Work Text:
It’s late afternoon by the time Tender Sky pushes open the door to The World Without End. It had been harder to find than usual today, whether because of the owner’s capriciousness or her own distracted frustration, she’s not sure. But the worn wooden door is the same rough texture under her fingertips as always, and she takes comfort in the warm, clinging scent of coffee beans and alcohol.
A few murmurs of conversation are scattered around the room already, but Tender can still pick out the greeting meant for her.
“You’re late,” Fourteen grins at her as she slides onto a bar stool.
“And you have too much fun moving this place around.” Tender flicks her tail, teasing. “The usual, please.”
They’re already reaching for a glass when she asks, hands practiced and steady. Tender lets herself relax into the moment, this easy rapport that’s built between them over the past year. She’d found the World by accident, the first time - wandering streams of data, she’d happened upon a construct that had clearly been shaped with an ability much like her own. It had felt familiar then, in a distant sort of way, and by now she practically lives in it.
(Fourteen Fifteen - likeable, attractive, and sole employee - has nothing to do with that at all.)
Tender traces idly along the wood grain of the counter, noting how the finish has chipped in new spots since the last time she was here. It’s easy to distract herself in the warm atmosphere of the World - with Fourteen busying themself with several clinking bottles and a fascinating conversation about knitting projects going on behind her, Tender almost forgets why she was so frustrated in the first place. But soon enough -
“How’s the new job coming, then?”
Tender scowls, taking the glass Fourteen has proffered, and twitches an ear irritably. This is exactly what she came here to avoid thinking about. She sips at her drink to prolong the silence - a smooth, shining, fruity concoction that Fourteen has cruelly refused to give her the recipe for - and sighs. “It’s going slow. Just, really ridiculously slow. I can’t find anything useful past, like, six years ago? They’ve basically vanished .” She drags a hand down her face. This is the longest it’s taken her just to find her target in months. “I’m not a detective, Fourteen!”
They give a wry smile. “No, you are not. You’re the sort of person who makes other people need detectives.” Fourteen leans closer over the counter, glancing sideways in a way that Tender is sure they think is very subtle. “Who is it this time, then?” they whisper. “What’s the sitch ?”
And hell, if Tender was any less a professional she’d have caved instantly at the mischief dancing in Fourteen’s eyes. As it is, she rolls her eyes fondly when she says, “You know, no matter how many times you ask, I still can’t tell you that.”
They stand up again, arms folded in a mock huff. “Well. That’s a terrible way to treat your partner in crime.”
“You’ve never done a crime in your life, Fourteen,” Tender laughs, missing the way the corner of their mouth turns down, just for a moment. “And besides, a lady has to keep her secrets, right? Is that the thing people say?”
By the time she looks up, they’re laughing again. “I don’t think it is? I don’t think that’s a real thing. You can’t fool me.”
Tender takes another pointed sip of her drink, and settles in for the long haul. Fourteen may be joking, but she knows that underneath they’re genuinely curious about her jobs. Concerned, even. It could take a while to convince them that she’ll be fine, like she always is.
It does cross her mind, as it often does when she comes here, that she shouldn’t be getting so close. That her line of work is dangerous, and unpredictable, and really she should go back to her hotel room, alone, and get in some more research before the night is out.
But no. She’s going to give herself this. She’s going to sit at the bar, and make dumb jokes with Fourteen, and not think about Assassin Business until the morning.
Worthy of Grace, wherever they are, can wait.
“On the house,” Fourteen says the next morning, pulling a gigantic latte out of their “Premade Samples” display and nudging it in Tender’s direction. “You look awful.”
“Oh, shut up,” Tender groans, but collapses onto her bar stool and cups her hands around the blessedly warm mug anyway. Steam curls around her face, and she blinks blearily against it to see that the foam on top is swirled into the face of a fluffy, smiling kitten. Despite herself, Tender’s mouth curls into a matching grin. She’s going to fucking marry Fourteen, honestly. “God, that’s adorable.”
Fourteen sips from their own cup, winces, and glares accusingly at it - they’ve probably oversteeped their tea again. “I hoped you’d like it. There’s cinnamon.”
Tender tries to be careful, but Foam Cat loses half an ear when she goes for a taste. Mm. Yeah, definitely cinnamon. “‘S good.” She licks her lips.
Fourteen blinks. “So,” they say quickly. “You’re here early today. What’s the occasion?”
There isn’t one. Even after her promise to herself, she’d gone back and stayed up all night anyway, following info that turned out to be wrong and irrelevant and useless . In despair this morning, she’d opted not to go to bed at six AM and screw up her sleeping patterns for a week, and come straight here instead.
This job has moved well past “getting on her nerves” and is now planted firmly in “personal vendetta”.
“...Couldn’t sleep,” she says with a yawn. “Can’t shake that work stress.” An understatement.
Fourteen nods slowly, considering her. Their eyes are soft, little lines in the corners - from before they got their glasses, they’d said - and Tender finds herself gazing back. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but she could sit here looking at them for hours, probably. That might be nice.
Tender’s daze is cut short when Fourteen smacks a fist into their palm, looking determined. “We should have dinner together.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I eat with you all the time.” In this week alone, she’s been at The World Without End during lunch hour twice.
They look at her pityingly. “You eat in my bar all the time. It’s not the same thing.”
Oh, wait . “Are you… asking me out?”
Their smile is endlessly fond. “ Yes , Tender.”
Well, then.
The rest of the conversation is something of a sleep-deprived blur, but somehow, by the time that Tender walks out again, she is in possession of a lighter mood, a non-work phone number, and a date for three days later.
Three days later, Tender crashes through the door to The World Without End and nearly barrels straight into the counter. “How could you do this to me, Fourteen?” she wails, slumping into her seat.
Fourteen, for their part, jumps about a foot in the air and whirls at the same time, fumbling with a glass before catching it close to their chest. “Tender?!”
“Yeah, hi, sorry I’m early. Also sorry about the fact that I might ruin our date in a second.” Tender drags her hands down her face. “I can’t believe this.”
“... Do I really want to know?”
“Oh, for sure. You for sure do want to know, because apparently , nobody felt like mentioning the fact that the person I was looking for was a master forger with like a million aliases, and that the person formerly known as Worthy of Grace is now going by Fourteen Fifteen .”
Fourteen drops the glass. Tender startles forward to catch it, misses, and they both watch it hit the floor with a thud .
“Well,” says Fourteen. The glass rolls a bit to the left and knocks against their foot. “I’m not dead yet, so that’s a good sign.”
“Of course you’re not de-” The noise she makes is appalling, somewhere between a sputter and a scoff. “God, Fourteen, I’m not gonna kill you!” It hadn’t even crossed her mind as an option, if she’s honest. Her train of thought had encountered the warning sign - DANGER, DEAD FRIEND AHEAD - and had swiftly jumped the tracks into Double Agent Territory.
The metaphor may have gotten away from her.
The point is that Tender is sure she’d rather be on the run from Castlerose, knowing Fourteen was still alive, than have their death on her conscience just to keep her job. (And she’s not even going to try to justify that she never considered her “conscience” until she accidentally dated one of her targets. Her morals have been screwed for years. It’s fine.)
“Well, that’s a relief.” Fourteen says, having recovered astonishingly quickly from what Tender has spent all morning processing. They pick up the glass, blow off a speck of dust, and place it casually on the rack behind them. “What are you going to do, then?”
Tender lets out a sigh that is equal parts fondness and resignation. The two of them are going to be just fine, aren’t they.
There are several half-formed answers to Fourteen’s question circling her mind, but she doesn’t voice any of them. Instead, she waves a hand vaguely in front of her face, whisks a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses out of thin air, and slides them on with the most panache she can muster.
“That,” she says with a wink, “we can talk about over dinner.”