissful thoughtlessness.
Then all at once the spell breaks with the kiss. Their lips make a little sound as they part and hot shame bubbles up in Harrow to replace the pleasant warmth of a moment before. She releases Gideon, clearing her throat awkwardly and reaching for her own set of clothes in the awkward fumbling way of someone trying very hard to not go back for more smooching but very much unable to think of anything else.
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But no, this isn't that. This is soft, and sweet, and somehow even warmer than the bath, despite her damp hair cooling on her head.
And then it's over. And Gideon misses it. Misses the touch. She wants to be touching Harrow forever suddenly. But instead she lets Harrow pull back. She pulls on her own shit without a bandeau.
"Cool," she says, feeling more-or-less as delirious as she'd been when laid out on the tiles.
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Of all the stupid, pointless things to say. What does she even mean by that? "Cool"? Harrow peeks at Gideon out of the corner of her eye and glances away when she sees a quick flash of nipple. N o p e. She grabs her own trousers and pulls them on impatiently under her towel-dress.
In the process of doing the fly, the tuck-in on her towel undoes itself and falls off, leaving her skinny torso visible to the world in all it's ghostly pale, visible-ribbed glory. Flushed, she snatches her shirt and starts to button it up in a rush. She ends up buttoning it one hole higher and doesn't realize until she gets to the top and her collar is uneven. "Shit," she whispers the swear.
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She takes a brief pause from kicking herself to take Harrow's hands again. "Here, let me. I owe you some properly done buttons."
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Harrowhark does a quick calculation of which is worse: the embarrassment of letting Gideon fix her improperly done clothes for her, or allowing an excuse for more tenderness pass by.
"Don't be ridiculous," but she moves her hands away to let Gideon do what she will. "I never expected you to be that kind of cav." The personal butler kind, like the uncomfortable eighth house pair. Well, she thinks, Camilla did some of that for Palamedes and that wasn't so strange.
It still makes her feel squirmy, to let Gideon dress her.
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