we_bring_hell | Gideon the Ninth, Chapter 31

Harrowhark stands in the hallway and watches the Third retreat, her brow furrowing a wrinkle into her paint. She has an uncomfortable feeling she's been underestimating Ianthe Tridentarius all along, and her head whirls with being suddenly hurled back into the unforgiving meatgrinder of House politics.

But the secret is out and she is vindicated; she did not kill Protesilaus Ebdoma, and Dulcinea Septimus is a liar.

She hears the unmistakable footsteps of Gideon Nav joining her, and forgets all that. She turns in a swish of black cloth and says, “Follow me.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

we_do_bones

Gideon splutters and splashes and trips the skeleton into the waves before grabbing her sword belt to buckle back around her hips. Her makeup has all washed off – she looks very like the Gideon Nav who tried to escape for the eighty-seventh time only a few short months ago, except for how she's unwilling to allow more than a few feet between herself and her adept.

"Did your mom's rule have anything against getting some dry clothes after?" she asks, shivering a little. The breeze isn't especially cold, but they're both absolutely soaked through.

From:

we_bring_hell

Harrow seizes Gideon's hand; it is hot and bony and fragile, like holding a small bird or rodent. "There is a back door I found that leads directly to the rooms."

That sounds like Harrowhark; drawing maps and finding doors. But the face looks nothing like her, paintless and young and sharp-edged. The little bow at the top of her lips you can't normally see; the heat in her parchment cheeks.

"You can have the first shower."

From:

we_do_bones

Gideon laces their fingers together and doesn't let go. There's a lump in her throat she can't quite swallow down; she nods and looks at Harrow's face and swears silently to herself that she won't be like Jeannemary, helpless as her necromancer died.

(She never agreed to Harrow's request. She's not sure she can.)

From:

we_bring_hell

Harrow, as has been noted, has not been touched very often by anything but specters and hallucinations. Holding Moiraine's hand shattered her; Ingress's gentle concern consumed her. Gideon is--

(One flesh, one end.)

She doesn't want to let go of Gideon. She doesn't want to be disentangled from Gideon. She wants her molecules to be rendered down and be shown to be 50% Gideon Nav by volume. For now she will settle for holding hands and gluing herself to side of her cavalier, even if it makes the stairs difficult.

She disarms the wards with one hand, but once they are inside she has to let go. "I will get a towel and then you can shower." With her short hair and her robe absorbing water from the walk and her feverish active-necromancer body temperature, she is already closer to dry than Gideon. She really just needs to wash off the salt.

From:

we_do_bones

Inside the room, Gideon lurks furtively at the door leading to the bathroom, absolutely against letting Harrow out of her sight for more than a few seconds. How she'll shower is anyone's guess – she considers leaving the door open even though it would mean stripping down to nothing in the sight of her ancient enemy turned...what.

Friend doesn't seem right. Gideon doesn't have the vocabulary to parse what Harrow is to her, so she doesn't try. All she needs to know is that it suddenly feels like her heart is walking around in Harrow's skinny, feverish body, and she doesn't want it back even a little, even at all.

In the end she showers in record time. She turns the hot water all the way up and when she exits, does so in an enveloping cloud of steam with wet hair and flushed, brilliant cheeks. She'd tugged some soft pants and and soft shirt on and she's barefoot. She feels absolutely haphazard and jittery, and she only really breathes again when she spots Harrow, exactly where she's supposed to be.

From:

we_bring_hell

While Gideon is gone she strips out of her wet clothes and mops herself down with the towel, rescuing her journal and feeding the rest of the clothing into the chute provided for such things.

She wraps the towel around herself, uncomfortable being nude even alone in the room, and dives into the closet. She looks consideringly for longer than she can even believe at the baggy 'Chivalry is a Butch' t-shirt, but finally takes down one of her full-length black schoolmarm-style nightgowns.

When Gideon leaves the bathroom, she is at the rolltop desk, glaring at her naked face in the mirror of the makeup box and cleaning up the greasy remains of her skull paint with cold cream.

She beckons Gideon over, holding up the handtowel.

From:

we_do_bones

Gideon beelines for the desk, grinning at the way Harrow is glaring at her own reflection. She can't get over Harrow's face: her delicate, aggressively prominent cheekbones, the straight slashes of her dark eyebrows, the angular heart that is the real face of the Reverend Daughter.

Harrow is always smaller than her; Harrow sitting down necessitates Gideon kneeling by her chair so she can look up at her adept.

From:

we_bring_hell

She turns and puts a finger under Gideon's chin, turning her head from side to side. She dabs carefully with the cold cream, polishing off the streaks and edges of makeup. She notes the scattering of acne in the corner of her jaw, the hot bubbles of thalergy just under the skin blocking the pores, and kills the bacteria with a thought.

"Why don't you ever do the nice skulls, Griddle? Ninegad favored the Jawless Skull for good reason, but you have a good jaw for something prettier."

Edited Date: 2020-10-18 07:12 pm (UTC)

From:

we_do_bones

"I don't have the patience," replies her cavalier, currently waiting with absolute patience as her adept fusses over her skin. "And I'm not used to it. Before we came here, nobody cared if I painted my face. I liked it that way, it gave me more time for push-ups."

(She's joking. Sort of.)

"I'm no artist, Harrow."

From:

we_bring_hell

She shakes her head and cleans the last crusts of paint from Gideon's fair brows and eyelids.

"All right. I'm just going to rinse off the salt."

Instead, however, she lingers; leans forward until her forehead is pressed to Gideon's, sharing breath, eyes closed.

Edited Date: 2020-10-18 07:27 pm (UTC)

From:

we_do_bones

The sound she makes is beyond embarrassing, but she doesn't move except to lay her palm, very carefully, on Harrow's jaw.

From:

we_bring_hell

This is real, she thinks. This is real.

She lays her hand over Gideon's larger one.

When was the last time she felt this safe?

"I'll be right back," she whispers, and stands.

Edited Date: 2020-10-18 07:40 pm (UTC)

From:

we_do_bones

Gideon sits back on her heels and wonders, not for the first and certainly not for the last, just how the fuck they got here.

She doesn't know why Harrow decided to unburden herself tonight, or at all. A world in which Harrowhark, the nemesis, the aggressor, wishes for absolution at Gideon's hands is not a world Gideon understands at all. Is this how Palamedes and Camilla the Sixth feel all the time? How does anyone stand it?

She wanders around the room, finally settles on the edge of her bed to clean and polish her rapier and knuckles. The reforged steel is razor-sharp, but she checks it obsessively for nicks and chips, all too aware that this stupid toothpick might be the difference between life and death for her and Harrow before much longer.

From:

we_bring_hell

Harrow's shower is quick; she washes with the harsh lye soap she prefers, although she knows the Milliways stuff isn't made with human fat.

She doesn't know if this is how she's supposed to feel; the mingled bond and warmth and safety with the teakettle boil of heat in her belly. She doesn't know how to deal with either. But maybe this is life for people who aren't ruined.

When she returns, she doesn't interfere with Gideon's preparations, but moves her pillows from the head of the bed to the foot.

From:

we_do_bones

"I can't believe you wanted me to use the chain or powder for my offhand," says Gideon, who has visibly relaxed now that Harrow is back within reach. It's a little like the bad old days when they were always on top of each other, just with less of Harrow trying to scratch out her eyes.

She puts her sword in her lap and studies her adept, how she's swimming in her shadow-colored nightgown, the soft bow of her upper lip. "You should eat, Harrow. Want me to get something from the Bar?"

From:

we_bring_hell

"The chain is traditional," she says. "Sammael Novenary favored it."

"I admit that powder was an insult."

"Potato soup would be all right," she adds.

From:

we_do_bones

"Yeah, well," says Gideon, standing and stretching. "We've always bucked tradition, huh?"

She maps out the distance from here to the Bar in her head, gauging how long it will take her and weighing the necessity of losing sight of Harrow with this rare chance to make sure Harrow eats.

She makes up her mind. "Okay. I'll be right back."

There's a moment where she's tempted to just bull Harrow over in a hug and forget about soup, food, and everything else for just a little while, but she shakes it off and just winks at her instead. "Don't miss me too much."

From:

we_bring_hell

The thing about not having the paint is that it's very obvious when Harrow flushes from her clavicles to the tips of her ears.

"Get going, you yellow-eyed idiot."

She buries her face in the pillow.

From:

we_do_bones

Gideon grins, and shoves her way out the door.

She takes the stairs down at a gallop and is heartened by the state of the Bar – quieter, darker, and less populated than when she and Harrow had first arrived. At her request, Bar provides a bowl of potato soup with an optimistic side of crisp bacon, a small basket of hot rolls and butter, a plate of french fries covered in cheese curds and some savory hot gravy, and a chocolate milkshake.

"Thanks," she says, and makes her way back upstairs. Her hands full, she resorts to kicking at the door with her foot. "Harrow, let me in!"

From:

we_bring_hell

Harrow hops up and pads barefoot to the door. Music is playing.

She eyes most of the food suspiciously and takes her soup back to sit cross-legged on her bed. "Potatoes are marvelous, Griddle," she says, confidentially. "They don't taste like anything."

From:

we_do_bones

"Don't be stupid," she says, and brings the rest of the tray over. She settles it on her bed, not Harrow's, but it's well within reach of them both. "They taste like potatoes, don't they?"

For her part, she stabs a fork into the pile of fries-cheese-gravy and makes a smothered sound of delight. "You should try this, it's really good."

From:

we_bring_hell

She eyes it. "I will have a clean fry when you eat the lard on top."

"I will have one (1) bite of the shaken milk, however."

From:

we_do_bones

"Even necromancers need fat and protein," says Gideon, peaceably. She grabs the milkshake and pushes to the side of her bed that's nudged up against Harrow's and proffers the sweating glass.

From:

we_bring_hell

She uses the spoon to scoop a bite. The sweetness is like a kick in the mouth, but only lasts a shivery moment.

"It's not about fat," she protests. "It's just too strong. Overwhelming."

From:

we_do_bones

"I would have killed for some flavor on the Ninth," Gideon says, honestly. "Would some salt really have been so awful?"

She hadn't considered that maybe Harrow couldn't, rather than wouldn't eat, and resolves to try her adept on some unseasoned poached chicken.

In the meantime, she sucks mightily at the milkshake, and despite her earlier lesson, she's still not ready for the ice pick headache to explode out from behind her eyes. "Ow," she complains, and gives the thing a wary look.

"Okay, maybe you've got a point."