Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nona came back into the world with a scream. The hospital room was cold and empty, the lights low, but still bright enough to blind her waking eyes. When the nurses ran in, flooding the room with sound, color, and equipment, her mind started to reel like an unspooling thread.

"No, no no no—" She sobbed, thrashing under the many hands trying to keep her still. Her head was splitting, the pointed pain as sharp as a needle in her frontal lobe. It hurt, to be alive. To be anything at all.

She stayed awake. Ever since then, Nona had not spoken a single word.

Hospital waiting rooms were likely Harrowhark's least favorite place in the world. She had never once received good news after waiting in one; either of the 'Yes, your parents really are dead' or the 'Yes, that condition you've got is chronic' variety. She was lucky Gideon was there, trying to cheer her up by playing footsie with her in the shitty metal chairs.

Much to both of their surprise, the visit had nothing to do with Gideon's allergies. The sequence of events that had brought them there was truly stranger than fiction.

After Drearburh was demolished, everything about the estate was handled by lawyers to ensure that the inheritance was split properly. A majority of it had gone to Harrow, but modest amounts were given to devoted members of the clergy. Anastasia was one of them — It was through her that Harrow uncovered a deep fondness for Alecto.

The hospital had dug up the heir of the estate's information as an emergency contact, seeking some sort of custody for Nona. It was one surprise that Anastasia was dead; and another surprise entirely she had a child that was comatose until that very week.

Apparently, Anastasia's stipend had gone towards keeping Nona alive. She'd been comatose since her mom died 2 years ago.

Harrow had reluctantly agreed to see the girl, more out of curiosity than anything else, but made no promises on custody.

Gideon's shoe had somehow found its way tangled up in Harrow's skirt when the door swung open. "Miss Nonagesimus?" the shrill voice called out (despite them being the only two people in the waiting room). There was something distinctly unpleasant about the nurse, something rakish. It seemed the last time she had smiled was before either Harrow or Gideon were born.

"Yes." Harrow stood, gesturing for Gideon to follow. "My wife will also be visiting." She didn't phrase it as a question. There were very few places she would go without Gideon at her side.

The nurse looked Gideon up and down at the word 'wife' — she couldn't tell if she was questioning her gender, sexuality, or both. Eventually, she shrugged. "Shift's almost over. Follow me."

Gideon grabbed Harrow's hand before they shuffled to follow. The hallway was offensively sterile, without a drop of color anywhere but the nurses' scrubs they saw in passing. Harrow did not like how silent it was. Obviously, the patients weren't awake, but nobody in the halls were making a single sound.

Harrow almost jumped when that grating voice rung out again. "We don't know if she can't or won't talk," the nurse said in a flippant manner, tapping her stiletto nails on her clipboard. "All of her scans have been normal. She should be a perfectly healthy twelve year old girl."

Mercymorn would have fit right in as an aide if she hadn't done humanities. This woman had an air of disgust about her, and an impatience towards the people she was supposed to be helping. It was par for the course in Harrow's mind — every nurse in the psych units she'd been to acted as if they couldn't be bothered.

Harrow mumbled, more to Gideon than anyone else, "I think you put too much stock into her body and not her mind."

"It's a coma ward, not a daycare, miss Nonagesimus." The nurse shot a glare over her shoulder (again, very reminiscent of Mercymorn). It was clear they didn't do much to take care of Nona besides the minimum.

They'd kept her at the very end of the hall, almost in complete isolation. When they finally reached the door, she droned, "After fifteen, we'll end the visit and do her daily vitals. If you need to leave earlier, look up at the cameras — one in each corner. She's been good today. No tantrums yet."

Gideon and Harrow shot a quick glance towards one another. 'Tantrum' was an interesting word to use for someone her age. She shooed them in, turning around before they'd even made it all the way inside.

Nona sat at the edge of the bed, kicking her feet lazily. Her hair was an absolute nightmare, tousled with sleep, and trailing well past her waist. Gideon stared at the array of drawings on the walls — very good, for someone of her age. It seemed that all she was given were crayons, yet her understanding of shading and form was strangely advanced.

There were several highly detailed drawings of the same headstone. Gideon suddenly decided to focus on something else.

When the door closed behind them, Nona's feet stopped kicking. She turned over her shoulder, timidly, much like a toddler peeking around their mother's skirts. It was paradoxically childlike for a girl of twelve. Gideon's breath hitched when she saw Nona's face. Every feature, down to the eyebrows, was nearly identical to Harrow's.

What really caught Gideon were the eyes. They were gold, much like hers, but they seemed dim; like an old light bulb about to flicker out. Her eyelids were open wide, making her eyes seem even larger. And she just looked so goddamn sad. The expression on her face didn't shift at all when she stared at Harrow, despite how uncannily similar they looked. Harrow felt as if she was looking at a twisted reflection in a mirror, a version in her mind of the little girl she never got to be.

She forgot how to breathe, for a minute. Next to her, Gideon attempted to gather herself. She waved awkwardly, "Hi!"

The girl still didn't move, although her muscles seemed to relax. She cleared her throat and continued, "I'm Gideon. This is Harrowhark— Harrow." She shortened the name in an effort to make it easier to understand. Gideon had no idea what her education looked like, and even though she could understand language, it seemed she had no interest in conversation.

Nona was completely unsure what to do, blinking heavily at Gideon. She was still taking the pair of them in, as if she were trying to memorize their features. Their body language appeared friendly enough to her, especially the one who called herself 'Gideon' — Nona decided right away she liked her very much.

She was also relieved to finally see people that weren't afraid of her.

She had no reaction towards her speech until Gideon said, "We're from the same place as you."

Nona furrowed her eyebrows, leaning backwards from where Gideon stood. There was no one else where she came from besides her mum — who she was told was never coming back. She didn't like how much the other woman looked like her. It was all wrong. Her mother's hair was never that short, and she'd always worn the most beautiful dresses. The woman's face was too pointed and sunken to be Anastasia's.

If they were trying to trick her, it wouldn't work. She stood from the bed to take a few steps back. Nona had hardly made a sound since she'd woke, but she'd scream if she had to.

Not-Anastasia asked, folding her hands together, "Nona, do you remember how old you were when you came here?"

Nona gave Harrow a withering expression that caused Gideon to stifle a chuckle. Without a word, it was as if she was asking, 'are you stupid?'. She held up her hands, wiggling all of her fingers. She was ten when she'd had a seizure. Ten when her mother died, leaving her alone in a nightmare she hadn't woken up from.

Harrow felt a stab of pain in her heart upon seeing that weak glare. It was far too young of a face to pretend to be tough, too innocent of a gaze to have seen that much pain. She blinked against the pressure forming in her eyes, determined not to cry.

Gideon, usually the first to notice a shift in her wife's behavior, was otherwise preoccupied. She couldn't help but stare at Nona's drawings littering the walls and how insanely lifelike they were. Perhaps they were her way of talking. Besides the Dead Mum Wall, Nona had a handful of self portraits with various expressions. It seemed like she thought she was the most beautiful thing on Earth.

The other half of the wall was covered ceiling to floor with animal drawings — mostly jellyfish. Her personal favorite was the sketch of a highland cow. She poked her finger into it, as if she could stroke the texture of the fur. Gideon smiled over her shoulder at her. "This one's really detailed. Have you ever been to a farm?"

Nona pursed her lips together, shaking her head. She crossed over to the side of the room Gideon was on, right in front of a shabby bookshelf. The volumes were well loved, to put it kindly, dog-eared and musty with age. Most of them were for children much younger than Nona.

She withdrew a large photo book, holding it aloft in front of Gideon's face. Nona shook it back and forth a tad for emphasis, smiling her shy, naive smile. It was an animal encyclopedia, with pages and pages of what seemed to be nothing but animal photos. Some of the pictures drawn were copied almost one-to-one from the book.

Gideon stomached the wave of sadness that hit her, giving a wobbly smile back. This girl had never even seen a cow.

Nona immediately noticed Gideon's expression, and she set her book down, quick to become on guard. She furrowed her eyebrows together and pointed at her forehead, asking in her own way, 'are you upset with me?'

Gideon turned to Harrow, shrugging. Harrow had barely entered in through the threshold of the door, and she shrugged back. Her arms were crossed tightly around her torso, forehead pinched in that way that indicated she was in danger of tears. Nona's distaste towards her hurt more than she anticipated.

In an attempt to have Nona warm up to her, Harrow asked, unsteady in its high pitch, "…Would you like to go to the zoo?"

Nona's eyes lit up like a beam of sunlight, a giddy smile spreading across her face. It was the happiest she'd felt since she'd woken up. Mum never let her leave the house! She always said things were too dangerous, keeping Nona shut safely indoors. The last time she'd been outside was at her burial, and the scenery was atrocious.

She nodded so quickly that her hair began to fly up around her face, shaking her hands in a happy stim. Maybe Not-Anastasia was nice after all!

Harrow's smile back towards her was exceptionally sad. She didn't know how much longer she could maintain her composure.

Gideon brushed the hair from Nona's eyes, politely ignoring the tangle that caught around her fingers. Nona's expression was still open and sweet, a healthy flush rising to her cheeks. She didn't shrink away from the touch — Gideon was slowly becoming one of her favorite people, and they had only just met.

She smiled down at her, and her voice crackled with the warmth of a fire as she said, "Alright, sweetheart. We're just visiting, and we haven't got much time left. I'm gonna ask you something serious before we go, okay?"

Nona's heart sunk when she realized they weren't staying. They were going to leave her. What if they never came back? She nodded again, much less enthusiastically.

"Would you want to come and stay with us? We can go to the zoo, if you want." Gideon wasn't entirely sure how permanent the situation would be. She'd hoped it would be a guardianship, but the way her wife groaned over the mountain of paperwork seemed to indicate something more complicated.

Nona looked to Harrow, and then back to Gideon, a few times in rapid succession. They were going to let her stay with them? And wanted to take her outside? She pinched at her cheek, tugging it gently to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

She would never have made it so her mum knew, but more than anything, all Nona had ever wanted was a family.

Gideon was surprised when Nona tugged on her arm, wrapping her own around it in a loose hold. She could of course make the sounds for the word 'yes', but something always got stuck in her throat when she tried to speak. Mum had never pressed her to talk, and she had simply never cared to — why should she need to, if her mother could read her at a glance?

Now, she wished she could properly speak more than ever. She blinked up at Gideon, nodding earnestly. The spark in her eye had gone a bit dimmer, but still had a clear longing to it. Gideon felt her heart absolutely melt. She'd always loved kids, although Harrow was ambivalent about them, and it was a silent dream of hers to have a child of their own.

Nona slotted into that daydream perfectly.

Before she could say anything else, the door swung open. Harrow did jump at that, bristling where she stood in the doorframe, and moved to press herself against the wall. The team of nurses seemed quite large for one girl, but she quickly understood it was needed when Nona ran backwards to kneel behind her drawing table.

The only equipment they brought was a heart monitor and a blood pressure cuff, but she acted like they were about to disembowel her with a scalpel while the pair watched.

Gideon made her way over to her wife, slinging a protective arm around her shoulders. Harrow was giving the general impression of a glass about to shatter, the redness rimmed around her eyes quite prominent. She knew they needed to leave as soon as they could. Harrow already could hardly stand to walk into a hospital. Seeing a little girl that never had her girlhood taken away from her, one that looked exactly like her, no less, rubbed salt into a childhood wound that had yet to heal.

Nona began to kick back at the hands attempting to hold her upright, face growing red with the exertion. She even reared her head forward to bite one of them before her arms were restrained, locking her shoulders and neck into place.

'Tantrum' was actually quite the apt word for it.

Everyone in the room, Nona included, was shocked to hear her shriek. It was a guttural, unused scream; quiet yet very forceful. The nurses had managed to sit her down on the bed, but she was putting up a nasty fight. She struggled to reach out a grasping hand towards the two of them before a nurse pulled it back, murmuring soothing nothings into her ear.

Harrow's hand had found its way to her mouth, clapped over it in abject horror. Gideon's grasp around her grew tighter.

"It's okay!" she called out reassuringly. Gideon did her best to smile to her, ignoring the flash of fear behind Nona's eyes. "We'll come back, Nona."

The entire staff seemed to be rushing to her room as they made their way back through the hall, calling out for anyone that could hear. All over a goddamn blood pressure and heartrate check — that would no doubt be astronomically high.

Gideon walked as fast as she could manage to assist Harrow, pulling her along gently towards the door. Although the weather outside was gorgeous, the day was turning out to be anything but.

The moment they were alone, away from any prying eyes, Harrow all but collapsed against her wife. Every tear she'd held back spilled out, like something inside of her had ruptured.

Harrow sobbed against Gideon's chest, staining yet another white tanktop with black liner. Her fingers tangled into the fabric as she clung to her, like she were an anchor in choppy waves. Gideon wrapped her arms around her, stroking her cropped hair, leaving her hand to cup around the back of her head. "I know," she whispered, cradling her tightly. "I know, love."

The hospital had told Harrow they needed a decision by the end of the week. As soon as she got home, she started filing the paperwork.

Chapter Text

Getting Nona back to the flat was a definite struggle. There were many contradictory things about her: childlike but nearly a teenager, eager to see the world yet terrified of it. After she was finally approved for discharge, heading outside sent her into sensory overload. She was moments away from a tantrum when Gideon improvised, placing her shades onto Nona's scrunched face to try and calm her down. Harrow clutched tightly onto her hand. Gideon was prepared to carry her to the car if she refused to walk, but she put up a small fuss when they tried to help her.

Harrow sat in the backseat with her. The nurses warned Nona would probably get carsick (which she did), and she might need her ear defenders to block out the sounds of the motorway (which she scrabbled for the moment Harrow produced them from her bag). She was thankful the hospital had provided those at least.

Nona's clothes from when she was admitted had grown too small, and she had no other belongings. Gideon made a quick stop to pick up essentials, which Harrow regretted immensely, because somehow she'd managed to find the most heinous outfits for her.

At least Nona liked the burger shirt.

Nona couldn't bear to be left alone, even for a moment — she would drag them to the bathroom just to have them stand and face the wall. She was still relearning how to do everything, and needed help bathing and getting dressed. Not that the two of them minded. Nona was something they didn't even know they were missing, a new way for them to structure their days. Even the simplest joys made Nona light up with wonder.

Thankfully, walking had gotten much easier. She needed to do stretches every day to keep her muscles developing properly. Turned out that laying comatose had quite the impact on her body.

Devoted caretaking had worked out in their favor, as both Gideon and Harrow had vacation time. Not like there was a convenient time to be surprised by a custody agreement, but their next 3 months were already accounted for. Their honeymoon to Rome was soon — something they'd been planning for nearly a year.

They didn't know how to break it to her, that they would be leaving soon.

In more current matters, Gideon was still struggling over the puzzle of Nona's hair. They'd given her a quick bath (with intense supervision; Nona seemed to almost drown herself every time they'd glanced away). After air drying it, the tangled mass only seemed to be more of a rat's nest.

"Could we cut it?" She asked, considering the matted sections. They wouldn't be impossible to smooth out, but it would be much more painless for Nona if they cut around them.

Nona's eyes grew wide as saucers. She shook her head, shifting away from the pair of them. Gideon had touched up her undercut a few hours ago, and the grating hum of the clippers was enough to make Nona press her palms to her ears.

"It doesn't have to be as short as mine!"

She shook her head again, so vehemently that loose strands fell into her face. Her hands pulled the mass of hair over her shoulder protectively, and her fingers clutched it tightly.

Anastasia had always worn her hair as long as it could grow. Nona remembered the way she would hum while she brushed hers, the smell of the rosemary oil she massaged into it, the sensation of the kiss she'd press to her head when she was done. She had already lost enough of her mother, and refused to lose anything more.

Gideon could see the panic in her eyes, and something in her expression showed she was defensive of it. Although Nona couldn't say what she was thinking, her face was as easy to read as a book. When she continued to back away, Gideon held her hands out placatingly, and soothed, "Okay, sweetheart. I've got an idea."

She went to dig around in Cam's bathroom drawer for brushes and a few hair elastics. They really should have got them for her — but getting her home had been such a rush, and between the two of them, they hadn't even considered hair care. Gideon made a mental note to run more errands later as she pulled the elastics over her wrist.

"Harrow, do you know how to braid?" She asked, immediately regretting the question.

Her wife gave her an affronted expression, as if she had been tracking mud onto the carpet. "Gideon. When on earth would I have learned to do that?" She cut her hair every two weeks, almost like clockwork — even earlier if it covered her eyebrows.

"Point taken. I'll show you. Can you help me brush?"

Nona's ears perked up despite their squabbling. She was very excited about the prospect of braids. Sometimes, in the little pictures of the books she couldn't read, princesses or fairies wore them. It was always the most fun part of copying the pictures; the way her little wrist would slide to and fro to mimic the shape.

She became much less excited as the two of them began to untangle her hair. Gideon started to brush from the bottom, but Harrow brushed from the top — having never experienced the unique struggles of very long hair. Nona winced, making a very small sound of pain, and Harrow bit her lip as she ran her nails through the sections.

"I'm sorry, little one. We're almost done, okay?" Gideon soothed, pulling out one last tangle. Her hair turned out to be pin straight and thick, which further proved that braids would be perfect. Gideon's curls had added a layer of confusion as she tried to learn, hunched over bathroom sinks with countless Youtube tutorials. She was actually quite glad that learning it hadn't gone to waste.

Harrow was always a tactile learner, very good at mimicking movements with her fingers (the various paper airplanes she used to throw at Gideon's head proved that). No words were needed to show her how to start, and after she'd gotten the hang of it she kept her own pace. They made for quite the picture, Harrow mused, sitting on either end of Nona to make pigtails. They might have even looked like a proper family.

"…Since when do you know how to do braids?" Harrow asked, glancing up at her playfully from underneath her lashes.

Gideon stiffened, hands pausing mid-motion. She had been dreading the question, and had hoped in vain that her wife would have the tact to avoid it. She should have known — Harrow was always too damn curious for her own good.

She sighed, defeated. "It was a phase. I thought being a woman meant I had to be as feminine as possible — and I hated it. I even did makeup everyday." To call it a difficult time in her life would be a massive understatement. When she'd explained herself to her rugby league, half of the team laughed straight in her face. The other half simply didn't believe her. The attitude around campus was 100% 'Oh, you're a girl, are you? Prove it.'

Nona had begun kicking her feet, which gave Gideon the assumption she wasn't listening (Nona was absolutely listening, even though the conversation wasn't making a lot of sense to her).

Gideon glared at Harrow out of the corner of her eye, keeping her chin tilted towards her work. She grumbled, "Before you ask, no, I am not showing you pictures."

Harrowhark had the decency to stifle a chuckle, but it was impossible to contain; the thought of Gideon willingly putting on a full face of makeup felt about as possible as the dead coming back to life. Her laugh was a quiet, uncertain thing. Somehow, it had managed to grow strong enough that Harrow's mouth had turned upward into a genuine smile.

Gideon elbowed her. "Oh, is it really that funny? God forbid I was twenty-two once."

Harrow sighed in contentment as the laugh subsided. She did actually feel bad for it after getting a better look at Gideon's face. She said apologetically, "No, it just surprises me, Griddle. Where was the breaking point?"

Gideon sighed again, staring at the sections of Nona's hair between her fingers. She started to braid again as she mumbled, "I thought I had made such a mistake. I think… realizing I loved women made it easier. The traits I was trying to mimic were more what I thought was beautiful on others, y'know? And seeing other butches… It just made sense."

The days she would come home from class and stare in the mirror somehow had her feeling worse than before. She'd adopted Kiriona as a new name, and it felt alien on other people's lips. The skirts she wore were uncomfortable, and tucking had become something she dreaded every morning.

Approaching womanhood from a different angle had everything click into place. She realized she felt the most like herself with no makeup, hair cut short, even with boxers peeking out from her waistband. Ironically enough, she always got more 'ma'am's that way, when she looked more confident.

A gentle smile had started to form on her face, one at about half of its usual radiance, but her dimple poked through all the same. Seeing Gideon's eyes soften always made Harrow feel quite young — like it was the very first time she'd realized Gideon was beautiful.

"It all felt so right when I toned it down. Like this was the kind of woman I was meant to be."

Harrow realized how distracted she'd become when she looked back down at Nona's braid (if she could even call it that anymore). She huffed, running her nails through it to start over. Nona had begun to play with her chewing necklace, attempting to digest what Gideon had said. Was she not always a girl? It didn't bother her in the slightest; she just wanted to know everything.

Harrow's voice was surprisingly timid when she spoke, "I understand. More than you might think." Gideon finished her braid, passing an elastic to Harrow, and stared comfortingly into her eyes. That alone gave her enough courage to continue.

She'd never told anyone about her transition. It was too intimate, something she carried too close to her heart. But she truly felt that she could tell her wife anything, even if she might never confess it.

Harrowhark began to work again as she said, "I was so scared, Gideon. I thought it would just die with me. I'd known I was a girl since I'd laid eyes on Alecto, but… it just lay there, underneath the skin." She was especially cruel at that age, overcompensating as much as possible to avoid thinking about it. No matter how much she knew, there was nothing she could do to feel at ease. She took the rigid boyhood forced onto her with a grim resignation, assuming that was how she would live the rest of her life.

Her parents' death actually brought a levity with it. Harrow finally felt more safe to experiment, even though she started at square one. "I'd never cared much for passing — oh, don't give me that look — but I needed to try."

She was chewing on her lip again, the black shade getting onto her teeth. Nobody had taken her seriously when she chose her name, keeping the parts of her presentation she actually liked. The estate lawyers had simply scoffed at her — one might have even chuckled at the way she carried herself.

Surprisingly, it didn't bother her in the slightest.

"Goth culture had such an appeal. The women were feminine yet androgynous. There was a rebellion to short hair instead of a conformity. And… it made me feel so light, to dress that way." The main thing Harrow was jealous of from the nuns at Drearburh were their long, trailing skirts, the way their shoes clacked to announce their entrance to a room. That sound, a heel on hardwood, was one of the most satisfying noises to her. It caused a double take, commanding a turn of the head, making her impossible to overlook.

Sticking out in a way she could control was truly all she'd ever wanted. People could stare as much as they liked. She quite enjoyed looking like a trans woman, no matter the social cost. Harrow concluded as she finished Nona's braid, wrapping the elastic around the ends, "I know I don't look like the average woman. But I rather like it that way."

Gideon wrapped her arm around Harrow, now that both hands were free. "Me too. Both on you and me." There was that smile, the one Harrow couldn't get enough of; the crooked, bashful grin of the love of her life. Still, Gideon managed to snark through her affection, "It sucks that you got it right the first time, though. Fuck off, Nonagesimus."

Harrow pushed her back playfully, giving her a coy smile back. "Oh, enough! I'd been thinking about it for a decade. Some of us have more foresight than you, Griddle."

"I've got 'growing up' penciled in my calendar right before I die — but I might ask for an extension." Gideon's smile grew even wider, as it always did when she was satisfied with a joke. Much to Harrow's surprise, she laughed: a full-body laugh, something she didn't have to force back down. Gideon felt her heart soar at the sound of it, like the tinkling of a bell.

Harrow's dark eyes crinkled at the corners. "Sounds about right. And God, does it work for you."

"I'd never grow up, if I could always make you laugh like that."

Her wife flushed, the tips of her ears turning red. She mumbled, without a trace of malice, "…Sap."

It seemed that they'd momentarily forgotten themselves. Nona had grown more impatient, starting to shuffle in the chair. She hated the hardwood against her back. It made her spine feel even more stiff than the way the hospital mattress did. Even though she'd soaked the conversation up like a sponge, she was more than happy to not listen to them flirt!

Gideon took the hint. She crossed around to face Nona, offering an arm to help her stand. "All done! Do you want to have a look?"

Nona nodded ecstatically, clambering out of the chair, and let Gideon lead her towards Harrow's vanity.

The elastics they'd used were surprisingly multicolored, as if Cam had bought a multi-pack and let the garish ones sink to the bottom of her drawer. They were perfect for Nona, and she gasped with joy when she saw them in the mirror. She started to shake her head back and forth, letting the braids whip around her, smacking Harrow and Gideon with them — Gideon laughed out loud at the expression Harrow made.

"You look so pretty!" Gideon said when Nona beamed up to her.

Nona shook her head, poking a finger into Gideon's arm to say 'You're the pretty one!'.

"Oh!" She placed a hand on her chest, feeling absolutely chuffed. "you don't have to thank me, Nona. You stay with us now. We're gonna figure it out."

Harrow awkwardly stood at a distance, fussing with the joints in her fingers (either as a stretch, a tic, or both). She seemed suddenly shy, like Nona was the adult and she was the child.

She asked her quietly, "…Do you like braids?"

Nona nodded, slightly unsure. It felt like she was going to lead into another question — and Nona was quite tired of questions she couldn't answer.

Harrow gave her a small, meek smile. "It was… fun. Is it alright if I do them again?"

Although she still didn't quite love her, Nona had begun to realize Harrow was very different from her mum. Parts of it were in the way they moved — Harrow was stiff in the ways Anastasia was gentle. It seemed that tenderness did not come very easy to her. Still, she was trying. She didn't forget all of the little ways Harrow took care of her sensory overloads, or when she helped her get dressed that morning. Harrow had tucked her in tight, even wishing Noodle (her stuffed puppy) goodnight. Her mum would have never bought her a stuffed animal.

From what she could understand about their conversation, she'd had a hard time being a little girl like Nona was. When Harrow looked at her, there was a small amount of longing to her face, something that said to her, 'I want to take care of you.'

Nona understood what it was like to want something beyond words.

Looking to her and giving a gentle, deliberate nod felt like the kindest thing to do. Harrow shifted closer to wrap a braid around her finger, feeling it slip through her knuckles, and the face she gave Nona left her feeling warm and fuzzy. She tried her best to make the same face back.

Gideon had begun to lead them out of the room, already considering the afternoon ahead of them. "Alright, Nona. Just one applesauce pouch and you can watch a documentary, okay?"

Another idiosyncrasy of Nona's they'd discovered was that she absolutely hated eating. Most foods she simply chewed and spat out, much to their chagrin. The quickest way to get her full was a shake, or some sort of smoothie; she seemed to at least tolerate the taste.

Nona also preferred nature documentaries over any other form of television.

She grumbled, making small noises of complaint, before she followed Gideon towards the kitchen. At least she'd only asked her to eat one… Harrow tended to try the tough love approach, which brought her dangerously close to a meltdown.

While she glared at Gideon, squeezing the pouch into her mouth, Harrow fussed with the TV. She asked Nona, "…Do you want the dolphins again?"

Nona stomped her foot, shaking her head. Her favorite animal was so obvious! She'd tacked up her drawings in every part of the wall she could reach in the study, the blue walls making it look like an aquarium.

Harrow tried again. "Okay. The jellyfish?"

At the very mention of jellyfish, Nona ate the entire pouch like it was the easiest thing in the world. She flapped her hands excitedly, even rushing to sit next to Harrow on the couch. She'd seen the same episode 3 times by now, and she loved it! The narrator's voice was so pretty, and the jellyfish were even prettier. The first time they'd put it on, Gideon had to gently tug her backwards from actually touching the television screen.

The moment Harrow hit play, it was the happiest Nona had seemed all day. She sat attentively, leaning forward in a position that surely was uncomfortable. It seemed that she didn't even notice when Gideon squeezed in next to her. Overtop of Nona's distracted gaze, Gideon and Harrow leaned in to press a small kiss to each other's lips.

Chapter Text

For someone who was asleep for two years, Nona took a lot of naps. It made sense to Harrow, as Nona was quite the busybody — even contained in the flat. She was too anxious to go on full walks outside yet. Instead, she had grown fond of walking tip-toed across the halls with increasing speed until she grew too tired. She had full body stims that involved flapping her hands or jumping, which occasionally put stress on her recovering muscles. Nona also insisted on at least one dance party every day, where she would spin around the kitchen like a tornado.

At least Harrow couldn't complain that she didn't entertain herself.

Because Gideon wasn't home that afternoon, Nona had settled for a brisk walk (Harrow was not a very avid dancer). As usual, after about ten minutes of pacing, her muscles already felt too tight. She looked to Harrow keeping watch for falls, made a pillow from her palms, and mimed sleeping. Her cheeks were ruddy from exertion, small, sweaty strands of hair flying out around her forehead. She looked like she'd ran a mile.

It was her second nap of the day, which made Harrow feel slightly on edge.

"Come on, Nona. I'll get Noodle." She gently pulled the girl towards the study, which had become Nona's unofficial room. She'd claimed the futon as her own, and already had started to spread her sparse belongings on the carpet. She felt so lucky to have a room! Even though most of it wasn't hers, Nona felt very special to be settling into a place she wasn't expected to leave.

As she lay herself down, eyes already half-lidded, she smiled lazily up at Harrow. She was too tired to reach her arms up for Noodle, so Harrow shifted her grasp for her to cradle the stuffie.

"I'll wake you up for dinner," Harrow whispered, tucking the blankets around her as if she were a mummy. Nona slept flat on her back, much like a body in a morgue. She also fell asleep in record time, as soon as her head hit the pillow. Harrowhark added 'narcolepsy' to her mental list of conditions she fussed over Nona potentially having.

The list had grown quite long.

She stood in the doorframe after she turned out the lights, watching Nona's breathing even out. Her small, innocent smile was still on her lips. She already looked healthier since moving in, even though her eating habits had often sent Harrow into a spiral.

She felt a twinge of comfort remembering how easily Nona smiled at her. It was obvious that she preferred Gideon over her, which wasn't a surprise (even if it stung); Her wife had a natural charisma and a love for children, and already knew all the best ways to make Nona laugh. Harrow still felt like she was miming the role of a mother, rigid and unsure. She hoped that above all Nona understood just how deeply she loved her, even if she couldn't always see it.

Harrow sighed, attempting to get out of her head. Nona was fine. She would continue to be fine if she wasn't watching. Taking a few long strides to her room, Harrow fished her phone out of her trousers. She had a rather important call to make.

Her finger hesitated on Palamedes' contact. He and Camilla had taken the week to go camping, excited to be mapping out more of New Zealand's national parks. A week away was usually code for something else — a need for them to be alone, to relish only in each other's company.

She knew the feeling. That's why she'd selfishly booked the honeymoon, after all.

Harrow stared at his contact photo (Palamedes glaring at her in a study hall from when they took uni classes together) before she pressed 'call'.

The phone had barely rung twice before a flat, feminine voice answered, "Hi."

"Oh. Cam, what are you answering Palamedes' cell for? Actually, forget I asked." Harrow had begun to massage her forehead absentmindedly, as she usually did when she furrowed her brow too much.

"He's still asleep. Late night."

It was one in the afternoon. She didn't need to read too far between the lines to infer they were sleeping together last night. "… Right. Okay. I've just got something serious I need to tell you both."

Cam's tone didn't waver in the slightest. "Try me."

"Do you remember Nona? When we told you we were going to visit?"

"Yes. Is she alright?"

She hesitated, rubbing her thumb into the divot of her left temple. "…We already got approved. She's at the flat right now."

There was a pause, and then a shuffling on the other line. Harrow heard a gentle mumble, and then a yawn — distinctly a Palamedes yawn.

" 'M up. Awake. What's the trouble?"

"It's Harrow," Cam said to him, much more gently than Camilla said anything.

"Harrowhark, you never call. Oh, Jesus, is someone hurt?" He rapidly sounded more coherent, fueled by genuine worry. More shuffling; probably Palamedes putting his shirt back on.

Horrid.

"We're fine. There's just a bit of a surprise, is all. Nona got discharged." Harrow had begun to pace now, walking up and down the hall in the same fashion Nona did.

There was a very pregnant pause. She could easily assume that Cam and Pal were engaged in a silent conversation, one that Palamedes was directing. He said, slowly, "…You told us it would take a few months. Months is very different from a week."

"We couldn't exactly tell them 'no'! It almost felt like they wanted to get rid of her." While the discharge from the hospital itself took longer than she anticipated, the paperwork for the custody went through in a matter of days. It was eerie, how little they seemed to care about Nona's fate.

"Poor girl." He sounded quite upset, quick to be emotionally stirred. Palamedes always did think with his heart first, no matter how hard he tried to act cerebral. He sighed, "Right, okay. Where's she holed up?"

"…The study," She said, in a quiet mumble. It was expressly Camilla and Palamedes' space, where they holed themselves up for work or research. There were genuine government-sensitive documents laying around in the metal file drawers, kept under lock and key. The desk looked as if a book manufacturer had dumped an entire sheaf of loose print onto it.

"There's a method to my madness in there. If I find that she's been poking around in my manuscripts, I might get another gray hair," he grumbled.

Cam agreed, tone growing surprisingly sharp, "Or my forensic case files."

Harrow felt herself go on the defensive, throwing up a hand (as if they could see it). She spoke quietly to not disturb Nona, but with a bite to it, "She just sleeps in there, okay? I didn't think — why would I let a twelve year old traumatized girl sleep in our room, with its shelves of animal skulls?" The other line was silent. She knew she had a point. Even Gideon was put off sometimes by her collection, with its countless intricate displays of complex skeletons.

Knowing she'd won brought Harrow no satisfaction. She continued to press, "Exactly. She hasn't touched anything. I should know, I watch her practically every second I'm not unconscious."

It had been less than a week, yet Harrow already had nightmares of Nona having another seizure in her sleep, going catatonic, or being unable to breathe. Even if Gideon was there, Harrow didn't like having Nona out of her field of vision. She had even briefly considered waking every few hours to check on her.

"You haven't been packing? Or feverishly checking your honeymoon itinerary?" Palamedes said, no doubt quirking his eyebrow in that 'You're not fucking with me, are you?' expression.

"I can't. She is so, so much more important than that." Harrow bit her lip, belatedly realizing how much her voice had shook.

"We'll come home early."

"You really don't have to—"

"We'll come home early," Camilla interrupted her. "Maybe tomorrow, if we pack up now."

"… Thank you. Thank you both." She said, the relief audible in her voice.

Harrow hung up the moment the words escaped her lips.

In their makeshift tent, Camilla and Palamedes exchanged yet another confused look. He blinked heavily as he ran a hand through his tangled fringe, "That is the second time Harrowhark has ever thanked me, in her entire life. She must be stressed out of her mind." The first 'thank you' had come at her wedding, where she was overcome to see him as her best man.

Perhaps Gideon was finally helping her grow soft.

Cam nodded, eyes shifting a minuscule amount with worry. "I know. Something tells me this isn't just residual stress, either."

"I'm quite concerned about her. We need to get going." He seemed determined for someone who had woken up less than fifteen minutes ago. That (sometimes brash) determination was always one of her favorite things about her husband. When he had a set goal, there was nothing that seemed to stop him from diving in headfirst. There was nowhere she wouldn't follow him.

Still, the effect was diminished by how disheveled he looked.

Cam smirked at him, looking him up and down. "…You've done your buttons wrong." She deftly redid them for him, entirely unbothered by his unbound chest. When she glanced back up into his eyes, she nearly laughed at his expression. "And somehow managed to bend your glasses again. What would you do without me?" She tilted her head to the side, blunt fringe caressing the top of her raised eyebrows.

"Perish the thought, Cam," he muttered, reaching for her hand to press a gentle kiss to her wedding band.

Although it was only for the afternoon, Gideon still felt sorry for leaving Harrow with Nona alone. She knew how hard it was for her wife to bond with Nona already, and sometimes the girl just refused to listen to her. The thought of her becoming a thirteen year old sometimes gave Gideon the shivers.

Still, there was no other way to talk to her father but in person. He was terrible at texting, occasionally sending a text-to-speech paragraph of garbled nonsense in response to her. The thought of calling him was laughable, with how eclectic his schedule was. Last time they'd spoke, John asked her if she would be comfortable communicating over e-mail. Unironically!

It was also nice to have a set time to catch up, even if she felt a bit funny about it. She'd gotten in the habit of popping over on Fridays to check in on him, sometimes staying over for dinner. Their relationship was never quite as close as she'd imagined it would be — but what they had was still pretty damn good.

She pulled up in her motorcycle to her usual parking spot, taking off her helmet to shake her hair out. Harrow never let her leave the house without it anymore, so she suffered the helmet hair. The door was already open as she walked up, and he was comfortably waiting for her, sipping on some afternoon tea.

The thought of him being excited to see her, his daughter, nearly got her choked up.

John waved awkwardly as she stepped in. "Gideon! Welcome home."

Ignoring the comfort that statement brought her, she smiled back as normally as she could muster. "Thanks for letting me crash here for a second." Gideon glanced around the room, finding Mercy and Augustine's eyes. Usually, she preferred to chat with John alone, but she'd take any help she could get for what she was about to ask. Her smile faltered as she said, "I really need to talk to you."

"Are the two of you finally getting a divorce?" Mercymorn asked, not looking up from her spread of notes. Gideon wasn't sure if she was trying to write in ancient Greek or if her handwriting was just worse than usual.

She snarked back, "No, you old bat. Nona came home early."

John set his teacup down with a loud clatter. Augustine's eyebrows went up so high that she was surprised they didn't push his hairline back.

Before either of them could speak, Mercy scoffed, "Oh, you're a mother now. That is marginally worse."

That was a low blow. Even for Mercy, whose love language was insults and petty squabbling.

Next to her, John lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. He looked like he could have even started clapping. "What she's trying to say is congratulations! That's a big step."

"Huge. And we're freaking out." She couldn't contain her stress, fiddling with her already rolled up sleeves. Gideon shot him a pleading glance, "I was praying on the way here that you would be able to help me, O Wise One."

He dimmed considerably. The smile started to look much more like a grimace on his face. He glanced away, embarrassed. "… Gideon, you're my only daughter. The limited experience I have with children is being one, once."

"Nearly half a century ago by now." Augustine coughed theatrically.

"Less than that! Much less, thank you!" John reared towards him, glaring at his smirk. It seemed that his late forties were not something he was handling well.

Not even Augustine's ribbing could soothe her disappointment. "Dude, nothing? Not even anything about your own mum? I was an orphan. Any leads would help. Those nuns were shit at raising me."

Again, he looked deeply embarrassed. John had never felt that he would be a good father, not by any stretch of the word. Even if he'd wanted students to mentor, there was a part of him that knew he would never be enough. There was too much of him that pushed others back, something too placid to his parental gestures. It felt like he was auditioning for a role he'd never received the script for.

"… Right. Sorry. Um, I have some texts that might help — let me go look in the study." John stood from his seat, already shuffling up the stairs to the decrepit library he considered a 'study'.

"Oh, don't — annnnd he's gone." She sighed. As usual, any conversations with her father about actual fatherhood fell flat. Gideon resisted the urge to scuff the wood flooring with her new loafers in her frustration. She glanced up to the remaining two fucked up parental figures at the table, quirking her slitted eyebrow. "What about the two of you?"

Mercymorn and Augustine made a series of expressions towards one another that were entirely incomprehensible to Gideon, who was starting to consider herself an expert in nonverbal communication.

It went like this: Augustine wrinkled his nose. Mercymorn shook her head, wrinkling her nose harder back. He raised his eyebrows, as if in genuine surprise, and reached up to tug on his ear. She blinked very heavily, twice, tugged a strand of her hair once, and then pursed her lips. For some reason, this made him smile. He took his first two fingers and tapped them against the side of his neck, towards the collarbone. Mercy's expression softened, and she gently bit into her thumb before she put her bifocals back on. (translation in notes!)

"Let's go to the porch, kiddie," Augustine said cheerily, pulling Gideon by the arm.

How the fuck he had gotten that from the disco party of facial expressions Mercy gave him was beyond her.

She did actually like the porch the most out of anywhere in the house, her old room included. Over the years, the lovers had attempted to make the porch more of a sitting-room. The hope was that giving Augustine a designated smoking area would dissuade him from it altogether. The effect was almost entirely the opposite — the furniture was cozy and classy, and he kept his own stash under the wicker table.

After spreading out in the loveseat, he silently offered Gideon a cig.

She slightly hesitated, but the proposition was too tempting to resist. "Don't tell Harrow," Gideon said, settling into the chair across from him. "She'll strangle me if she finds out I had just the one."

Augustine winked at her, lighting his cigarette with a match. "I'm sworn to secrecy." He pretended to cross himself before taking a drag, and slid the matchbox to her across the table. "I called you out here because I might have some advice. I just don't want Mercy to poke me about it."

Gideon brightened. She hoped he was being genuine; Augustine was appropriately serious only about two thirds of the time. Striking a match, she said, "Okay. Color me interested."

He shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant. "I had a little brother, actually. All but raised him." She realized with a start that he was being serious. The wistfulness in his gaze was impossible to fake. There was a steeliness to his pale eyes, something that always made her reconsider how much older he was.

"…Had?"

Augustine turned to her, giving her a sad smile. "Don't give me that look, sweetheart. It's been a long time." Gideon was becoming rather embarrassed about the fact that she had a 'look'.

"Before you ask — cancer. Brain cancer. It was inoperable. That's why John's still trying to get me to quit. At least I don't have to worry about breast cancer anymore. Thank the Lord for mastectomies." He let out a dry chuckle through the smoke of his last pull, looking up as if God could hear him.

Gideon's expression darkened. "If that's a joke, Augustine, I really don't think it's funny."

"… John never told you?" He seemed genuinely surprised, eyebrows quirking in a way that brought out a specific wrinkle in his forehead. When she didn't answer, he just sighed, "Bastard always did surprise me. Well — I'm a trans man. It's not a well kept secret or anything. I didn't transition until my late thirties, so. Lots of publications under the wrong name."

Gideon looked at Augustine like it was his body that had caught fire and not his cigarette. Her mouth hung so far open that her jawbone pressed out of her cheeks.

Augustine simply took another drag, politely ashing his cigarette into the fancy ashtray.

She tossed her hands up into the air, her own cig momentarily forgotten, "What the fuck, man! I could've been coming to you this whole time?!"

"Obviously, you didn't need my help, Gids. But that was always an option."

Gideon still stared at Augustine, like he was a mirage about to flicker away. She brushed her hair back, all but beaming, "I didn't know you were that cool! Jesus, I give you way more credit now."

"Odd way of putting it, but thanks." He snorted a laugh before his face closed off again. "… It does actually feel nice, to tell someone. Never did get to come out to him." There was a vibrancy to Gideon, so reminiscent of what cancer had stolen from his brother. He didn't need to look too closely to see how much she glazed over as she realized who he was talking about.

In an attempt to shift the mood, he cleared his throat, "Well! Now that I've made you suitably uncomfortable, let me be useful."

Gideon felt for a moment that she should be taking notes until she reminded herself she wasn't in uni anymore.

"If you're not taking her to school just yet, start keeping a routine with her all the same. Figure out what she likes to do and when. Make sure you set appropriate boundaries. I know you're not equipped to put her through speech therapy, but you'd better figure that out — and fast. Keep talking to her, helping her communicate." Gideon was nodding between puffs, watching the way Augustine gestured with his hands. "Can she read or write?" She grimaced in response. Augustine pursed his lips back, attempting not to smirk. "You've got quite the handful."

She sighed, sinking back into the armchair. When she took another pull from the cigarette, the sparks at the end were as firey and red as her curls. Augustine was proud to see how much she'd grown up, all on her own. The way she carried herself had so much ease to it — a confidence that couldn't be taught. He knew she never needed his mentorship, not with the authenticity that shone from her. She was even more unapologetically butch than before, and Gideon looked all the more right for it.

Finishing her cigarette, Gideon ground it to ash. She spoke in a half-tone, "I just really don't want to mess this up. Harrow's nearly beside herself with stress about Nona. I'm trying to make it easier, but I dunno what the fuck I'm doing better than she does." Her signature dazzlingly crooked smile formed on her face, full of joy at the mere mention of Nona's name. "…She's taken a shine to me, though."

Augustine gave a wan smile before lighting another cigarette. "I don't mean to alarm you, but the first few months are the most important for her to actually bond with you. Might want to cancel the honeymoon."

She shrugged. They'd been trying to rebook it all month. "Can't. Non-refundable."

"Oh, that's a bitch." He tutted his tongue.

They sat in a comfortable silence until John knocked the door open with his hip, arms full of books that were worse for wear. He was completely in his head as he flipped through the stack, muttering, "Okay, these are all the volumes that I think could help. Ignore that this is a case study from twenty years ago… actually, this might not be very good either…"

"Pops, I don't think theology texts are gonna help me raise a kid. No offense." Gideon spoke over the classic Dr. Gaius ramble. He always tried to salve things over with terrible academic allegories or by leaning heavily on his degree. A small part of her was genuinely frustrated.

Mercy's cackle was still audible though the screen door, rising in volume as if someone were turning up a dial. John's skin was too dark to show a proper flush, but the way his mouth puckered proved that he was exceptionally embarrassed. He placed the stack on the porch floor, all but slamming it. The boards gave a small thunk in protest.

The other man chuckled, shaking his head. "Really, John. It's cute, but academia isn't the same as flesh and blood." Augustine patted the space next to him on the loveseat, giving John a teasing glance. "Won't you come sit with me? I'll even stop smoking." He ground it into the ashtray with his thin fingers, letting the spark die out.

"…You really ought to quit, sooner than later, Augustine," John huffed, collapsing next to him. He let Augustine sling an arm around his shoulders. To Gideon's absolute shock, her father rested his head against his chest, almost entirely at ease.

"And you ought to loosen up a little. In a manner of speaking." A devilish smile spread across Augustine's face, accenting the crow's feet around his eyes.

Gideon was far too wisened to mistake an innuendo.

She immediately stood, walking away from the pair of them, "BYE, you old perverts. God. Mercymorn, how have you put up with these two all these years?"

She'd made her way round to her lovers, glasses still perched on her thin nose. Augustine pulled her towards him by the hips, and she somehow managed to sit next to him — the loveseat was clearly made for two, but none of the three of them seemed to mind.

Mercy spoke without hesitation, "I have a vivid image in my mind of dunking them into a vat of acid every time they say, 'Mercy, you've had too much to drink', or 'Joy, you're simply no fun at all'; and for each time Augustine snores or John chews too loudly. I often contemplate this after a long day, or even mid-conversation. It's quite effective."

In a horrific moment, Gideon realized she wasn't joking with the smile she gave her. Neither John or Augustine seemed to be offended by it, either; she'd probably told them both about her fantasies in detail. Her smile grew wider as she waved to her, no doubt picturing her in a saw trap of her very own, "Goodbye, Gideon!"

"Fly safe," John tried to say, before Augustine attempted to steal a kiss, slowly making his way up her father's jaw.

She couldn't have gotten out of there faster if someone had paid her.

Chapter Text

Gideon coming back to the flat was usually a cause for celebration. Harrow loved to tug her down by the tie for a kiss, taking away the stress of the day with a coy smile that could make her wife's heart stop.

Instead, she was perched at the kitchen table poring over documents like a raven staring at its horde. Her face was hollow, skin becoming sallow with stress (had she eaten? Gideon wasn't sure), and she gnawed impatiently at her lip. Gideon hadn't even taken her shoes off before Harrow pressed, "Anything?"

Gideon had told her she'd be visiting her parents — a word she used very loosely — to ask for advice. She occasionally brought leftovers for Harrow, too, and she felt momentarily guilty for not attempting to stay for dinner. She loosened her tie, shrugging, "Not really. I dunno why the fuck I thought my dad could help. There's a framework I got from Augustine, but—"

"Nothing we can do right now, because we're leaving the country by the end of the week," Harrowhark interrupted impatiently.

After Gideon shuffled off her loafers to actually come inside, she could see the papers on the table were everything they needed for traveling to Rome. Their passports (which were a headache to get updated to the correct gender markers), plane tickets and the insanely detailed itineraries Harrow had made for each day. It looked like all of her excitement for the honeymoon had gone out the window with the panic behind her ink-black eyes.

Gideon sighed. "…Eloquently put as always, my penumbral lady."

Harrow didn't even roll her eyes at the bullshit nickname. Yet another sign something was wrong.

She shuffled the mess of papers into a stack, placing a binder clip onto it (she was always organized, even in a frenzy). Harrow rubbed at her eyes, not even caring that her liner was turning into murky blotches. "Camilla and Palamedes are coming home tomorrow. I can only hope she warms up to them."

Gideon leaned over the table, pulling in closer to her wife. "You figured out yet how we're gonna break it to her?"

It was absolutely the wrong question to have asked. Harrow's pencil-thin eyebrows furrowed, flattening the arch of them completely. She chuckled pathetically, tapping the tabletop with her nail. "God, no. We might have to leave while she's asleep. What if she has a meltdown? I don't want her to feel unsafe. If she—"

Gideon pressed a hand to her shoulder, snapping her back to the present. She rubbed slow, gentle circles into the muscle, and Harrow realized with a start how much tension she'd been holding. Gideon's eyes were warm and soothing, the color of honeyed chamomile tea. She already felt more at ease.

Her wife wiped underneath her eyes, cleaning some of the smudges of black. "Harrow, let's worry about today first. Make her dinner, tuck her in. Sex Pal was always pretty good at sorting out shit like this. Also, kids adore Cam."

Camilla's flat, no-nonsense attitude was an inexplicable hit with preteens. Jeannemary and Isaac were two tween spitfires who attended her fencing classes — and more often than not she could get a giggle out of them.

Finally, Harrow smiled; Gideon's only motive since she'd gotten inside. She said, with fake annoyance, "The fact that you still call a thirty-year-old man 'Sex Pal' is one of life's great mysteries."

"Oh, he could stand to laugh! That PHD program is running him into the floor. His resting bitch face could probably kill an infant." Gideon snorted out a laugh, grinning down at her.

But Harrowhark's gaze was focused behind her, making a shell-shocked, wobbly smile. "…Up all by yourself?"

They hadn't even thought to keep their volume down to not disturb Nona. Harrow didn't want to think about how much she'd heard, lest the day became an absolute disaster. She shuffled the papers again, laying them facedown, attempting to be inconspicuous.

It was also a shock Nona hadn't needed help to get out of bed. The first morning after she'd come home, she tried to stand from bed all by herself — and tumbled to her knees, blood pressure plummeting. Harrow still felt a significant amount of guilt for the bruises she'd gotten, even if Nona seemed unbothered by them.

The girl stumbled forward as quickly as she could muster, reaching out for Gideon. She looked up with a shy smile, silently hoping she would pick her up again. Although she was too big now for most things kids got to experience with their parents, like piggyback rides, Gideon was more than happy to accommodate her. Her muscles barely even strained with the weight.

The moment she saw her, Gideon's face broke into a massive smile. "Hi No-No!" To her delight, she did lift her up in the air! Nona giggled excitedly, jumping up and down after she set her back on the floor. She loved Gideon, and how strong and charming and good she was. Her hugs were better than chocolate pudding, and Nona had discovered that she liked chocolate pudding a great deal.

"Oh, you're happy to see me — happy enough to have the rest of that mac n' cheese?" Gideon raised her eyebrows playfully, attempting to keep the mood going.

Nona grimaced, sticking her tongue out as far as it could go. Looked like it was another night of Harrow making soup and bartering for her to take bites while it grew cold. Gideon shrugged over her shoulder, shooting her wife a glance, "Worth a shot."

Dinner turned out to be less of an ordeal than Harrow was dreading. Soup was something easy to have Nona eat, going down quickly, and leaving her throat warm. It seemed the less chewing involved was the better. Nona also had fun blowing on spoonfuls to cool them down, laughing when she blew too hard to cause splashes of broth to hit the table.

It was a wonderful thing to watch her laugh, even if it came at the cost of some of Harrow's favorite lace place-settings.

She'd already gotten a bath that morning, with Gideon's help — it turned out it took two people to supervise Nona around bodies of water. In attempts to limit her TV time, they'd started to work on jigsaw puzzles with her. Most other games were a complete wash; either because she couldn't read or because she must have had a photographic memory. It was impossible to win a memorization game against her.

After their second puzzle of seals and their third video on marine life, Nona was tired enough to put herself in bed. Even if Cam and Pal put up a fight, Harrow had a strong case prepared for the study to become Nona's. They'd gotten her a nightlight (a starfish, of course), and she had her own pillows and blankets. The small dresser they'd bought slot into the corner perfectly, and Nona was so excited to have her own drawers that she filled every single one.

Harrow was feeling suspiciously at ease when she turned in for the night. The evening had gone so perfectly she had forgotten to worry. That is, until she awoke from yet another nightmare of Nona's bloodcurdling scream.

It was impossible for her to forget a sound once it dug its fingers into her brain, added to her repertoire of auditory hallucinations. If she was far enough gone, she could hear sermons word for word — as if she'd never left Drearburh at all. Nona's scream at the hospital was one of the most chilling things she'd ever heard. It made sense that it liked to torture her.

As she sat up, shaking from head to toe, she heard it again. In a gut-wrenching moment, Harrow realized Nona's shriek was not just another dream.

She jumped to her feet, jostling Gideon like a ragdoll, and tore out of the room as fast as her waking body could take her. She almost slid on the wooden flooring of the hallway before making it to Nona's door. Harrow's eyes slowly caught up to her brain as she digested the scene.

Nona was thrashing around, face squeezed in an expression of excruciating pain.“NO! No, no, my God…” She sobbed, kicking out of her blankets. Noodle fell to the floor as she jerked about, limbs tossing akimbo.

Nona kept making noise, gurgling for air; a dreadful sound like an ah, ah, ah.

Harrow was already at her side before her eyes opened, flicking the lamp on. She had no idea what to do. Should she try to wake her, or let it run its course? An acidic panic ate through her chest, causing her to freeze in place. Maybe she should wake Gideon. She would have a better idea, she could make things right.

Before she could make a decision, Nona sat up abruptly, panting with exertion. Even in the low light, she could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. Her braids were an absolute mess — they would need to be redone by morning. Those dull gold eyes turned to her, still in a daze. She whimpered, “…Mom?”

A single word, and Harrow felt her heart completely give way.

Without a moment's hesitation, Harrow reached for her, wrapping her into a loose hold. “I’m here. I’m here, Nona.”

Nona completely clammed up, as rigid as a stone. When Harrow tried to soothe her again, shifting her arms, Nona jerked away in retaliation. All she wanted was for her to let go. She wasn't her mom, and she would never be. It was a trick of the light — all it took was another look to see that it wasn't Anastasia. No matter how much she begged, prayed, or dreamed, her mother would never hold her again.

Nona hissed, growing angrier by the second, "Not. Her."

Harrow felt empty when Nona shoved herself out of the embrace, like she had ripped the entrails out of her body with her small hands. She didn't even react when Nona started to build up to a scream again, growling low and harsh in her throat.

“Is everything okay? I felt you get up, and then some noise in here—” Gideon stepped in through the door, her mussed bedhead curls backlit by the hallway light. If Harrow squinted enough, it almost looked like a halo.

She caught her deer in the headlights gaze, and her face absolutely crumpled. "Oh, Harrow…”

She slotted in between the two of them, nestling her arms around Nona. Gideon stroked her hair, rocking her back and forth gently. She smelled like yesterday's cologne, rich and sweet, and her hug felt like a beam of sunlight on Nona's shoulders. Her eyes started to relax, and she sunk into the embrace, feeling safer by the second. And then, something miraculous happened. Gideon began to sing.

She always had a beautiful singing voice. It was a rich, brassy alto, something that poured out of her chest like it was a piece of her soul. Whenever they'd learned hymns, her voice naturally soared over the choir. It was a sound Harrow never tired of. When she'd sang to her on their wedding day, she knew she was too goddamn lucky.

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true,

I'm half crazy all for the love of you!" During this line, she took a knowing glance in Harrow's direction. It was about half for Nona and half for her (She knew how much her wife loved this particular lullaby).

"It won't be a stylish marriage — I can't afford a carriage.

But you'll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two," She trilled, resting her chin on Nona's head.

The girl continued to doze as Gideon hummed the chorus a few more times, voice growing softer and softer. When Nona started to breathe slowly, eyes fully shut, Gideon gently placed her back on the futon. She tucked her in tight, making sure she still had Noodle, and pressed a gentle kiss into her forehead. Nona's face was serene, all of the tears from moments before completely gone.

Harrow almost believed Gideon had a previously undiscovered superpower.

She felt as useless as an appendix just watching, almost as if she wasn't even in the room. Gideon had to guide her out of the door for her limbs to move again. The pain of unpacking what had happened was too great — Harrow salved it over with apathy.

“Hey. You’re doing the best you can, honey. She’s a unique case," Gideon soothed, resting her hand on Harrow's waist. She tried to pull her closer, to press her body to hers, but Harrow refused to move.

She stopped in her tracks in the middle of the hallway, staring off into the distance. “No, she— Gideon, she called me Mom.” Her voice was so small that Gideon had to strain to hear it.

She gasped, jostling her, "You before me? Jealous!"

Harrow simply blinked back at her, as blank as a sheet of paper. Tough crowd. She really was her father's daughter, because her attempt to lighten the mood didn't land at all.

"Just kidding. That's… Harrow, that's amazing."

Harrow took a step back, redirecting her gaze to the floor. "No. You misunderstand. She thought I was Anastasia, and she got disappointed when she realized I wasn't." It hit her, then, how hard Nona had pushed her away. She must have been disgusted with her. It had to be obvious, how ill-suited she was to motherhood, just how much she would never live up to. The emotional detachment she relied on abruptly ebbed away, like someone had snapped apart whatever threads were holding her mind together.

She heaved, shuddering out a tearless sob. Her hand shook as she pressed it to her mouth, and the words ached in her chest when she said, "God, I feel so sick. I think she hates me."

Gideon moved her arm up around her shoulders, pulling Harrow as closely as she could. "She doesn't hate you! She's twelve, she's scared, and she's hardly ever seen the world. I love you to death — beyond death, even — but you know you're not exactly warm and cuddly."

She bristled even more underneath the touch. "I'm trying, Gideon. I refuse to give up, but I just— I don't know what else I can do."

Harrow was tormented by inaction, and it always came at a price. If she couldn't find a solution for something it ate away at her, sapping all of her mental strength, like she was working at a particularly difficult section of textual analysis. She often needed to be reminded (like Palamedes) that people were not puzzles. Things didn't always fit together neatly.

It broke Gideon's heart that she couldn't see the progress she'd made in just a short week with Nona — there was already a burgeoning amount of trust.

She looked into Harrow's eyes, momentarily lost in their depth, and recollected, "She sees that, love. I know she does. She lets you braid her hair every morning. I watched her actually eat yesterday, because you made her dinner. She even drew a picture of you."

Nona's portraits really were quite good. She had an uncanny ability to capture people how she saw them, rather than what they actually looked like. Harrow's portrait was a tad severe, but she'd captured a softness to her eyes and mouth, something gentle in the way her eyebrows quirked. Gideon immediately had the thought to frame it.

Gideon brushed a lock of hair off of her wife's forehead (it seemed that haircutting day would be coming soon for her). "She's trying, too. This is all so new to her."

Harrow grumbled as she leaned into her pectorals, mouth twisting into a smile, "You just need to stop being so fucking charming all the time. There's not a soul on this planet who wouldn't love you."

"Ohhhh, the curse I must bear! My hamartia, my Achilles heel!" She moaned theatrically — anything to make Harrow laugh.

Gideon kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her rosemary and mint shampoo. "Go back to sleep, honey. You need it. We'll check on her come morning."

"…Only if you hold me. I was freezing, before I got up."

She was more than happy to cuddle her to sleep, even if the embrace was a tad bony. "Mission accepted."

Things were sluggish the next morning. Harrow ran on autopilot, puttering around to make a mediocre breakfast of pancakes. Her black nightgown brushed the floor, only adding to her ever somber appearance. Gideon wasn't sure if she should rouse Nona yet — if she was still in a sour mood, it would only hurt more.

At the mere thought of her, the girl meekly rounded the corner. She peeked around first, blinking her tarnished jewelry eyes, and bristled when she saw Harrow.

For a moment, both of them were still.

Nona ran up to hug her, wrapping her arms tightly around her middle. She squeezed, rocking Harrow side to side, nestling her face into the divot in her ribcage. Nona was still in her nightie, but she'd brushed her hair all by herself; she was eager for Harrow to fix it for her.

As far as apologies went for someone who couldn't speak, this was a very complete one. Harrow hugged Nona back, setting the spatula down — if she burnt a few pancakes, Gideon would gladly eat them. Her hair was soft as silk underneath her fingers, and she cradled her as gently as she could manage.

Her wife watched over her mug of black coffee (which read 'sun's out, guns out'), smiling as sweetly as ever. Gideon was more than ready for this to be what her life looked like every day. Very briefly, Harrow had gone into a panic about their approaching thirties, and all Gideon could say was: 'That's not even a fraction of the time we'll have together. Darling, let's get old.'

Her life had never been more precious to her — finally something to preserve instead of burn to ashes.

Chapter Text

Nona had been nervous all day, ever since she'd had breakfast. Gideon had told her over their (somewhat burnt) pancakes that their housemates were coming back, but she didn't know what time. She didn't like changes in her routine, not at all. That meant her whole day was thrown off — what if they came when she was in the middle of something and she couldn't prepare herself? Would she not be able to take her midday nap?

Gideon and Harrow assured her they were nice people, and that they liked both of them very much. They'd also told her a lot about Camilla and Palamedes, but there was so much more she wanted to know! And she couldn't ask questions! She was so frustrated, even stimming with her chewing necklace wasn't helping.

It was obvious that she was in a bad mood, which also set Harrow off. Gideon was left to fill in the gaps, tottering between the both of them as if she were juggling — a skill she was never very good at. Neither of them were even happy to work on a new puzzle together, something both of them loved to do. She wasn't upset with them for it (Gideon truly loved them more than she loved herself), but Christ, she was hankering for a beer.

Nona was stubbornly placing the pieces onto the puzzle mat with small thunk sounds when she nearly jumped out of her skin. The sound of another car pulling up to the garage made her want to run and hide.

Gideon reached for her hand, pulling her towards the doorframe with a radiant smile. "They're here!"

The waiting for the door to open was more torturous than when the nurse's aides would burst into her room without warning. When it swung open on its hinges, the noise under cut by some low swearing, she felt her heart rate spike. Two tired-looking people stomped into the flat, their boots splattering dirt onto the skull entrance mat.

Nona was momentarily unsure who was Camilla and who was Palamedes — she didn't want to assume. Both of them seemed to have full chests, and both of their hair was long enough to brush their chins. Still, she was old enough to know bodies didn't always match how someone felt. She stayed behind Gideon, getting a peek at the two strangers from the side of her freckled bicep.

Nona tended to learn the most about people when they didn't know she was watching.

Harrow chirped towards them, fidgeting with her wrist joints, "Welcome back. You look surprisingly bugbite-free."

"Yes. We actually brought bug spray this time, thanks to your list. I'm convinced you're never going camping with us, and are simply infatuated with list-making," Palamedes snarked towards her, setting down his backpack with a huff. It was made for hiking, with lots of pockets and a place to secure the bedroll on top — but as usual, he'd packed a bit too much. Cam always humored him, lugging along his telescope, or carrying a trunk's worth of fishing gear with her.

She also set down what she was holding, looking significantly less winded than her husband.

"Did you catch anything? I'm really starving for some Sex fish." Gideon waggled her eyebrows. For some reason, she was proud of herself for that one.

Palamedes pursed his lips thinly, in what Gideon knew was an attempt to avoid a laugh. "…I'm choosing to ignore that."

Cam ignored it too, completely unperturbed by Gideon's speech patterns. "Yes, there's some trout we were planning on cooking. Harrow, would you try it?"

Harrow had begun popping the joint of her thumb absentmindedly, nearly shifting it out of place. "I refused your cooking the once, Hect — because I had leftovers. I was told you wouldn't take it to heart."

"I didn't." (She did).

Nona had started to lean a bit too far over Gideon's arm, peeking out with her whole head. She wanted to get a better view of who was speaking. Their voices had a very similar accent, definitely northern, but their cadence and vocal ranges were entirely different: which voice belonged to who?

She knew she had made a mistake when the two of them turned to her, spotting her in an instant.

"Well, where did you come from? Am I seeing double?" the taller one said, smiling playfully. They had really big glasses, ones so large they could slide towards the bottom of their nose without them losing the ability to see. She liked the chain the glasses were on much more than the frames.

She locked eyes with the other person — before looking away shyly. They looked hearty and strong, like Gideon, but didn't smile like she did. Their face was very neutral, thick eyebrows sitting flatly underneath their blunt bangs.

The taller person with the deeper voice spoke again, chuckling, "Truly, Harrow, it's like you and Gideon had an actual baby."

"We are well aware, Palamedes," Harrow said tersely. The frequent reminders of Nona being her spitting image pressed heavily on her mind.

Nona blinked slowly, taking in the person who just spoke. So that must have been Palamedes? He wasn't exactly what she was expecting from the way Gideon talked about him. Instead of being scary, there was a kindness that poured out of every single feature. Although he looked exhausted (and had grey waves teasing at his temples), there was a gentle vitality to his eyes. His smile towards Nona was unguarded, like he trusted her immediately.

She decided that she trusted him, too. Nona saw something about Palamedes that told her he would do anything to keep her safe — even though he didn't look strong at all.

"She's got her mum's beautiful eyes," Gideon began, jokingly batting her eyelashes, "and her other mum's… everything." When she turned to her wife, the glower she gave her could have wilted a tree.

Harrow elbowed her in the ribs. It was so precise and sharp that she let out a wheeze.

"It seemed she hasn't got Harrow's love for an introduction in the form of a grand entrance." The person —lady, this must have been Camilla— said, smirking just the smallest amount.

To her left, Harrowhark sputtered indignantly.

"We've heard a lot about you. I'm Cam." Camilla held out her hand, like someone anticipating a handshake. Nona had never before been treated with so much formality (besides Harrow, but she always acted like that). It was silly, for an adult to treat her like another adult — but it didn't feel like she was joking. Her posture was very rigid yet had a fluidity to it. Nona wanted to test her.

Instead of shaking her hand, Nona walked up and firmly pulled on her pointer finger.

Camilla didn't shift an inch. Her face was as impassive as ever. Slowly, she stuck her tongue out of her mouth, and she blew a raspberry.

Gideon might have to fight for Nona's favorite person spot.

She giggled, much less shy than before. Camilla's smile was like the spark of struck flint: bright, beautiful, and very brief.

The man next to her stooped a bit closer to her height, which she was grateful for. He might have been the tallest person she had ever seen before, with long, thin limbs. "You can call me Pal, for now. I know my full name is a bit of a mouthful, but it means a lot to me."

She was grateful for that, too; Nona wasn't sure if or when she would want to talk again, but the name 'Palamedes' would definitely make her stutter. Long words got tangled up halfway out of her mouth, no matter how hard she tried. She'd never gotten her mum's name down right all her life.

When she didn't respond, Palamedes looked a bit forlorn. She didn't seem to have the same interest to him as she did towards Camilla. He extended his palm, "D'you want to shake my hand, too?"

Nona nodded with a wide grin, showing all of her teeth. She did actually shake his hand, putting both of hers around it in an effort to grasp it better. His hands were really something! They were delicate, but still much larger than her own.

Palamedes smiled again, a tad awkwardly. He felt his whole arm move with the force she put into the handshake.

Cam raised an eyebrow at him when he stood to his full height, saying coyly, "A pity she didn't pull your finger, Warden. How I would have loved to see your interpretation of that gesture."

Palamedes stuck a middle finger up at his wife, which Nona knew was not a very polite thing to do. From the way she chuckled, it appeared she didn't mind whatsoever.

Nona was very excited to see more of them together. They were even more interesting than Harrow and Gideon, and she sometimes watched them talk like they were a television program. She continued to watch, like a doe-eyed shadow, as they began to settle back in.

Perhaps new people weren't as scary as she feared.

The couple was far too tired to bother preparing the fish they'd caught. It had gotten late into the evening by the time they'd unpacked. Palamedes' spine was acting up again, thanks to his slouch that Camilla always corrected. She knew he hadn't been binding recently, and the stooped posture was an effort to help him feel better about his figure — but she was definitely sure he was close to developing scoliosis.

Harrow quietly set Nona to sleep. Nona had specifically asked for her that night, dragging her along after she'd put on her nightie. Gideon was very, very proud of her for it. Both of them needed some more time together.

Her wife seemed to be in slightly better spirits when she shut the study door behind her, crossing over to the kitchen table to join the others. Gideon did actually get her beer, which she nearly wept tears of joy for.

She slung her arm over Harrow's shoulder when she sat, pulling her in. It was almost instinctive at this point to keep her close, stealing touches whenever she could. Gideon took a final swig of her drink before she said, "Now that the little slugger is out, let's talk shop."

"Sure," Cam agreed, also finishing her beer. Her alcohol tolerance was nuts. It seemed like she'd got one just for something to do with her hands, because she didn't appear drunk whatsoever.

Harrow toyed with her necklace, training her gaze at the polished wood of the table. She muttered in a quiet rush, "We're leaving in three days. I feel like I'm going to be sick saying it, but it's three days. I'm starting a written guide of everything you need to know that we might not talk about."

Everyone else at the table stifled a groan. Of course she was.

Her wife thought it might actually be a blessing in this case, though, because Nona couldn't tell the other two what she needed. Major shifts in her activities caused her to clam up — the first stage in any meltdown.

Gideon lamented, staring into her empty glass, "It sucks, because I just know she's really gonna grow while we're gone. She's already running around when she needed help to walk just a few days ago."

She had gotten so excited to take Nona to the park with how well she'd been getting on, until she remembered she wouldn't be there for that milestone.

"If you take her to the aquarium before me, we are gonna have some serious words, Sextus." She shot a fake glare across the table, pretending to wind up for a punch.

Palamedes just shrugged. "I work from home usually, so watching her's no trouble. Cam and I might have to trade off, though."

"She's okay with just one person around as long as you stay with her. Your notes will probably fall to the wayside. She needs your active attention." Harrowhark shifted her pitch black eyes to Palamedes' face, emphasizing the last sentence. She knew how quickly he got lost in a research rabbit hole, like she did, shutting the entire world out. Harrow hadn't even looked at her master's thesis once since Nona had moved in — and she was obsessed with the damn thing.

That classic Harrowhark glare told him all that he needed to know.

"'S fine. As all of you have told me, several times, I could stand to take a break from my studies now and then." He rubbed at his forehead, trying to soothe his incoming headache at the thought of his research. Maybe he could get invested in teaching Nona instead. He already knew a lot about sociology — language learning could be a bigger part of that.

Cam was silently very grateful he wouldn't be hunched over that desk anytime soon. His face was slowly starting to look more haggard, stubble peeking out over his usually clean-shaven face.

"…I can tell Nona already likes you. Tomorrow, we'll run you through her routines, and then the next day we'll see what it's like without us." Harrow was only slightly jealous of how much she liked them. Just the smallest amount.

Palamedes abruptly stood from his seat. "Alright. I'd like to sleep, if you don't mind. If you couldn't tell, I'm beat." He spoke with a practiced courtesy, although the headache was starting to win. His migraines could turn into something debilitating if he didn't take proper care of them. Harrow noticed all at once how worn he seemed, like an elastic band worn ragged from resisting the urge to snap.

Cam squeezed his hand, once, telling him that she'd be to bed soon. Gideon was a great drinking buddy, and it seemed that she wanted to put back some more.

Harrow followed suit, brushing off her skirts when she stood. Her eyeliner had started to smudge into the corners of her eyes — something that only happened when she'd been awake too long. She stole Gideon's own move, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The curls bounced when she pulled away, and Gideon felt her face grow hot (certainly not from the beer).

The two women sat in comfortable silence as they knocked a few more back. Most of the time, Gideon's mind was all over the place when she was drunk, and Cam listened to her alcohol-ridden ramblings with genuine interest. But Gideon was starting to like the quiet more — like an old fuck. Maybe her frontal lobe really had finished developing at twenty five.

After almost drinking her fill, Gideon raised her glass in a silent toast. Cam took the cue, clinking hers against it. It was her way of offering a quiet 'you're welcome' to Gideon's unsaid 'thank you'.

Gideon downed her last sip, sighing with satisfaction. No matter how nervous Harrow was about the next month, she felt at ease with the arrangement. It would have been better for them to stay, of course, but she wanted to be a bit selfish for a while. Harrow deserved to be spoiled.

She set the glass down, giving Cam a half-smile. "I dunno what we would've done without you two. Seriously."

Camilla mirrored the smile, something electric on her usually rigid face. "We wanted her to come home, too. Just weren't expecting it this soon."

Home. That had a nice ring to it, coming from Cam's lips.

In the end, they did decide to leave while Nona was sleeping. The trial run of Cam and Pal taking over went as well as it could have. Palamedes read her a story before she went to bed — something she would undoubtedly ask for every night, now.

Harrow had spent the day scrawling out notes for caretaking, with small separation tabs and sticky notes for scribbling in the margins. When she handed the notebook to Palamades, she held it like a nun clutching a bible during mass. She leafed through it as he placed it into his palms, pointing at the pages she remembered writing. "I have a list here of everything she likes to watch."

"Uh huh," he said, staring at her face instead of the novella. She looked absolutely miserable for a woman about to go on a vacation.

"If you look at the appendix, there's a place where I list out all of the foods she can eat."

"Yes. I can read, Nonagesimus."

"And if you need to get another Noodle, I have the link."

"Harrowhark." He interrupted, pulling the book out of her grasp. She startled, dark eyes shining from underneath her massive black sunhat. The long sundress she wore (also black) gave her the general appearance of a vampire going into the sun for the first time in a century.

Palamedes smiled, quirking his brow gently. "I know how much you love her. And by extension, I know you love me, because you've entrusted me to take care of her. Let us do this for you. Take your mind off of it, and for God's sake, enjoy your trip with your wife."

She blinked up at him from underneath the fabric brim, her black lips shifting into a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile. "…Very bold assumption for you to think I love you, Sextus."

"I don't need to assume. I know. And yes, I love you too, you walking migraine. Go, before Gideon slams on the horn and wakes Nona up. You know she would." He waved his hand flippantly in a 'shoo' gesture, like he couldn't be bothered. Harrow was always wretched at goodbyes.

Her voice was very small when she said, "Bye. See you soon."

In a strange moment, she hesitated. Before she could reconsider the course of action, she reached out to press her arms around his middle.

The hug she gave him (if it could be called that) was very brief and uncomfortable. She squeezed around his torso firmly, held it for a moment, and released. The disparity between their heights made the hold all the more uncomfortable as her arms slotted right underneath his ribcage, pressing against the bone.

Over all of the years they'd known one another, she'd never hugged him once.

Before he could reciprocate, or even say goodbye back, Harrow walked away as fast as she could manage with the weight of her luggage. Strange, how somehow a hug was a more difficult ritual for Harrowhark than co-signing a lease with him — or asking him to be her best man. Palamedes shook his head, smiling from ear to ear with a quiet chuckle. He really would miss her.

Chapter Text

When Nona woke to see Harrow and Gideon were gone, she'd had a meltdown on a never before seen scale that lasted at least an hour. It was torturous to see her that way, with her face gone blotchy from crying. Cam tried to swaddle her and put on her favorite documentaries, and Pal attempted to braid her hair. Still, nothing seemed to stop Nona from thrashing about or trying to strike out at the two of them.

She'd cried herself out, stimming in a way that surely was getting painful when Palamedes thought to draw a bath. Nona calmed instantly under the water, melting underneath the gentleness of their touch while they helped her bathe. She almost nodded off in the tub. Thankfully, Cam easily carried her to bed, and waking up to see Noodle in her arms had made her much happier.

Nona carried Noodle with her everywhere after that. He was becoming her comfort item, like a safety net for when things got too loud or bright. Palamedes often wondered where on Earth they'd managed to find a stuffie of a dog with six legs.

Nona was still feeling quite irritable, all the way into the weekend. It didn't help that her thoughts were shifting back and back and back, all the way to her mother's funeral. That was the last time someone had abandoned her, leaving a bloody hole like the space left behind from losing a baby tooth. If she were to draw her mum's face, it would still be picture-perfect; but it wasn't what she looked like anymore. Not right then, dead in the ground. Nona didn't think she could draw a decomposing body very well.

So, she settled for drawing the tombstone. She could still see it perfectly, after all.

It was just Palamedes with her that day, and she didn't like that either. Nona had grown accustomed to Cam and Pal as a matching set, and grew frustrated with the obvious absence of their other half. She kept scribbling with the (very nice) markers Harrow had got for her, pressing a bit too hard into the paper.

"…Did you copy that?" She froze at the sound of Palamedes' voice from above her. He sounded a bit more tired than usual — come to think of it, when she went to sleep, he was still busy with his laptop at the kitchen table.

Nona blinked up at him, glaring owlishly from underneath her browbone. She simply tapped her forehead and then the sheet of paper, brisk and to the point. Communication was already frustrating with Harrow and Gideon, and when she finally felt like they were understanding her, they left her. She was too angry to feel bad for not being nice to Palamedes, who she enjoyed very much.

He sat down across from her, quietly setting down his mug of tea. Nona noticed that he'd taken his glasses off, sitting around the chain on his neck. His eyes startled her. They were slate gray, much like the bottom of a washbasin, but the irises had small flecks of light brown underneath the light. Nona realized, not for the first time, that Palamedes was uniquely beautiful.

"Is that all from memory? You're like me, then." He placed his chin into his palm, making a gentle, wan smile towards her.

She tilted her head to the side — adorable. It was birdlike in a Harrow-esque way, but her eyes glinted like Gideon's when she'd get stuck on a difficult question. God, how he wished they could see it.

The smile didn't waver when he took a sip from the mug (Camilla's), and he elaborated, "'S called photographic memory. I can remember anything I've seen before, kept up here" — he tapped his temple — "like a picture. You're that way too, no?" She liked the way his fingers moved. It was almost like they could dance.

She nodded eagerly. This was probably the first time someone had connected with Nona in such a way before, through such a unique quality. The nurses told her she was a lot of things that she didn't understand. It was all just jumbled notation and acronyms in her ears. If he was right, then there wasn't anything wrong with Nona — not like she'd thought.

Palamedes glanced at the drawing, not taken aback by its morbidity. He'd nearly wanted to be a mortician, after all. From what he could see, the inscription on the tombstone was perfectly accurate. He glanced into her honey-sweet eyes again. "Nona, you can write. You've written out full words as many times as you've drawn the picture."

She didn't believe him. If she could write, why did everyone at the hospital treat her like she was stupid? Nona started to pull the sketchbook back towards her. If Palamedes was just humoring her, trying to make her feel better, it was only souring her mood.

"Hold on. May I?" He held out those thin, graceful, fingers, poised to touch her sketchbook.

Hesitantly, Nona pushed it towards him.

"Thanks. I won't ruin it, promise." Palamedes put his glasses back on, pushing them up his nose. The drawing was unfinished, but still as close to photorealism a twelve year old could approximate. It hurt his heart, how well she could remember the tombstone; she'd copied down everything, from her mother's full name to the epitaph.

It read:

'Anastasia Novenary

March 19, 1991 - May 4, 2023

Wife, Clergywoman, Kindred Spirit

Be at peace; for she is with the Lord.'

It seemed 'Mother' hadn't made the list.

He traced the letters with his finger. They were treated like part of the picture, so they weren't exactly the right shapes, but he was positive Nona could get the hang of it if she tried.

"This has all the letters for her name in it. Let's try writing that." He pointed to the top line on the tombstone, fumbling through Nona's drawing case to find a pencil.

With about 15 minutes of practice and mimicking Palamedes' movements, she could write the name clearly. Her handwriting was very stiff — he supposed years of copying printed text might have contributed to that. As she wrote, Palamedes sounded out the letters, and things clicked into place in her brain. She really did feel as if she knew these things, she'd just never been able to parse them out. Nona was hungry to learn more, to learn something different.

When she'd finished writing it out, in big blocky letters, Palamedes didn't smile — but there was a kind glint in his eyes. She must have thought about simplicity too soon, because he challenged her, "Okay. Read it to me."

Nona felt her cheeks flush under the pressure. She had such an insecurity about her voice. It never sounded right, not once; every prayer she spoke felt like an alien creature was trying to crawl out of her mouth.

She just really, really hoped Palamedes wouldn't laugh.

Her mouth fluttered open a few times, fumbling around the syllables, ghosting out what the name would feel like coming from her lips. She didn't even mean to speak when it came out, like an unformed mumble, "…A-Anne-uh…"

She clapped her hands over her mouth, turning a sickly shade of red. She was so embarrassed. Her voice had betrayed her again, like something she had to wrestle with to keep down.

To her surprise, Palamedes smiled again. He gently pulled her fingers apart, placing her hands back to rest on the table. He nodded reassuringly, "Good! It's alright, Nona. Keep going."

She already felt that much better. Nona clutched onto Noodle where he sat in her lap, fussing with the toy collar. Her eyes traced across the letters, and she tried again, "Anna… stay… sha?"

His whole face smiled, crinkling upwards at the corners of his eyes, filling Nona with a genuine sense of accomplishment. It was the longest thing she'd tried to say since she was very, very little.

Palamedes mussed her hair, slightly disturbing her braids, much like a father would. "That's the ticket. You're a quick study. I think you know more than you realize."

She smiled too, making her full toothy grin. Her cheeks were still ruddy, but now she was excited; she flapped one of her hands to release a bit of the energy.

"Would you want to keep going for today or stop?" Something she'd learnt about Palamedes was that he liked to give her options, even if she thought her answers were obvious. He offered her coffee occasionally next to her usual juice, which she always refused. It was something attentive and kind — two traits he naturally embodied.

Still, she hesitated. It felt good, to get something right, and she was so proud of herself that she didn't want to get something wrong.

He saw the way she shifted in the chair, clutching Noodle tightly, and conceded. There was no need to rush her. She was smart enough to work her way up to something bigger when she was ready. He took another sip of his tea before saying, "Don't push it. Let's wait and say hi to Camilla when she gets home. Here's how you write your name."

By the time Cam came back, weary from a day of forensics analysis, Nona was able to write and speak the names of everyone she knew. After she got the hang of the alphabet, she could write most anything she wanted (although she needed help with spelling). The words were all there, and she understood language itself very well — she just had never learned its written form. Even though she could somewhat read by herself now, she preferred Palamedes' help. He was so patient with her, like a teacher she'd never had.

Also, she'd learn anything to see Camilla's face light up with a smile.

After a week or so, Nona was more settled into a rhythm with Cam and Pal. It was usually one or the other for most of the day, sometimes trading off — Camilla needed to go into the office most of the week, and Palamedes had seminars with his Biomechanical Engineering cohort.

Nona didn't think she would ever be able to say 'Biomechanical Engineering', even if she were to live as long as Sister Aiglamene.

She'd sometimes find that they'd switch out in between her activities, looking up to see a different person than before. It didn't really bother her, but she was sad that she didn't get to tell them goodbye when they left. Now that Nona could say 'I love you', she wanted to remind them every minute she could.

That afternoon when she woke up from her nap, nobody was in the study with her. Palamedes had set her to sleep, but he usually slipped off without warning. She rubbed at her eyes, holding Noodle with the other hand, walking down the hall to the living room slowly.

She saw a figure hunched over a laptop, with dark, blunt hair, and brightened.

"Cam! Cam! You're home!" Nona exclaimed excitedly, running up to pull on her sleeve. She was wearing that thick gray jumper, the one with the embroidered cuffs, and her hair was trailing across the collar.

The person in the chair stiffened. When they turned towards her, Nona saw that it wasn't Camilla at all.

Palamedes looked blank. That was the worst part. He didn't even look upset that Nona had messed up, although she knew he was from the way his eyes fogged over — frigid, like morning frost.

Camilla had told her in private once, while he was out, that Palamedes didn't like people mistaking him for a woman. He'd worked hard to get the body he had, Cam explained, and the gel on his shoulders he told her not to touch was to help him look the way he saw himself. It had been a very slow, difficult process for him to start being happy.

She didn't understand what she'd meant. Not until right then.

"What could you possibly want, Nona?" He snapped, looking down at her with a lifted chin. His voice trembled a bit when he spoke, only causing him to feel worse. He clenched his jaw, and in a terrible moment, Nona saw what a pained glare looked like on his pointed features.

He turned back to his typing, hunching over even more than before. Palamedes muttered, in a pained staccato, "'M busy. Go back to the study, and stay there. I don't want to see you."

She stayed in there until Cam came home, confused at the absolutely tragic expression on her face. Nona had been drawing all afternoon, maybe her best portrait yet — but couldn't show it to who it was made for. She followed along her evening routine without complaint, going through the motions robotically.

He wasn't at dinner, either. Camilla was the one who tucked her in, and she was rubbish at bedtime stories. She didn't even do all the voices like he did.

Nona really hoped she hadn't ruined things.

Cam awoke to an empty bed, which was slightly out of the ordinary. She wasn't very affronted; however, a small part of her worried he hadn't slept enough at all. He was up late last night, coming to bed when she was already drifting off. What on Earth could have pulled him out of it this early?

As she shuffled into the kitchen, he recognized the gait to her step without an upward glance.

"Morning, love," Palamedes said absentmindedly. Affection for Camilla was his second nature.

"Morning, Warden."

When she looked up to him, she had to do a double take.

The waves that had previously trailed towards his chin were now cropped close to his head, showing off the curve of his jawline. The greys at his temples really were coming in, now; she felt a surge of guilt for not realizing sooner how stressed he'd been. His fringe was about the same as it usually was, although clearly an inch shorter.

He looked simultaneously older than she'd ever seen him, and also quite young.

"When did this happen?" Cam asked, as clinical as if she were surveying a crime scene photo. She brought a hand up to his fringe, mussing it a little. It had been about a year since he'd cut it significantly — his hair hadn't been that short in general for about five. It was reminiscent of his very first haircut after coming out in that it was perhaps a bit too short for his features, but drew the eye to them.

"Just before you woke. Does it look bad?" He didn't feel embarrassed if it did. Palamedes had never quite solved dysphoria, but he was surprised how much the haircut had helped. When he looked in the mirror as he was done, setting down Harrow's clippers, everything felt as right as it could be.

"Quite the opposite. You just surprised me. I didn't think it was bothering you." Her hand trailed its way down the side of his cheek, moving to cup his face in her palm. Cam stroked at his cheekbone, mumbling, "… I could have done it for you."

She was upset that he hadn't asked for her help, which was simultaneously endearing and very unnecessary.

Palamedes leaned into the touch, wrapping his fingers around hers. "I know, dear one. I needed to do it for myself. I feel better."

He shifted away back to the counter, pouring two mugs of coffee. He'd been busying himself with that first — Nona already didn't like eggs, and she was much less likely to eat them cold.

Cam knew there was something he wasn't telling her. Nona's behavior last night could only have one other source. She pressed, gently, "Surely something brought this on. You don't usually mind your appearance very much anymore."

His broad shoulders stiffened. To an untrained eye, it may have looked like he hadn't moved at all; but Camilla had known him since they were nothing but kids. She watched with a small satisfaction at the way his sinewy muscles moved underneath his T-shirt, the gentle curve of the top of his spine.

He still didn't turn to meet her. "That's exactly it. I realized that… how I look matters more to me than I previously thought."

Camilla waited patiently, leaning to sit against the kitchen counter. He passed her the morning coffee without a second thought, exactly the way she liked it, in her usual mug. She stared at him while she took a sip, still distracted by the contours of his face. Camilla couldn't believe she had heretofore managed to ignore the sharpness of his jawbone, how strikingly delicate it was.

He was attempting to remain distracted to avoid meeting her eyes — a classic Palamedes tactic. He wiped down the already spotless counter while he mumbled, dully, "She called me your name. Just yesterday. I know she felt terrible for it, and I know she's trying. But it stung."

She felt momentarily heartbroken. If her chest ached at the thought, it had to have felt ten times worse on his end.

Camilla shook her head. "Palamedes. She couldn't've meant it. We know she's probably got a speech processing disorder."

"I, logically, know that. But I've never been the most logical man, have I?" He finally turned to her, lifting his chin in the air. His gunmetal eyes had a raw glint to them behind his glasses, making him look all the more severe. There was something freshly defensive about him — something she hadn't seen since their school days.

She took another sip of her coffee, still staring back into his face, unflinching.

Palamedes glanced away, and his posture deflated. Her gaze had been trained on him far too long for his comfort. It would only be embarrassing if she actually didn't like it, and was trying to save his feelings. He rubbed the back of his neck, now bare. "If you hate it, you can just tell me, Cam. I won't be offended." There was a strange self-consciousness to his tone.

"No, it's— You look very handsome. I'm processing." Camilla stuttered. She stuttered. Hearing her waver was obscenely rare, and a comment on his appearance all the more so. Palamedes felt a hot flush rise all the way to his ears. She really did think he looked good.

She looked him up and down while he watched, giving him yet another visual appraisal. Sometimes, Camilla was reminded all at once how attracted she was to him. It wasn't a slow burn for her like it was for him — she'd known since the first moment they'd locked eyes. It was as if she'd blinked and Palamedes had grown even more into himself, something bright and blinding.

Aging looked damn good on him.

"Even if I did hate it, I've never left your side. Like when you had that absolute mop on your head in year 8." She smirked over her mug, breathing a small chuckle out into it.

Palamedes really did have the worst school photos. He didn't realize he was trans until college, so every photo in his yearbooks were stiff and uncomfortable. His first short haircuts more resembled tumbleweeds than anything else.

He flushed even deeper, but smiled despite himself. "That wasn't my fault! Mum got to it. Should've asked Kiki."

"… Or me." Camilla crossed her arms defensively, pretending to be more hurt than she actually was. He closed the distance between them, leaning over the countertop, mere inches from her face.

"I've spent all my time since I realized I loved you compensating for the years I took you for granted." He lifted her up by the chin, pressing his thumb against her bottom lip. Palamedes spoke lowly, in a gentle half-tone, "You know I adore you, Scholar."

"Yes, Warden. I do." Before he could pull her up towards him, she pressed her lips to his, sliding her hands around the back of his neck. His hips slotted in between her thighs, pressing close enough to feel the seam on the inside of her lounge pants. Coffee breath be damned — the kiss tasted sweet.

Nona had felt very shy over breakfast. She'd finished her whole plate of eggs — because she took bites as an excuse to look away from Palamedes, to pretend she wasn't watching him. She'd loved his hair, and she loved it even more now.

When someone changed something about their appearance, Nona liked to study them even closer than before. Harrowhark wore massive, dark eyeliner day to day (it was called 'Goth', according to her), and sometimes it completely transformed her face. Nona had loved to watch her put it on. Seeing little changes in her loved ones' appearances gave her even more to observe.

She just wished Palamedes' haircut had been under better circumstances. It made her feel very upset with herself.

Camilla had filled in the silences for them over the breakfast table, but she couldn't be there forever. She sighed as she checked her watch, making sure her tie was done up right. "Bye, Nona. Bye, Love." She kissed both of them on the cheek — Palamedes got another one on the mouth, which made Nona stick her tongue out in disgust.

She gave Palamedes a knowing glance as she slung her bag over her shoulder. If he didn't try to make things right (which he would have regardless), this was the one thing she wouldn't do for him.

He had moved to the couch in front of the TV, still typing away. Nona had looked over his shoulder once, only to be disappointed by thousands of words that barely made sense to her. Sure, she could remember the gibberish on the page, and all of the figures that went with it, but she couldn't understand why anyone would want to look at numbers all day. It clearly wasn't doing his brain any favors.

When he saw her watching him again, he waved her over, patting the spot next to him. "C'mere."

Nona wanted to cry. Palamedes looked very different now, and it was her fault. She wished her tongue followed her mind and just made the right noises, that she'd waited enough before making a guess. Speaking already embarrassed her enough, and now she didn't want to try again anytime soon. Was he going to punish her?

She walked hesitantly, feeling very nervous. The reason she hadn't ran off was because his body language seemed calm. His face looked kind again, still tired, but with a newfound sense of self-confidence. Nona felt like he would be nice about whatever he was going to tell her, at the very least.

Palamedes shut the laptop, and turned to face her when she sat down. His eyes were like a clear stream today, the brown flecks resembling the stone beneath. He folded his hands in his lap, and Nona watched the way his fingers slid against one another. His voice was very gentle when he said, "I shouldn't've gotten cross with you, Nona. That wasn't right of me at all, and I'm sorry. I know you're learning."

She looked up at him again in confusion. That wasn't what she was expecting — she thought that she would get to say sorry first. His face was twisted in genuine regret, which made her feel a little better.

"You shouldn't be afraid to make mistakes. That's the first step to mastering something. I've made more of them than I can count." He twisted his wedding band on his finger, feeling the cool, smooth metal slide across his skin much like Camilla's own touch.

They locked eyes again, and Palamedes gave her a small, sad smile.

No time like the present. Nona gathered her nerves and reached for her sketchbook on the coffee table, leafing through the pages before she found what she was looking for. She passed it to him, glancing away, and Nona mumbled out a quiet, "I'm sorry."

When he saw what was on the page, he froze in place.

It was a portrait of a man with thin, angular features, pushing his glasses up his nose. There was a small amount of kindness to his face, even though he wasn't smiling. Nona had emphasized all of the masculine features of his face, from the cheekbones to the heaviness of his brow — it was without a doubt one of the kindest apologies he had ever received. It showed that she had never seen Palamedes as anything but himself.

Nona felt very sad that she hadn't got his hair right.

Palamedes whispered, awestruck, "…That's me." His chest soared, feeling lighter by the second. One of his hands found its way to his mouth, and he spoke around it, "That's really me. God, you're good."

She shifted closer, pressing at the wrinkle in his forehead to try and smooth it out. That wasn't what she wanted at all! She didn't want to make him feel worse. She'd drawn him exactly how she saw him, and thought she had really done him justice.

"Oh, I'm not upset with you, little one! It's okay." He pulled her hand away, smiling that wide, face-transforming smile. "Do you forgive me?"

Nona nodded slowly before she remembered Camilla and Palamedes wanted her to verbalize 'yes' and 'no'. It came out a bit too loud when she said, "Yes. I for—forgive… me, too." She pressed the sketchbook all the way into his chest. That drawing was his now. It told him everything she wanted to say.

It seemed like he understood. He reached out to also smooth the wrinkle in her brow, pressing the pad of his thumb into it. Her nonverbal cues were endlessly charming; something he would have to start adopting into his vocabulary. Sometimes, a touch spoke more than words.

Palamedes cleared his throat, getting back to business. "D'you want to work on maths today, or more reading?"

"Read!" Nona exclaimed, lighting up.

He tilted his head to the side, chuckling. She obviously wanted him to read to her some more. "Pity. I could really get into maths. Maybe I'll have Cam look at that with you."

Chapter Text

Their second week into Italy, and it was finally time to visit the Colosseum. They'd already been to various cathedrals, all for Harrow's benefit. Gideon had only requested that they go to the beach. The main reason Gideon agreed to it all was for the reps she was about to get on the stairs — she truly did miss the stairmaster at her home gym. Cam would never let her hear the end of it if she came back out of shape.

Plus, the long wait in the queue was worth it to see Harrow's eyes light up.

People tended to stare at them while they passed by, for any variety of reasons: either at Harrow's full goth finery, Gideon's sculpture-worthy muscles, the fact they were both visibly queer, or a combination of all three. They were used to it by now — but the stares were always more clear in a crowd. And the Colosseum was packed with tours. Harrow often kept her hand firmly in Gideon's own, even if her fingers became slick with sweat.

Still, she wandered off a lot. Harrow kept a small notebook on her at almost all times to draw diagrams or take literal notes. Once an academic, always an academic, Gideon supposed; although she wished Harrowhark would relax for once in her goddamn life.

Sextus was right after all. It seemed Harrow's other love was the hobby of list-making.

It was quite something to watch, Harrow dedicating herself to a project. There was always a faint quirk to her brow, the smallest hint of a smile playing on her pointed lips, something hungry to her eyes. Her natural curiosity often put her in her own little bubble, where the only things that existed were her brain and her surroundings. The upper layer of the Colosseum (called the 'Attico', according to a tour guide) seemed to have her in a trance as they reached the top.

As Gideon had known since their Drearburh days, her flow state was perfect for a prank.

She stood behind a pillar, cartoonishly hiding in plain sight. When she saw Harrow perk up, terrified that she'd lost her in the crowd, she knew it was her time to shine.

She got as close behind as she could dare without alerting Harrow, drawling into her ear, "Come here often, gorgeous?"

Harrowhark nearly jumped a full foot, her sunhat flying in the air as she went. She rounded on Gideon, grabbing her by the button-up shirt, "Christ! Don't scare me like that!"

All Gideon had to show for herself was a shit-eating grin, and a glint to her eyes behind her aviators.

Despite her tone, Harrow was smiling. She knew the flush to her ears wasn't from the heat. Gideon was chivalrous enough to bend down and grab her hat for her, firmly securing it onto her head. She looked like a raven about to peck at her, in the cutest way possible.

Harrow grumbled, tugging at Gideon's belt loop, "I've half a mind to clip your carabiner to my own belt."

Honestly? It would probably work. The mental image made Gideon chuckle — they already made for quite the odd couple. She ribbed at her, with fake acclaim, "Yet another innovation, my midnight haggette."

"A throwback for today? Don't test me with the nicknames, Nav." She slid her hands back towards her notes, clicking her pen with an impatience. Her clunky Doc Martens made a shuffling sound as she turned back away, making her way towards the central view of the amphitheater. She never thought she would get to see it in person. After reading so much latin, focusing on the words of dead poets, it felt surreal.

Harrow quickly slid back into her concentrated state, sketching out the layers of seats. There was a charm to her lines, although there was nothing as impressive as Nona's handiwork. Her black hatching made everything look much more imposing than it was in real life. It was like having Harrow-vision. Whenever Gideon got a look at anything she'd written just for herself, the handwriting looked like absolute chicken scratch.

Her wife lost track of her surroundings again. Gideon graciously took the opportunity, shaking her by the shoulders, "Boo! I'm the ghost of Caesar!"

Harrowhark was mid-step down the stairs, and she turned to glare over her shoulder. "Gideon, if you d—"

In a moment that would have been hilarious at any other location, Harrow went ass over teakettle and fell halfway down the flight of stairs.

Gideon's life flashed before her eyes. "Oh, shit."

Thankfully, Harrow's thick black trousers hitched against the rough stone instead of sliding all the way down — she stopped only a few rows of seats below. Gideon thought God might have been actually apologizing to her.

"We're fine! Sorry! Scusa!" She smiled that charming lopsided smile, waving away the concerned group of tourists gathered around the bottom of the steps.

Gideon sprinted to where Harrow lay, splayed out like a crash dummy. Nothing seemed to be broken, and she wasn't bleeding, thank God. Gideon would never forgive herself if Harrow got hurt because of her again. She knelt down next to her, lifting her shoulders off of the ground — only to watch Harrow's head loll back, her eyes firmly closed.

She mumbled to herself, assessing the damage, "Passed out. She passed. Out. Ohhhh, fuck me."

Gideon took her sunglasses off to place them on Harrow's face, in an attempt to make it look like she wasn't completely unconscious. A total 'Weekend At Bernie's' situation, except she was breathing. She was definitely going to threaten to kill her, and not in that hot foreplay way, either.

She picked her up like it was nothing (because it was), cradling her in a bridal carry. If she placed a hand around her shoulders, it almost looked like she was upright. That ridiculous, floppy sunhat also worked to hide her face. It appeared as if Harrow was embarrassed about the fall, and was attempting to shield herself — at least, Gideon hoped it did. She smiled apologetically at the passersby that made polite movements to get out of the way.

Gideon started the long, slow walk back to where they were staying, holding Harrow as if she were a damsel in distress.

The sun had already set when they shuffled back to their hotel, Harrow terse with frustration. She'd almost brought her to an urgent care, but Harrowhark insisted she was fine. It was mostly her ego that had been bruised.

She ignored her the whole trek back, ever since Gideon set her down to walk again. The keycard made a small click when the door unlocked, much like her shoes on the marble tiling. It was wishful thinking, but when Harrow's back was turned, already getting into her night clothes, Gideon slid the 'Do Not Disturb' sign over the handle.

Getting ready for bed was easy for Gideon; she simply tossed her clothes into a pile, sliding underneath the duvet shirtless. She'd kept her boxers on, because she wasn't stupid. Harrow had a difficult time relaxing, even on a good day, and she didn't seem all that interested in a nightcap. Still, she wanted to at least try — for honeymoon's sake.

Gideon attempted to be suave to set the mood. She brushed her hair back (with that single curl escaping back onto her forehead), and gave Harrow a half-lidded lovelorn look. "C'mon, babe. Take your face off and come to bed."

Harrowhark just stared at her. She slowly brought her hand to her cheek, pulling at the skin. Thanks to her Ehlers-Danlos, it stretched forward an eerie amount. It really did look like her face could pull off.

Her wife gagged, the foreplay forgotten, "Your makeup, you weirdo creep!"

Another throwback. Harrow hadn't heard that one since she was ten.

She smirked a bit at the reaction she'd gotten before her face settled back to her neutral frown. Harrow shifted over to the hotel vanity she'd set up shop at, the long black nightgown dragging behind making her look like the grim reaper. She stared at herself for a moment in the mirror. Her thin, spindly fingers moved towards the cleanser, hesitating slightly while removing the cap. It was clear that she didn't want to take it off.

To Gideon, Harrow's bare face was ten times more beautiful than any stupid ancient Roman monument. She only ever took her makeup off when they were completely alone. It took a lot of trust for Harrow to be comfortable without at least her eyeliner on — her appearance was something she thought needed to be covered up to be found palatable. She was hyper critical of every chip in her armor, of anything that she couldn't control about how people saw her.

Although she understood why she was so defensive of her presentation, Gideon never saw her as anything but spellbinding.

Harrow wiped her foundation off first (something Gideon had tried to get her to leave at home). Her skin was silky smooth, her lips ashen with the stain of the black lipstick. The usual sickly, pale undertone of her face was becoming more ruddy with health, her cheeks looking fuller now that she actually smiled. Love didn't cure everything, but Gideon always softened to see just how much heartier she'd looked ever since they'd gotten together.

Taking off her eyes was what really toned her down. She drew her eyebrows on every morning, and the very thin ones underneath softened her face immensely. Her eyes looked so much larger without makeup, making her expressions serene. It would absolutely damage her 'don't touch, I bite' image to appear so innocent.

She didn't say a word when she slid underneath the sheets next to her wife. Although her glare was diminished with the faintness of her natural eyebrows, it was still very potent.

Gideon shifted closer to her, snaking an arm around her waist. Harrow just turned away, crossing her arms stubbornly.

She scoffed. "Silent treatment. Are you really that mad at me?"

Harrowhark glanced over her shoulder, the half-light casting the hollows her face in shadow. "Griddle. I fell down the Colosseum steps."

"I got you! You were fine!" Gideon rested her chin on Harrow's shoulder, pressing her throat to the small of her shoulderblade. Both of them were quite clingy, but as of late, Gideon wanted nothing more than to hold her.

It would be nice if she wasn't incapacitated for it, though.

Harrow lifted her head, bringing it farther back from her wife's. "In front of hundreds of people. In broad daylight."

"Okay, when you put it like that…"

Harrow just turned back around, tilting her body away. Gideon thought it adorable that her hair made a small V-shape at the nape of her neck, much like the bangs she'd started to grow out (although she'd threatened to shave her head soon to escape the heat. Gideon was prepared to mourn the loss like a genuine passing).

"It's our honeymoon! Are you mad enough to divorce me?" Gideon pouted, sliding her hands up towards Harrow's breastbone. Even through the fabric of her nightgown, she could feel the slow beat of her heart — a sound that always made her feel devotion like it were a pining ache in her bones.

Harrow pushed her away, turning to stare into her molten gold eyes. She did look genuinely affronted at the idea, moving her hands to cradle Gideon's face. The points of her black, stiletto acrylics rested around her cheekbones, making her look frustratingly handsome. It was unfair, how much she loved her.

Harrow muttered, affectionately, "I wouldn't divorce you even if you magically turned into a shrunken head overnight. You are my heart, my blood, and my brain." Gideon blinked up at her, giving a dopey half-smile, until her wife glowered again. "But I am quite cross."

"We've got so much time to fuck around. We can go back tomorrow, even. Or whatever you want!" Gideon threw a chiseled arm up in the air, disappointed when Harrow moved her hands away. Her touch was like a cool winter breeze; something gentle and urgent. Her fingers were those of a nipping frost, and as most things about her, commanded an attention.

The smallest of touches could yank Gideon's neck on the chain keeping them together. She'd do anything if Harrow asked — and God, if she didn't know it.

She sighed, dramatically, "How can I make it up to you?" Bending downward, she placed her head in Harrowhark's lap. Her chin sat on her thigh, and she looked up to her pleadingly when Harrow twisted a ginger curl around her finger. Despite the shitty hotel shampoo, her hair was absolutely perfect.

Her wife smirked, in that playful way that was reserved only for her. She purred, "…Well, like you said; it is our honeymoon, Griddle. You know what to do."

Gideon took the cue so quickly it almost embarrassed her.

She pressed her mouth to Harrow's delicate neck, nipping at the skin just enough to tease out a bruise. Harrow sighed in satisfaction when she trailed her way down to her collarbone, and leaned her hips forward as Gideon's strong hands clutched her waist. It wasn't the first time they'd had a bit of fun on the trip, but she aimed to please.

Gideon couldn't see her face as she slid her jaw towards her chest, but she felt the vibration of her voice along the side of her ribs. She could picture that heavy-lidded smirk that made her feel woozy when Harrow whispered, "Just like that."

Chapter Text

The break in Cam's case couldn't have come soon enough. She took as much time for her family as she could, but the first half of her month was crammed with blood sample analyses and crime scene reconstruction. Now that they'd finally singled out a suspect, she could do clerical work from home.

Normally she hated being out of office, but Cam was happy to do more with Nona. Palamedes had been picking up too much of her slack, and she needed to step in. Perfect timing, too — he would be gone for a few days, giving Camilla a healthy dose of Nona time.

Nona had gotten a bit more comfortable with just one of them, now that it had been a few weeks. It seemed she struggled with emotional permanence (as did most autistic children), sometimes becoming very shy when Camilla would come home after not seeing her for a few days. Sudden changes made her nervous. Nona knew that people could change on a dime, and she wasn't always sure where she stood in her new home.

Thankfully, Camilla was nothing if not consistent. She followed Nona's routine almost better than she did, like clockwork, keeping the day very structured. If Nona tried hard enough, she could almost pretend she was at school — something she wished she was well enough to attend. She really felt that her new household would encourage it over homeschooling, not like Mum.

The only downside was Camilla woke her up at 9 AM sharp every day, putting her straight into physical therapy stretches. She was supposed to be stretching her legs every morning, but usually didn't. Everyone fell victim to her puppy-dog eyes, stopping when she looked up at them with a wide eyed frown. Camilla, however, made sure those hamstrings were ready for movement. Nona's walking was all the better for it.

After a full day, all under Camilla's watchful gaze, Nona was a bit worn out. She'd gotten into her jammies before one last documentary (they'd nearly exhausted the marine life category of National Geographic), letting Cam lead her back into her room.

She spoke over her shoulder as she flicked on Nona's nightlight, "Bedtime, little one. I'll read a story."

Nona, sat on the futon, crossed her arms. "No. I want Pal!"

Typical. Nona always preferred whichever one of them wasn't there.

Camilla shook her head. "At a conference. He's showing his research on Biomechanics — that word you can't pronounce."

His absentmindedness over the month was far from his normal studious nature. He'd been absolutely sucked in by his dissertation on external pulmonary drains the moment his professor had announced the research conference to his cohort — something he'd already devoted years of his life to. He'd told her, in an excited rush, that he might finally make a name for himself. With the right support, he could finish his PHD and start making the damn things. He could start saving lives. Although it was all he'd wanted since uni, the workload was wearing him thin (on top of caring for Nona).

Even through the stress of preparing for the presentation, Palamedes took the time to keep his hair short. Camilla needn't question why.

When she remembered he was busy, Nona pursed her lips in frustration, much like Harrowhark would when she'd lost an argument. She grumbled, "F-fine. Then I want Gideon."

She knew she was asking the impossible, but she wanted to poke Camilla anyway. It was becoming great fun. Cam humored her in ways Palamedes simply wouldn't when it came to rhetorical questions, always doing her best to genuinely answer.

Camilla sat down next to the bed, silently staring to tuck Nona in. "We can't talk to them right now. Off the grid."

Harrow and Gideon had opted not to bother with cell coverage when they were planning the trip, as it was only a few weeks, and they didn't speak to many people anyway. It could give them a full break from work — letting them focus only on one another. The moment they realized Nona would be waiting for them at home, the peaceful daydream of being offline shattered.

Nona continued to pout, although she let Camilla fluff up her pillow around her head. "But why?" Here was one of her favorite games with Cam: the 'Why' game.

"We told you, Nona. They're on a trip."

"Why?"

"It's a honeymoon. They got married."

"Why?"

"They fell in love."

"Why?" Now she was just being a pill. She knew that love wasn't something to be explained only in words.

"Hmm." Camilla placed a hand under her chin, tilting her head to the side in thought. The ever-precise angle of her bobbed hair slid up over her face, perfectly matching the line of her jawbone. Nona liked to watch her think. Her thick eyebrows stayed relaxed underneath her fringe, but she had a very distinctive look to her eyes. Something about her was quite handsome, nearly sculptural.

After rubbing at her chin for a second, Cam shrugged, those ashen grey eyes flitting back to Nona. "That's complicated. I can't say 'Dunno', because I do know." She'd fallen in love when she was even younger than Nona, when she'd realized Palamedes was hers. He was always dangerously precocious. When they'd first met, he insisted Camilla didn't like to be alone, and they'd better stick together. He was dead on. Not a soul before or since had ever dared assume Camilla Hect was a woman who could be lonely.

Nona was staring at her eagerly. Cam snapped back to the present, thankful her mind had settled on a story. "D'you want to know how they met?" Nona started to shift her head on the pillow, until Camilla corrected, "Don't nod. Say yes or no."

"Yes."

"Very good."

Camilla decided to gloss over the 'Boy's School' aspect of their past; not because Nona wasn't old enough to understand, but because Cam valued her housemates' privacy. Considering she was the only one out of the four who wasn't transgender, she was pretty well versed in how to handle the topic. She was also wise enough to understand she shouldn't have conversations like these for someone, unless they directed her to do so.

She told the story with bare bones, as she often did. "They went to school together. Boarding school. It was Drearburh — you probably've never been, though."

Nona looked a bit put out. Anastasia had brought her stories of the people who went there, all of the nuns she'd taught with; but she knew it wasn't the same as actually going there. She went to shake her head lazily on the pillow, but remembered herself and mumbled, "…No."

"Sorry. I didn't format it for yes or no." Camilla tucked a long, loose strand back behind Nona's ear. She pressed on, "But yes. It was Catholic school. Very old building. They were enemies for a long time. Fought often. And then something clicked." It might be inappropriate to explain that her mums had fought to the blood before making out so deeply that Gideon dislocated her nose. Camilla resisted a grin. "That's hard to explain, though. I think you're a bit too young."

"I'm… almost th-thirteen," Nona said indignantly, although she was so tired that the effect didn't land.

"And don't I know it." Camilla sighed, tucking the blanket around her legs. She tucked some of the covers around Noodle, too, before standing up to turn off the light. "Goodnight."

Nona was already moments from dozing off. She mumbled, with all of the affection she could muster, "Night, Cam."

Her eyes slid shut at the view of Camilla’s flickering smile, backlit by the warmth of the hallway light.

Because it was dreadfully rainy the next day, they couldn't go to the park like usual — something Nona was frustrated about. She'd grown very fond of the short walk, of watching Camilla do her daily jog around the pathway. She had been sulking a bit until she had a fresh idea: inserting herself into every crevice of the flat until Camilla told her what was off-limits.

After sufficiently pressing Cam's buttons, they agreed on something to do. Nona had gotten into the coat closet, messing around with the oversized garments for a small fashion show. She even did little impressions of everyone. Gideon's leather jackets had Nona put on a fake smirk, brushing her hair back with a swagger. Harrow's trailing overcoats made her walk prim and proper, nose held unrealistically high. When she put on Palamades' coat, she shuffled about pretending to push a nonexistent pair of glasses up her nose — and was happy to hear it get a deep chuckle from Camilla.

However, Nona didn't dare to do her Cam impression in front of her.

When Cam closed the closet, show completed, she turned to see Nona wearing a lacy black scarf like a shawl. She must've slipped it into her overalls for later, knowing Cam would pivot to another activity before dinnertime.

Clever girl.

Cam opened the door again, pointing to the bin where the scarf used to sit. It was full of varying shades of black, looking a bit like a cartoonish stormcloud. She gently tugged at the scarf as she said, "Put that back, please. It's Harrowhark's."

Nona took a step back, wrapping herself entirely in the floral lace. She pouted, furrowing her brow, "It's pretty! I like it."

The sight very nearly brought a smile to Camilla's face. Still, she remained firm. "Put it in the bin. If you like it, she loves it."

Nona hesitated, looking away from Cam. She fiddled with the lace between her fingers, surprised by the silken softness of the texture. She saw no reason why she couldn't keep it — especially when Harrow was gone.

She mumbled, agitated, "…I don't even th-think she loves me."

Beneath her deadpan exterior, Camilla felt somewhat like she'd been stabbed. It was a dull, gut-wrenching ache, much like the fencing wound she'd sustained years ago. She stepped closer to Nona, growing slightly stern, "Don't say that."

"Why not?" The girl glared up at her, stomping her foot on the floor. "How do I know? They left me. G-Gone, and not… coming back."

Cam didn't waver. "They're coming back in two weeks. 'S on the calendar."

"No! They could be lying."

"They're not. Am I a liar?"

"…No." Nona felt a bit embarrassed at the question. One of her favorite things about Camilla was she never lied, not like Palamedes might. She didn't tell her everything — but whatever she said was true.

And Camilla insisted, "I believe them."

That didn't do much to sway her, this time. She had believed Anastasia too. All she had truly learned was adults too often made promises to her they couldn't keep. She was world-weary enough at twelve to know it well.

Cam watched her stubbornly glare at the wooden flooring, and knew that wasn't enough to satisfy her. She probably shouldn't show Nona Harrow's notes, but she didn't really mind; the best strategy she'd found was to respect children like they were her age. Nona was already wise beyond her years.

She raised a thick brow. "D'you want proof, of how much your mum loves you?"

"Unless she can come b-back, it won't—"

"Here." Camilla pulled Nona towards the kitchen table, setting down the notebook from the counter like it were a dossier. She gestured for Nona to open it, pointing to the scrawled 'Harrowhark Nonagesimus, on the care of Nona Novenary'.

Nona's curiosity got the best of her. She leafed through the little tabs, astonished by the amount of pages. Cam helped her up onto the chair so she could read better, and she explained, "She wrote all of that by hand. About you, for us. Harrowhark is almost as observant as you are."

The labels on the tabs were quite silly. Nona giggled at one of them, doing her best to read aloud, "…'P-proper bedtime rituals'? Am I a witch?"

"Everything is a ritual with her." Despite herself, Camilla smiled. Harrow was someone she enjoyed greatly. She appreciated that she could be herself around Harrowhark, as dry and flat as it may be, without attempting to sugarcoat. Being pessimistic with her about the state of the world could be very refreshing.

Nona was in awe of the script she wrote with, how delicate it was. It was almost like cursive, but still printed enough for her to understand it clearly. She mumbled, "Harr… Harrowh-hark's writing is really pretty." It was pretty in a way only she was — dark and rigid, but with a glimmer of tenderness.

Camilla shook her head. "Only her slow handwriting is. She was deliberate about this."

Nona kept her eyes firmly on the notebook, stuck on a phrase that read: 'Her expressions will tell you all that you must know — that she adores you with her whole heart'.

She pressed her pointer finger to the page, feeling the indent the pen left in the paper. Harrow wrote this much about her? Nona didn't think she was all that special. If anything, she worried that she was too much for her when she was there. It made her feel very teary, to know that she wasn't a burden at all. That Harrow really did love her.

She didn't realize she'd started sniffling until Cam silently offered her a tissue.

"It's okay to miss her, Nona," she soothed, wrapping an arm around her. Cam was very strong and handsome and sweet, and Nona knew that she would help her feel better.

But her hug wasn't anything like Harrow's.

She wiped her eyes, swaddling herself further into Harrow's scarf. It still smelled like her — lilac, rosemary, mint. Gideon's cologne had long since aired out of her belongings, but Harrow's perfumes lingered around the flat, making her absence all the more obvious.

Nona mumbled around the shawl, rocking herself back and forth, "…I miss her a lot. V-Very much."

Camilla slid the notebook shut. She wrapped both of her arms around Nona, following along with her rocking motions. The chair clacked a bit on the floor, but neither of them minded. Cam was strong enough to control the movement, making the noise very quiet. She spoke lowly, "She misses you, too."

And Nona knew she was right.

Today, they could actually make it to the park, and Nona was ecstatic. The flowers were in full bloom, and she was walking well enough most of the time to have Noodle come along on the toy leash with her, all by herself! She'd only fallen twice, and she was very proud of herself for the low number. Sometimes, she didn't even need her ear defenders to go outside.

Camilla was worried about the white fluff of Noodle's stuffed body getting dirty, but Nona didn't mind at all. She thought it was cute, like having a real puppy — and if she was lucky enough, there were dogs at the park! She got to pet them all! Cam often had to pull her away when the visit was done, because she wanted to take them all home with her.

Camilla already knew Gideon would get Nona an actual puppy in a heartbeat. Perhaps she should start puppy-proofing her documents, just to be safe.

The part Nona liked the least about the park was that Cam used it as a bargaining chip to record her speak. Palamedes had an old tape recorder he kept for his own use, muttering into it whenever Camilla couldn't offer a listening ear. She'd repurposed it to record Nona's speech progress. They had a few stock conversations: introductions, how are you, tell me about yourself. Ever since they'd started using the tapes, Nona had improved exponentially.

If Palamedes had ever recorded love letters to her on there, for her ears alone — well. That was Camilla's business.

She made sure to flip over the tape (to preserve a particularly adored monologue), and then placed it between where they sat on the park bench.

"Start."

Nona twirled a braid around her finger, speaking in a clear, loud voice, "My name is Nona. I'm tw—twelve years old. I live with my mums and their h…"

"Keep going."

"Hou—housemates!" She looked to Cam for approval, smiling when she gave a curt nod back.

"Good."

"I like to draw, make pus—zzles, and play in the water. For my birth… day… Cam says we can go to the zoo?"

Camilla just stared at her. Where Pal gave her hints, Cam kept the challenge going. She was, as Gideon would say, 'a total hard-ass'.

She goaded her, "You know the word, Nona."

"Ack. Awk." Nona flushed, becoming somewhat frustrated. She tugged at the decorative elastics on her braid while her mouth folded over the syllables awkwardly. She hated the sound that the ‘q’ and the ‘u’ made next to each other — stupid Greeks!

She felt a bit better after ghosting around the syllables for a moment, and decided to try again. "Ack-wear-ium. That place has all of the jellyfish and seals in it! And lots of pretty water. I might get to pet the ma—manta ray."

"We can stop for now." Cam clicked the tape off, placing it into her bag. She noticed that whenever Nona got into special interest territory, her hesitation went away. Her stutter seemed to come from a deep-set embarrassment. The difficulty finding the right words had also improved — they had briefly worried that Nona might have a type of aphasia, but developmental difficulties made much more sense.

Camilla scooted closer to Nona on the bench, giving her a very small smile. It was odd that she didn’t seem more excited of her achievement. "Good job. D'you remember what we told you, when you get to long words?"

Nona nodded, recalling with perfect accuracy, "Don't stop. Say it wrong, and fix it."

"Exactly." Camilla noticed how Nona didn't meet her eyes, still playing with her elastics. They were somewhat of a new fidget toy for her. Palamedes had thought they were too cute to pass up — they had small star-shaped beads on the ends. Nona loved them so much she'd put them on every dip in her braids. She used the whole pack to decorate them, and the bright colors fit in perfectly with her Gideon-patented tacky outfits.

Camilla reassured her, smoothing out one of the elastics, "They would be very proud of you. 'S why we're recording these."

Both Pal and Cam’s phones were an absolute mess of Nona pictures and videos to show Harrow and Gideon when they came home. The tapes were a spur-of-the-moment decision, but had more charm than a simple voicenote. Camilla hoped that they could build countless more memories with Nona — ones that they would all be present for.

The girl began to mumble, "… I don't like how my v-voice sounds. On the rec… ree-core-der." Nona's voice had gone very soft. She tended to struggle with volume control, something that didn't bother any of them whatsoever. Hearing her get louder as she got more excited seemed to emit the joy out of her, but when she was quiet, it wasn't a good sign.

Camilla really did think Palamedes had hit the nail on the head. Nona was embarrassed by the sound of her own voice, unable to fully get past that hurdle. He'd thought she was a bit too young to understand depersonalization, but it was something for them to keep an eye out for. Sometimes, Nona would stare at herself in the mirror like she was a stranger, pulling at parts of her face until they couldn't go any further. She conceptualized her voice like it was the sound of someone else. 

Cam hoped she would adjust with time. It seemed that her mum didn't keep any technology around the house, and mirrors occasionally startled her. She shrugged. "I sound pretty different too, don't I? That's how your voice can sound on the phone, too. Compresses."

"Wish we could talk to them on the phone. Stupid fucking rules." Nona crossed her arms, glaring at the sidewalk. Now that she had been introduced to the concept of facetime via Pal, she constantly interrogated the both of them about talking to Harrow and Gideon. Their deliberate lack of service was starting to feel more and more selfish.

"Nona," Camilla warned, glancing around. Thankfully, it seemed as if nobody had overheard her. She'd probably stolen the curse from Gideon (maybe Palamedes, as he'd had a time of it recently). As much as she ought to scold her for it, it was quite funny to hear her swear. She bit at her lip, forcing back a chuckle — Nona took clear note of it.

Cam just sighed, shooting a look in Nona's direction. "…Don't say that again."

Nona did her absolute best not to giggle. "Yes, Cam."

Chapter Text

For the last week of their trip, Harrow had surprisingly eased up on the itinerary. There were still some set activities bookending their days, like meals or tours, but Gideon glancing down at a schedule to simply see 'Beach.' written from dawn til dusk felt like a pipe dream.

Gideon had originally thought to go to a nude beach, because she at least wanted to be topless — but her wife probably would have strangled her. The mental image of Harrowhark Nonagesimus, spared from nunnery only by virtue of transsexualism, fully clothed next to a sea of nude bodies would be something for the history books. Instead, she opted for a more secluded beach with few tourists, keeping her clothes on (although skinny dipping with her wife wasn't completely off of the table, if she got exceptionally lucky).

Harrow spent the afternoons covered nearly head to toe in black, in a garment that looked a lot like a black morphsuit. She had informed her that no, it was a wetsuit; and yes, she would be wearing it and nothing less. Harrow had added a small coverup sash around the waist for a feminine accent. Despite Gideon's urges to the contrary, she had found a way to wear her padding underneath, and still put on her usual full face of makeup. Gideon had managed to dissuade her from shaving her head again — but the floppy sunhat continued to be a must.

She still had a deep apathy towards her body, even when showing herself to her wife. The sash was hardly enough to make her more comfortable. Wearing a garment that rendered her nearly naked was more excruciating than if her innards managed to spill out over the sand.

In contrast, Gideon was more than happy to show off, wearing short swim trunks and thin strips of KT tape on her chest. She'd tried to do typical women's bikini tops in the past — and it made her feel ridiculous, because she couldn't do her backstroke without the straps getting in the way. The tape gave her full range of movement (and always helped her kick Cam's sorry ass in volleyball).

Despite how masculine she'd been dressing lately, Gideon managed to get 'Miss'es and 'Ma'am's wherever they went. It was absolute Heaven. Even if someone stumbled for a moment, her unflappable confidence in herself always had them land on the correct words. She really had won the E lottery. Gideon was more than happy to make sweet small talk with other beachgoers, even making a few friends — who all paled significantly to realize the macabre, vampiric wraith of a goth woman underneath the black umbrella was her wife.

Harrow didn't come from underneath the shade at all. She was too busy scribbling in her notes, ripping pages out to reorganize them in what Gideon could only assume was for some nonsensical purpose. By the third day of Harrow's beach gloom, Gideon had seen more than enough. She'd be getting her in that damn water even if it meant picking her up like a sack of (very frail) bricks.

When Gideon made her way back to Harrow's miniature stormcloud, she just so happened to stumble — kicking up a mess of sand onto Harrow's notes.

Gideon relished in the way her eyes lit up with mirth. Harrow scoffed up at her from under the black sunhat brim, trying to shake the sand out of the undried ink. "Don't act innocent, Nav! That was entirely on purpose!"

Gideon shoved her hands in her pockets. "I plead the fifth."

"You know that's just a line outside of America," Harrow complained, grumbling at the ink smeared across the page. Her latest paragraph was absolutely ruined.

Gideon kneeled down next to her, leaning in close. The parasol shielded their faces like a privacy screen, suddenly making the moment much more intimate. Saltwater dripped down from her curls onto Harrow's lap, and she leaned backwards as Gideon began to poise herself over her. "But it works for me, doesn't it? I'm blameless as a blushing babe at a baptism."

Even in the shade, Gideon noticed the way Harrow's ears began to flush. She started to walk her fingers up Harrow's arm playfully, making her way towards her neck, and mumbled at the bottom of her range, "Speaking of baptisms, Harrow…"

To her utter shock, Harrow shrunk backwards, scrambling her body away. "I am not going swimming," she snapped, placing a hand over her chest defensively. Her eyes were sharp, wide with something close to adrenaline.

Gideon realized, all at once, that Harrow's dysphoria had been eating her alive.

When Harrow saw how Gideon shrunk into herself, eyes heartbroken over her shades, she took a deep sigh. It was unfair to take it all out on her, even if the dysphoria had been building to a fever pitch. She tucked her overlong hair behind her ear, following the motion through to rest her hand on her neck. Harrow started to fuss with her swim shirt collar, and her voice had gone gentle when she said, "Please. I just… wanted to see you happy."

Gideon chewed on the inside of her cheek, feeling somewhat embarrassed for trying to push Harrow out of her comfort zone. Occasionally, it really was good for her. Although she liked to act like a wisened adult, she grew up just as sheltered as Nona. She'd started to enjoy riding Gideon's motorbike with her over the years — something she used to avoid like the plague. Being in Rome had Gideon learning new things about her wife every day, and sometimes she surprised her with her eagerness. She'd genuinely hoped that getting in the water might help her relax.

Gideon settled a distance away from her, pushing her glasses up to rest in her hair. "…There's no one around. It's just me." When their gazes met, Harrow's face softened, and she relaxed back to rest. Gideon took the moment to slide her hand towards Harrow's, resting their fingers together. "We're heading back to make those reservations soon, too. You don't want to just dip your toes into the Tuscan water?"

"Not where we are," Harrow quipped, unable to let an unspoken correction slide.

Sounded like she was well enough for that, at least.

She laced her pinky into Gideon's, squeezing it loosely. Although she didn't turn to face her, she knew Harrow was speaking only to her; there was a smile in her eyes that couldn't be found anywhere else. Gideon could stare at her profile all day. That hooked nose, those heavy set eyes, her thick lashes — even now, she felt like a schoolgirl with a crush when she really got a look at her. She couldn't believe Harrow didn't see her own beauty.

Harrow blinked heavily, eyes set on the shoreline. "Truthfully, I wanted to get some shells. For Nona. I know we have a lot of souvenirs for her already, but…" A slow, sweet smile started to grow on her face, much like a moonbeam gliding across a gossamer curtain. She said, shyly, "I could make her a bracelet."

Gideon somehow fell head over heels all over again — if it were possible for her to be even more in love with Harrowhark.

She tugged at Harrow's pinky, gently coaxing her to stand. "She'll love that. C'mon."

Harrow already knew this would end with her sopping wet, looking like an absolute nightmare — and for a single moment, she didn't care. She gave in, staggering slowly to her feet, and slid off her sandals and sunhat to walk up to the saltwater.

Gideon really did wait for close to sundown, when hardly anyone was around. The closest tourists were all but specks in the distance. Harrow felt her heartrate stutter, then relax (something she would need to talk to her GP about, probably). She knew that she was safe from gawking eyes, free from persecution when she was at her most vulnerable.

She started to lean downwards to survey the shells, her fingers picking through seaglass and cowries. Gideon crouched next to her and started to look, too, holding up a few blue-green fragments of glass as if she were offering Harrow a palmful of gold. When Harrow slid more shells into her hand, sliding her fingers shut around them, Gideon took the moment to stuff them into her swimtrunk pockets (yet another benefit of masculine swimwear).

Harrow's eyes narrowed. Gideon started to take slow, nearly cartoonish steps away from her into the waves, hands stuffed in her pockets nonchalantly.

"Nav," Harrow warned.

Gideon simply took another step into the water, feeling it lap at the back her knees. She smirked, taunting in a sing-song voice, "If you want the shells, you better come get 'em."

Harrow just stared at her, toes stuck firmly in the sand. Gideon kicked a splash towards her, and for some reason, that was it. She stomped in after her, cold saltwater pooling up around her ankles. Gideon was up to the waistband, her smile growing even more ridiculously self-satisfied with every step. Harrow waded up to her knees, kicking a wave towards Gideon against the current — and let out a 'Hah!' when it actually hit.

Gideon mentally patted herself on the back for distracting her. It was clear there was a bubble about to burst about Nona, something she'd been desperately trying to ignore their whole trip. Nearly every souvenir she'd bought was for her. She felt guilty doing anything more for herself. Gideon also had a sneaking suspicion that a few of the pages of notes were for Nona; Her handwriting was much more legible when discussing the animals and nature they'd been spotting on their travels.

Hopefully, she could keep Harrow in high spirits until they got home.

From the first splash, it was pure anarchy. Harrow chuckled, light and tinkling, while the two of them smacked waves at each other as if they were dueling nautical ships. Harrow was up to her neck, now, the water beginning to bob at her chin (and getting the tips of her hair wet). Gideon smiled down at her, reaching to tuck a strand behind her ear — and her grin grew wicked as she whispered, "Gotcha."

Gideon reached behind Harrow's head and completely dunked her into the water, cackling as Harrow flapped her arms desperately in a shitty doggy paddle. She resurfaced, spitting out a mouthful of water onto Gideon's face. "Really?" She shrieked, scowling the classic Nonagesimus scowl.

"I deserved that," Gideon admitted, quite unbothered. Harrow looked like a sopping wet stray kitten that got left in the rain. Her makeup was trailing all the way down her cheeks, making for quite the sorry sight. As an apology, Gideon took out a (also sopping wet) handkerchief from her swim trunks, snorting a laugh when Harrow snatched it out of her fingers.

"Of course you've got one of those on you. How chivalrous." She scrubbed at her eyes desperately, grimacing at the mess of brown foundation and black eyeshadow she mopped onto the cloth. Somehow, her lips stayed perfectly intact — must have been a damn good brand.

Her eyes fluttered towards Gideon, thick lashes clumping together with liner. "We're definitely coming late to dinner," Harrow grumbled, wringing out the absolutely drenched and soiled hanky.

"Not exactly the way I wanted to get you wet for me, but hey,” Gideon drawled, wiping at Harrowhark's sorry remainder of eyeliner with her thumb.

Harrow (weakly) splashed a wave at Gideon's bicep, mouth puckered in a way that clearly held back a laugh.

Harrowhark got ready for their reservations in record time, lining her eyes like she was programmed for it. As far as Gideon knew, she was, because her eyes were never anything but perfect. The skull earrings she added as accents matched Gideon's cufflinks (things that she was obsessed with owning). As they walked down the street to the fancy restaurant, Harrowhark slung underneath Gideon's arm, both of them got the feeling it was a night to remember.

Harrow was showing much more skin than usual — that is to say, she was wearing a slip dress with a surprising lack of sleeves. The black silk slip was something she usually wore underneath a heavier dress; never by itself. The hem hiked up all the way to her calf. Her bare calf. She was showing more skin than she did at the damn beach.

Gideon always briefly felt like a victorian gentleman seeing a bare ankle when Harrowhark dressed like an actual human being. It was very hard for her not to get flustered, even after all this time. The spaghetti straps had a border of lace around them, emphasizing the smooth, delicate nature of her collarbone. The silver bone necklace Gideon had got for her rested at the neckline, sitting just above her flat chest.

Every single thing about her was gorgeous. Gideon often needed to remind herself that she was walking, and needed to look where she was going (and not at her definite soulmate).

Harrow similarly couldn't seem to get enough of an eyeful of Gideon, periodically taking glances up at her as they trailed through passersby. She'd put on a white pinstripe blazer — without a shirt underneath. It was unbuttoned all the way to her solar plexus, giving just a hint of the happy trail that started over her stomach. Even though she hadn't removed the KT tape, her pecs created a tasteful amount of cleavage.

Staring at that dark tan skin, dappled in freckles and accentuated by her gold chain, a new group of neurons seemed to activate in Harrowhark's brain. The new cologne she'd bought smelled divine. Harrow made a mental note to have her wear it to bed so that the sleep shirts she stole still smelled like her.

It was hot, even at night, but Gideon took note of how often Harrow shivered. Maybe the dress wasn't such a good idea after all.

The experimental Italian restaurant Harrow had chosen was exceedingly fancy. Every table had a velvet curtain encircling it, decorated underneath by a romantic display of candles. Gideon was 99% sure that was a reportable fire hazard. The small amount of privacy made Harrow's shoulders relax underneath Gideon's arm, as if she'd been holding a minute-long breath that she finally released.

After a very quick check of their reservations (because really, how hard would it be to locate the last name 'Nonagesimus'), they sat at their table to realize the first course had already been served. Gideon, who had an iron stomach and a raccoon's tastebuds, grimaced down at it. The dish appeared to be some kind of Italian soup (?) of a thin broth, garnished with some suspicious meat-colored lumps. Her appetite shrunk sharply.

Still, she took an experimental sniff, and politely ate a small spoonful, staring down at the soup (?). She realized over the years that was a kind thing to look away while her wife muttered grace. After a moment, Harrow also took a bite, looking as unperturbed as ever. Gideon had no clue how her face hadn't scrunched up into itself. She muttered ruefully, "… This food tastes like ass."

Harrow glared up from underneath her browbone. "Gideon. We are in public."

"You agree though! I see that little smile — it's horrid!" She wasn't completely sure if it was supposed to be served cold or not. It was lukewarm in a way that either meant it was intentional, or had been left out for far too long. She sighed, playing with the fancy spoon as Harrow managed to take another bite. "Fuck. Reminds me of something."

Harrow's eyes flickered up to Gideon's, the barest hint of a smile crinkling at the corners. "… Do you remember when Ortus was tasked to make dinner for the congregation?"

Gideon howled out a laugh, slamming her fist against the table. The silverware clinked as a retort, but she didn't care — it was damn priceless.

Back at Drearburh, there was a rotating list of supposedly 'character building' responsibilities. Cleaning other bunks, doing everyone's laundry, the like. But the absolute worst of it was making the daily gruel. All of the bland ingredients in their reserves seemed unable to come together in a way that made them actually appetizing. When it was assigned to Ortus, however, his talent of fucking up even the simplest tasks created a concoction that could hardly even be called a 'soup'. It tasted so repulsive that even Sister Aisamorta began to turn green around the gills.

Suffice it to say he never got put on meal rotation again.

Gideon wiped a tear from her eye, "Stop. That's exactly it, oh my God—"

"It's even got the little lumps," Harrow squawked around a tinkle of giggles.

"Harrow, I can't," Gideon's sides had begun to hurt from the laughter, and she felt bubbly when she realized that Harrow was laughing, too. She caught her breath, retorting, "The only thing that's missing is the fucking room temperature water he gave to wash it down with."

"Ladies.” A waiter ducked underneath the curtains lining the table, looking quite stern. Harrow nearly jumped out of her seat. "You're becoming disruptive to the other guests. If you don't settle, we'll have to ask you to leave."

The moment they were out of earshot, Gideon pretended to lament, as theatrically as possible, "I can't take you anywhere!"

Harrow kicked her under the table with her boot, the evidence of a smile still lingering on her face. "You're the one that started it, Griddle," she grumbled, reaching for her glass of (barely under room temperature) water. "Just drink your wine."

Gideon pushed the tureen of soup (?) firmly towards the center of the table, and began to nurse at her glass of dessert wine. At least that was impossible to fuck up. The two of them continued a progressively flirtier conversation at a more appropriate volume — until they were interrupted by a presentation of an equally ghastly second course.

It was fish, probably. Harrow and Gideon could tell based on the thin, fishlike bones that were still embedded into the sorry display of meat.

Gideon sighed, setting her silverware down. "Let's just go get a pizza instead."

Thankfully, traditional Italian pizza was much better than experimental European cuisine. Gideon quite liked to be a contrarian, but it seemed that some culinary rules were not to be broken. Harrow even ate her fill of it, which was almost as rare as Nona finishing off her plates of dinner.

Harrow much preferred eating in their hotel room. Instead of the distracting attempt of a romantic atmosphere at the restaurant, Gideon was effortlessly charming. It always pissed her off growing up, just how much of her attention she seemed to grab — but as her wife, that ridiculous charm was occasionally her only anchor. Even if she began to think that she never belonged anywhere, those molten gold eyes focusing in on her insisted that she would never be alone.

Gideon noticed how silent she was. Her laughter from the day had been replaced with an apathetic mask, only shifting to make small yesses or nos. She didn't want to assume too much; but as Gideon knew like the back of her hand, a breakdown from Harrow usually started with anhedonia.

As she put the leftovers away, she was startled to hear Harrow's voice, as tentative as a flickering flame. "Do you still have the shells?"

It seemed they both had Nona on the mind.

" 'Course I do. Here." Gideon rifled through the pockets of her swimshorts, presenting the shells to Harrow proudly. Neither of them had changed out of their eveningwear yet, and the bright blues and greens made a stark contrast against Harrow's drab ensemble.

She reminded Gideon of an oil painting.

Her face was still blank. She muttered, "I hope… I hope she likes them." Something shifted in her, almost imperceptibly. Harrow's shoulders wilted like a leaf in the rain. "She… God. Gideon, what if she's gone?" Her dark eyes widened while she stared down at her palm, her grip around the sea glass growing tight. "What if we get back and she's seized up again? In the hospital, and we weren't even there at all. What if she doesn't think we care?" Harrowhark's nose wrinkled — as if she had begun to smell something dreadful.

Gideon started to feel sick. Harrow had clearly been thinking about this for a long time, but never told her a word of it. How often did it bubble up to the surface? For how many days had her eyes fogged over, her brain at war with her heart?

She protested, "Harrow. You can't know what's happened until we're home, love. The what-ifs will only make it worse."

"But that's how I would feel, if that happened to me," Harrowhark insisted. She'd only been an orphan for a fraction of the time Gideon had, but the death of her parents seemed to loom over every action surrounding motherhood. She'd do anything not to turn out like they did — and felt like she'd ended up twice as negligent. She mumbled, numbly, "I never let her out of my sight, and now I'm gone for a month."

The hair on the back of Harrow's neck stood on end. She realized that the terrible smell she'd picked up was the metallic, dizzying scent of blood. Hallucinatory blood.

"Fuck," she said, weakly.

Harrow dropped the shells onto the floor, hands shaking. Her palm was actually bleeding, now, a small array of deep cuts from where she'd clenched onto the shards of glass. They hit the hardwood with a clack, the greens and blues turning a muddied shade of mulberry. The pain didn't even register as she watched the blood trickle its way down her arm.

Harrowhark had already broken into a cold sweat, mingling with her tears in a sickly sheen. Her hair was clinging to her forehead and the back of her neck in that way Gideon knew she hated, only adding to her discomfort in the moment. The puffs of her breath were becoming more and more shallow — like she were a drowning woman gasping for air.

Seeing a panic attack was always torture. Whenever Harrow had an episode, it was something that practically swallowed her in its jaws. This one didn't appear to be at its worst, thank God; she seemed to be hearing things, but her eyes weren't fluttering around like when she had visual hallucinations.

Harrow began to mutter, very high-pitched in her throat, "Stop. Stop, not here, not here not here—" at a speed that clacked her teeth together with the exertion. Her hands scrabbled to her ears. In a horrific moment, Gideon watched as she dug her sharp acrylics into the flesh, as if she could scratch her very eardrums out.

She took a risk, reaching out to pull her hands away. Harrow let out a shriek, trying to retaliate; but as she already knew, Gideon's strength was that of a pro athlete. Everything was so loud. She heard a mixture of chattering, angry voices, all fighting for dominance in her senses. Harrow's breathing grew even more labored, like she might choke on her own spit. In another effort to calm her, Gideon wrapped her hands around Harrow's chest, sliding her down to lay on the bed.

It was their normal cuddling position. She prayed that the muscle memory would kick in.

Harrow's hands clutched onto Gideon's so tightly that she already knew her knuckles were ashen. She held her like she could lose her at any moment. Gideon placed her head behind her neck, nestling herself into her hair. In Harrow's mind, Gideon's voice came as a mote of sunlight. She muttered into her ear over the din, "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

Harrowhark just shook her head, jerking from side to side. She could hear fucking Crux, with his horrible, reedy sermon voice, reciting scripture on the virgin Mary. He was telling her repeatedly she would never be a mother, that she was a vile woman. The thought by itself would have been laughable (when on Earth would Crux have accepted her transition?), but echoing atop the other voices — it was horrifying. It felt like a nail in Harrow's coffin.

Maybe he was finally taking her with him.

"What do you see?" Gideon asked, rubbing her thumbs gently across Harrow's icy, shaking fingers. This was the quickest way to gauge how severe an episode was. If she saw something that wasn't in the room, Gideon would have to switch tactics.

Harrow still shook like a leaf. Her voice was pinched as she stammered out, "I— I see… my b-bottle of aspirin," she swallowed back a sob, and Gideon felt her whole body heave underneath her with the force of it. "My journal, y-your mug…" Her eyes trailed downward, methodically, as if she were surveying a manuscript for any errors. Harrow's breath hitched in her throat when her hands came into focus. "Your hand in mine," she whispered, awestruck.

Her grip was slick with blood, wavering and unsure, but Harrow grasped as if her hand were a lifeline. "Don't let me go," she whimpered, pressing Gideon's knuckles to her mouth. "Please, God, don't let go of me."

"I won't." Gideon held firm. Their wedding bands scraped against one another as she adjusted her palms, forming them to fit against Harrow's. She nestled her head all the way into the crook of Harrowhark's neck, mouth inches away from her ear. "Do you remember our vows? If I forget you, let my right hand be forgotten. Add more also, if aught but death part me and thee."

Words from Harrow's own pen. Her eyes watered, hot and prickling, while she focused in on the memory — Gideon's face while she spoke the vows back. The sunset in the distance of the chapel, dappling her in a golden light. The sound of her voice when she started to hum, sliding the band around her finger, officially making Harrowhark half of her.

Gideon fully latched herself around her wife, holding her as close as she could muster. She hoped Harrow could feel her heartbeat against her spine, the way her anatomy gave way to slot perfectly into hers. There wasn't a damn thing that could make her pull back. She whispered into her ear, soft as a lullaby, "I've never meant anything more."

Chapter Text

Somehow, the trip back to Auckland was more stressful than the inital trek to Rome. Harrow's careful planning had completely fallen to the wayside. She'd forgotten even the simplest details, as if her mind always managed to race elsewhere. Gideon kept their passports firmly on her person after Harrowhark manged to misplace them — for the third time.

Flights were always a challenge with Harrowhark's motion sickness. Blessedly, there was a lack of turbulence, giving them an easier atmosphere for sleeping against one another. Their economy seats made for an awkward cuddling position, but Gideon figured they had earned the spot of 'annoying married couple' by now.

The whole way through the airport, even down escalators or across security checkpoints, Harrow managed to keep some form of contact with Gideon. She didn't even pay the annoyed taxi driver's stare any mind.

When their cab pulled up in front of their flat, sputtering to a halt, Gideon could have ran up and kissed the ground where they stood. Instead, she proffered an arm to her wife, lugging her along.

"Honey, I'm home!" Gideon called out, stepping through the door with a flourish. It was entirely unnecessary (and very Gideon). Cam and Pal stood quickly from the couch, attempting to look like they weren't just involved in a very intimate conversation. Thankfully, the wives were too otherwise preoccupied with luggage to notice.

Before Camilla or Palamedes could make any proper greeting, Gideon pushed her sunglasses up and let out a raucous wolf whistle. "Lookin' gooood, Doctor Sex!" Her sharp eyes immediately focused on his newly-short hair (that Camilla had her fingers tangled up in moments prior).

She dropped her bags onto the floor without fanfare, reaching upwards to give him a noogie. "So much better than your usual rat's nest."

Camilla stiffened marginally. Palamedes' mouth tightened to a small scowl.

He had a trump card in his back pocket — he knew the only reason Gideon had got rid of her signature mullet was because Harrow finally convinced her to go for an undercut. She was the last person to make fun of someone's hairstyle.

He chose not to play it.

"You know," Palamedes huffed, pulling back, "the worst part about you being gone was admitting that I missed you and your ridiculous quips. C'mere, you bastard." A boyish grin split across his face as he pulled Gideon into a hug. He'd missed much more than just her snark, of course; Gideon's vitality always made his days just the smallest amount better.

Next to them, Camilla and Harrow exchanged much more formal pleasantries. It may have appeared cold, but to the two of them, it was more genuine than any other grand gesture. Cam placed her palm on Harrow's bony, sunburnt shoulder. "You're surprisingly in one piece. Good job."

"It was all Gideon's doing," Harrow confessed, reaching up to squeeze Camilla's steady hand. She definitely appeared jetlagged, with a slight bedraggled expression to her face. Although she'd done her usual makeup, the skin around her eyes seemed tight, and her hair was much longer than usual — a telltale sign of neglected self-care.

Still, Camilla was pleased to see that Harrowhark looked healthy. There was a light flush to her cheeks, and the small smile across her lips had lost its twinge of sadness. Gideon was almost twice as radiant as usual, like a beam of sun shot through a magnifying glass; her joy was blinding to look at directly. It seemed that her light had shone through onto Harrow, making her typical icy demeanor melt away.

Palamedes brightened as he locked eyes with her over Gideon's shoulder. "Harrowhark, you are a sight for sore eyes!"

She wasn't prepared for the hug he gave her. He lifted her up, spinning her around in his surprisingly strong embrace, and set her down softly. Considering he was nearly six feet tall, Harrow was impressed he hadn't accidentally smacked her head against the ceiling.

Harrow blinked owlishly, shellshocked. His fingers danced forward, brushing her bangs aside to plant a kiss to her forehead. Palamedes had a gentle, wistful smile to his eyes; one that gave her as much comfort as a surefire rush of oxytocin. She still couldn't believe after all these years how much having a best friend felt like home.

Harrowhark mumbled, in a daze, "I rather feel like an eyesore." Still, she didn't back away. After a moment of tension, she gave a clammy, stiff hug back. She pressed her head into his sternum, nestling her face into his Canaan University jumper. It smelled like him. Lemon and sage, with the clean scent of Camilla's favorite laundry detergent.

When she spoke, her voice was hardly audible through the embrace, and Palamedes had to strain to hear what she muttered. He replied, quietly, "I missed you too, you clever, stubborn girl."

Meanwhile, as a form of greeting, Gideon and Camilla began flexing their muscles towards one another in silent appraisal. Gideon rolled her shoulders back in an exaggerated motion, emphasizing her delts. As if in reply, Cam pretended to cough into her elbow, flexing her bicep. Gideon gave a silent retort as she reached up to rub at the nape of her neck, pushing her chest forward — because damn, did her pecs look good.

Camilla was unimpressed. She slowly rose to the balls of her feet, sculptural calves poised so perfectly that Gideon could have wept at their picturesque form.

That fucking stairmaster.

Watching her mouth fall open in dismay, Cam knew she'd won. She smirked dryly, reaching to carry the lovebirds' luggage back to their room. As she lifted a carry on, completely unbothered by the weight, Harrowhark chirped, "Wait, Cam. That's for Nona."

Palamades chuckled. "That whole suitcase is for Nona? You spoil her more than we do."

Camilla glanced between the married couple. Gideon was the picture of sheepishness, looking less embarrassed than she probably should have. Harrow suddenly appeared to be very interested in the floorboards, popping the joint of her pinky in and out of place.

Cam nodded, curtly, "I see."

"Speaking of — where's the big No? I've gotta start baking her cake." Gideon asked, glancing around the kitchen.

They were both hyper conscious of the fact that Nona's birthday was on the horizon, squabbling over preparations. In the end, Gideon was the one who had insisted upon cooking. As much as she loved Harrow (and would eat practically anything she made), she knew that her wife making a birthday cake would undoubtedly result in disaster.

Palamedes glanced away. He pushed his glasses up his hooked nose — something he usually did when he was nervous. "In her room. She's quite anxious to see you two again, and with her emotional permanence—"

"We're worried she might have a panic attack." Cam interrupted abruptly, having finished the chore of bellhopping.

"…I knew she wouldn't want to see me," Harrow muttered, bending her hand uncomfortably at the wrist. The usual jewelry she fiddled with was stashed away in her luggage, and her joints were suffering the price. She wasn't looking forward to Palamedes' usual scolding about her lack of splints.

He scoffed at her words, but his tone remained gentle. "Don't be daft, Harrowhark. She asked about you nearly every day."

Harrow's heart yanked uncomfortably, as if someone had reached into her chest and tugged underneath her ribcage. Her mouth puckered, those massive black eyes narrowing to a frustrated glare. "Now that must be a lie."

It was an expression so similar to Nona's that Camilla and Palamedes both had a sense of deja-vu.

He shook his head, that steely silver gaze unwavering. "I'm serious as the grave. She missed the two of you so much she could hardly stand it."

One look into his face, and Harrow knew that he was telling the truth.

Her chest ached even more, sending a wave of melancholy through her body, resonating like a plucked heartstring — Nona had missed her. She had really missed her, like a child might long for their mother. Harrowhark had gone from a stumbling, unsure caretaker to something greater, a role of maternity that she was still afraid to accept.

Gideon, noticing the tension, scoffed out a line, "Bet I missed her more."

It didn't quite land. Harrow leaned against her side, relaxing as Gideon pressed a hand to the small of her back. The support to her spine came as a welcome relief in the absence of her usual corset.

"How do you think we should do this?" Palamedes turned towards Camilla, quirking a thick eyebrow.

Cam shrugged. "I'll bring her out. Tell her her mums are back. It might be kind of like a re-introduction, at first."

Noticing how crestfallen her face became, Palamedes added, " 'S alright, Harrowhark. She loves you more than anything. She's just… bad at goodbyes, even if they're temporary."

She really was Harrow's daughter. Everyone knew she was unable to let things go, sinking her nails sharply into relationships out of fear of abandonment. The pair of them would dig until their hands bled if it meant they wouldn't be left behind.

Something Harrow and Nona alike needed to internalize was that they were loved — more than they could ever know.

Camilla again shuffled out of the room, Palamedes following briskly behind. Gideon felt Harrow tense underneath her touch as they listened to a door opening — then shudder as they heard a somewhat unfamiliar voice.

"Cam, let go of me!" Nona pleaded, planting her heels into the ground.

Harrow and Gideon turned towards one another, gawking. Nona was speaking full sentences?

"I'm being quite gentle," Camilla insisted. She held onto Nona's wrist loosely, tugging her along. Although Nona refused to step forward, her puppy-themed socks slid against the hardwood floor.

"L-let go!"

"It's just your mums."

"B-but they're going to be d-d-different," Nona sobbed, shoulders trembling. "I don't want them to be."

Something in Palamedes' chest ruptured. He and Camilla exchanged a knowing, concerned glance.

He knelt to better reach Nona, leaning in close. His stare was unavoidable, even if Nona didn't like eye contact — she always caught herself wanting to look at his eyes, to see what nature they held in store. Camilla stooped downward, too, rubbing her thumb across Nona's cheek.

She took a deep breath in and out, just like Cam had taught her to when she was overwhelmed. Palamedes pressed a finger into Nona's chest, aimed right at her heart. "Nothing in here has changed," he promised, eyes crinkling upwards in that comforting way. He'd had to explain the same thing to his mum after coming out. "Don't worry — see them for yourself."

She let herself be led forward by Camilla, rounding the corner to the den. When she saw her mums standing in the entryway, Nona froze, eyes widening like a deer in the headlights. She stared at every minuscule detail of their appearances, consulting the pictures she'd memorized of them in her mind.

Harrow was where she stared first — her appearance had changed more than Nona had thought possible. Her thin, sharpened face had gained back a significant amount of color. Nona liked the way her bangs had started to grow long enough to curl up at the ends, framing the apples of her cheeks prettily. She stood a tiny bit taller. Still, the warmth from her eyes hadn't changed, even the smallest bit. She looked at Nona with a longing, unsure eagerness, something that made her feel like someone important.

It was the exact same look she'd had when they first met.

Gideon's skin was a darker, rich tan, making the copper of her hair seem to glow like embers of coal. Somehow, Nona could tell she had significantly more freckles than before she left. She noticed the way Gideon's gait straightened as she took her in. Her mouth slid into its usual crooked grin, dimpling at the cheek, and Nona knew that everything was going to be okay. She was home at last.

"Nona," Harrow breathed, breaking the silence. Her eyes somehow seemed to get larger on her face as she met Nona's gaze, lit up with apprehension.

Gideon erupted with joy, holding out her big, strong arms for a hug. "You grew up so much! I'm so proud of you!"

"I missed you," Nona stuttered, feeling the tears sliding down her cheeks. "I m-missed you so much."

She broke into a run, headbutting Gideon in the stomach. Her braids trailed behind her, and she moved so quickly that some of her barettes became loose — but she didn't care. Her small fingers tangled up in the cotton of Gideon's shirt, pulling her in as close as she could muster. Nona already felt warmer, like she'd fallen asleep in the alcove of a sunlit window.

"We did too," Harrow muttered, her willowy arms finding their way around Nona's back.

She looked up at the pair, butterscotch-gold eyes shimmering with tears. Nona whimpered, "But you l-left. For so long." She sniffled, her lower lip trembling. A wave of comfort rushed through her as she let the tears flow, feeling safer by the second. They were going to stay.

"We'll come back, baby," Gideon promised. She pulled her family in tight, fitting in between them like a key into a lock. "We'll always come back."

Despite everything, deep in her heart, Nona knew this was a promise that would never be broken.