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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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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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And so it is, she doesn't say. "Yes, brought back from the dead is generally a major event. Should we celebrate a second birthday for you now?" She's talking to try to distract herself from the tickly, pleasant feeling of her shirt moving against her skin, the barest brush of Gideon's fingers as they move.
Nervous talking, who is she??
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Eyes narrowed demurely over a pointed little smirk. “Hm since we started kissing, I suppose.”
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Both dark eyebrows raise. “Are you objecting?”
She’s not nervous, she’s not. Nope!!!
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Gideon's expression changes like the rising sun and really, what can Harrow do in the face of that? Her heart takes off at a gallop, and she swallows around something thick in her throat as she's backed up against the counter.
She's not sure which is making her feel most insane; the gentle touch to her chin, the warm pressure of Gideon's body so stupidly close to her own, how absolutely fucking safe she feels, being hemmed in by the cavalier. Probably the last one is the worst. Fucked up!
The kiss itself is soft, too, less of the insistent mashing she had started with last time, just a slow connection. It makes a soft noise come out of Harrow's nose that embarrasses her, and her hands snap up to grab handfuls of Gideon's shirt.
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When Harrow makes that soft noise, she chuckles, full of warmth and fondness. And then she just kisses and kisses. She kisses until she's well and truly dizzy and has to lean one arm on the sink.
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Harrow can feel the way Gideon's lips pull into a smile against her own. She's kissing the smile, and her heart thumps traitorously in her chest about it. Gideon touches her like she's something fragile and priceless and she can't decide whether to lean into it or bristle.
Gideon chuckles and it feels like the sound of it strokes her very soul. She bends to the kissing onslaught, nearly melting into it. It feels so greedy, so much more audacious than all the horrible ways she's tortured Gideon over the years.
When the cav starts to sag she hops up to sit on the counter, gaining some height and dragging their bodies closer, her knees spread to make room, and then squeezing in against Gideon's sides to trap her there.
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Yes, she likes that. The desperate sound, the way Gideon starts to bend back to Harrow's will, letting herself be trapped. She wraps her hands around to fist in the back Gideon's shirt instead of the front, their chests pressing together again, this time with shirts. Goosebumps rise up on the back of her neck and trail down her arms. Emboldened, she sucks Gideon's bottom lip in far enough to sink her teeth into it.
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All those needy little sounds fuel up Harrow's confidence-o-meter, making her feel powerful and a little bit drunk. She hums out a sigh of contentment, pleased with the slow stroking of Gideon's hands. She arches her spine like a spoiled cat, sliding her own hands down to tuck just her fingertips up into Gideon's shirt. Just to feel the warm, very alive skin. To remind herself this is real.
She breaks from the never-ending stream of kissing a little deprived of air. She huffs what might be a laugh in between her heavier breathing. "You're... going to collapse any moment. Come on." She releases her knee-grip and gently pushes at Gideon so she has room to stand. "I want to lie down." For at least a week, preferably a whole month.
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"Can we keep kissing though?" she asks, hopefully.
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Harrow has to roll both of her swollen lips inward and bite on them to control her reaction to Gideon's pathetic whining. Her cheeks are quite flushed in contrast to her otherwise cool and controlled presentation.
"Not while we're walking," she rolls her eyes. She grabs Gideon by the sleeve- a strangely imploring and childish gesture for how in charge she's trying to be- and drags her out into the sterile looking hallway.
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The look Harrow turns on her cavalier could wither steel. It's lucky that there is nobody else visible in the hallway or she might combust and kill everyone in the vicinity.
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In practice, she is likely to fall asleep the moment her head hits the pillow, but in theory she will start kissing Harrow and then never stop and everything will be OK forever due to the kissing.
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The audacity of this woman's optimism. Harrow rolls her eyes and marches off, expecting Gideon to follow.
Does she know where she's going? No. But one of the staff on the Erebus can tell her, and they are happy to direct her toward a room.
Once inside, she frowns slightly at the door, considering. Only for a moment, then she's producing a needle from somewhere and stabbing herself in the cheek, drawing precise but quick patters on the back of the door. Just a ward that will warn her the minute someone touches the door so they aren't taken by surprise, but if she wasn't paranoid before, Canaan house sure made her so.
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