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From what Gideon has gathered from watching the rest of the cavaliers interact with their necromancers, combined with what little information she actually retained from Aiglamene, being a cavalier is nothing like what the porno magazines led her to believe.
Instead of seduction of scantily clad women, it’s all fidelity and honor and devotion, blah, blah, blah. Sure, it also comes with the opportunity to duel against someone who isn’t older than creation itself, and if she belonged to any other house but the Ninth, being a cavalier would mean being on the battlefield, where she could finally do something cool with her fucking life. But beyond that, if she’s learned anything about being a cavalier since they arrived at Canaan House, it’s that it is a spectacularly boring occupation.
It’s not like Harrow has done anything to dispute this notion; Gideon has barely seen her since they arrived. The most meaningful interaction they have had has been in the form of the tremendously passive-aggressive notes that Harrow has scattered around their quarters. Truth be told, Gideon is kind of glad for that. She doesn’t want to interact with Harrow any more than she has to; she certainly doesn’t want to have to pretend to like or care or be fucking devoted to her.
But still, she’d like to be doing something. Sure, wandering around Canaan House, exploring the long neglected hallways riddled with crumbling stone and dust, has occupied some of her time, as has dueling, but there’s only so much exploring and fighting she can do, especially if she wants to remain on Harrow’s good side. If she could talk, things would be easier, but since she can’t even have a simple conversation about the goddamn weather, that option is out as well.
The only thing keeping her from being completely bored out of her mind is Dulcinea.
She has actually fallen into a sort of routine revolving around the Seventh’s necromancer. When she wakes up in the morning, she checks the room to see if Harrow is in her bed or has left any further notes, grabs some breakfast, and carries it to the porch area that Dulcinea has claimed as her own. So far, she’s found her there every morning, lounging in one of the wobbly chairs, covered by gauzy long-sleeved, floor-length dresses and big, floppy hats that protect her from the sun streaming through the cracked windows and the broken roof overhead.
Every day, when Gideon announces her presence by scuffing her feet on the stone floor, exaggerating her movements so that she doesn’t take Dulcinea by surprise (because it would just be her luck that she finally gets the attention of a beautiful woman and accidentally gives her a heart attack by sneaking up on her), Dulcinea looks back and smiles at her. She doesn’t grimace or sneer or roll her eyes – she smiles. Even on the days where her lips are tinted red with a thin film of blood, that smile is still brighter than any single thing Gideon has ever laid her eyes upon.
After that, they wile away the morning together. Dulcinea talks about her life in the Seventh, reads passages from her books to Gideon or teases her, but never in a mean-spirited way. In return, all Gideon has to do is listen, occasionally nod or shake her head so that Dulcinea knows she’s paying attention. She doesn’t ask Gideon for much; it’s always small tasks, like returning their breakfast dishes to the dining hall, or picking another book out of the tall stack beside her chair, or fanning her if the day is particularly hot.
(One day, she asks Gideon to scoop her up so that she can look out the window at the expanse of the sea, sparkling blue and stretching off to the horizon. It’s easy – Dulcinea feels like she weighs no more than the combined amount of her clothes, and when she locks her arms around Gideon’s neck, Gideon can feel the bones of Dulcinea’s forearms and wrist pressing into her neck.
Gideon’s face burns until she returns Dulcinea to her chair, setting her down as gently as she can, trying not to break the fine glass of her bones.
She’s always been good at breaking things, but this is one thing that she desperately does not want to shatter.)
After lunch, they go their separate ways for a bit – Dulcinea usually dozes through the afternoon, still in her chair, the brim of her hat pulled down to cover her face. Gideon uses that time to do her wandering, to go down to the training room and duel if anyone is around or run through some drills if the room is empty. Around dinnertime, she checks on Dulcinea again to see if there’s anything else she can do for her. Sometimes, she’s still in the porch area, watching the sun go down; other times, she’s gone, presumably carried back to her bedroom by Protesilaus. If Dulcinea is around, Gideon will either bring her dinner or help her to the dining hall, letting Dulcinea set the pace.
The first time she had stepped into the dining hall with the Lady Septimus on her arm, the looks that she had gotten from everyone had almost been enough to stop her in her tracks. They’d ranged from shock to concern to disgust, and while, individually, they hadn’t bothered Gideon, the collective weight of them was oppressive. She knew that what she was doing was, in a sense, violating Harrow’s demand to not draw attention to herself, but fuck it. She wasn’t going to give Harrow all of her obedience. She wasn’t a damn dog.
After Dulcinea has finished eating (usually, she consumes nothing more substantial than a piece of bread and a little bit of watery soup), Gideon walks her back to the porch. It always feels wrong, leaving her there in the dark, but she always insists, says that taking in the cold air is good for her, and that Protesilaus will come to get her eventually.
After that, Gideon usually does nothing more interesting than wander around the place for a bit before she retires to their chambers, shoots a glare at Harrow’s empty bed, and tries to occupy herself until she passes out from sheer boredom.
(On two separate occasions, she has retired to bed fully intending on going to sleep and has instead drifted off into fantasies about Dulcinea, has gotten herself all hot and bothered at the thought of Dulcinea telling her what to do, urging her to touch herself, guiding her through how to do it, voice as soft as her gauzy gowns.
The first time it happened, she had forced herself to calm down in case Harrowhark had chosen that exact moment to come strolling in from wherever the fuck she had been hiding for days.
The second time, when it had become clear that Harrow probably wasn’t going to come barging in, Gideon had gotten herself off thinking about slipping her fingers inside of Dulcinea, thinking about doing what she was told, thinking about the soft gasps and whimpers that would leave her mouth.
That time, even if Harrow had returned, Gideon wouldn't have stopped. She would have simply flipped Harrow off and continued on her merry way to a great orgasm.)
So, for the last few days, that is how life has gone. It’s a routine that she has grown quite comfortable with. As she sits in a chair at Dulcinea’s side, the moldy fabric sagging underneath her, sun bright overhead, making her sweat in her voluminous robes, Gideon can’t help but split her attention. One half of her mind is genuinely paying attention to Dulcinea, following along and nodding where appropriate as Dulcinea talks about Canaan House, about what she thinks of Teacher and their other mentors; the other half of her mind is trying to comb back through what she knows about the houses so that she can remember if it’s possible to defect to another house.
Of course, even if such a thing were possible, there is still the small fact that Dulcinea has a cavalier that is apparently capable, if not particularly attentive, to consider, but hey, Canaan House is falling apart, slowly crumbling into the sea brick by brick. Maybe he’ll simply disappear, and that will be that. There will be a job vacancy, and if that comes to pass, Gideon plans on being first in line to be his replacement.
After a moment, she realizes that Dulcinea has stopped talking. When Gideon tunes back into the conversation, she realizes that Dulcinea is smiling at her mischievously. It’s amazing that she’s able to pull off the look, considering the paleness of her skin, the vivid brightness of the map of blue veins visible at her wrists and neckline, and the rattle that occasionally interrupts her breathing, but not only does she pull it off, it looks fucking fantastic on her.
What Gideon wants to do is say, “What?” Instead, biting down on her lip so that she remains quiet, she tilts her head slightly and furrows her brow, bewildered by why Dulcinea has taken such a rapt interest in her all of a sudden.
“Have I told you about my first kiss yet?” Dulcinea asks, her eyes sparkling slightly.
It’s safe to say that, of all the things Gideon could have imagined her saying, that wasn’t one of them. She was already hot, but another wave of warmth settles over her, and she absently tugs her robes away from her body, hoping that she doesn’t smell too badly of sweat.
She shakes her head. Dulcinea grins, settles back into her chair and closes her eyes.
“It was with Pro,” she begins. Immediately, another wave of heat, this one even less pleasant than the last, hits Gideon, and she’s glad that Dulcinea’s eyes are closed, because she’s pretty sure that the distaste that she feels from the mental image is visible on her face, even taking into account her sunglasses and face paint. “It was at my thirteenth birthday party. It was such a beautiful day – I wish that I could show it to you, somehow. It was honestly perfect, right up until the moment that Pro approached me by the dessert table and stammered for thirty seconds before he planted one on me.” Her face crinkles up, and at the sight, a palpable sense of relief washes over Gideon. “It didn’t last long, thankfully, but it was remarkably unpleasant. His tongue is horribly long. And wet. And he still tasted like meat from dinner.” A faint shudder passes through her thin shoulders, and even though Gideon suspects that it’s repulsion from reliving the memory, she still finds herself casting her gaze around for a blanket to throw around Dulcinea’s frame.
Instead, she makes a sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat, and Dulcinea sighs again, shaking her head slightly. “I told him to never do it again, and that was the end of it. We’ve never talked about it. I’m saving it for one day where I really want to embarrass him.” There’s a note of glee in her voice that momentarily takes Gideon by surprise, but it is rather amusing, the thought of such a hulking man being rendered embarrassed by a simple memory.
Dulcinea turns her head and tilts her chin up, so that she’s looking at Gideon from underneath the brim of her large hat. “I know you can’t say anything, Gideon, but humor me. What was your first kiss like? Just nod if I’m right or shake your head if I’m wrong.”
Mere seconds pass between those words and the ones that follow, but in that span of time, Gideon is hit with the urge to flee from the room. If it were possible to, she would melt straight into the floor, dissolve into a greasy pile of fabric and face paint. If she didn’t think that it would kill her, she would throw herself out of one of the broken windows. She would do absolutely anything to avoid having this conversation with anyone, let alone Dulcinea.
This is a disaster. She either has to lie, or she has to admit to this utter smokeshow of a woman that she has never kissed anyone, not even on the cheek, that all she knows of kissing is what she’s learned from analyzing porn magazines.
She’s never wanted to be a necromancer more. At least if she had powers, she could create a bone cage around herself and simply stay there until the moment passed.
As is, not only does she not have the ability to create a bone cage, she’s already lost her chance to flee, because Dulcinea is already surging forward.
“Was it just as bad as mine?” Gideon wants to shake her head, or nod, or do something, but she remains paralyzed. “Was there too much tongue? Was there any tongue at all? Was it actually good?”
Four questions in a row, rapid-fire. All Gideon would have to do to get through this situation is answer one of them.
Instead, those questions remain hanging in the air, as if Dulcinea is whispering them over and over, and Gideon doesn’t move. Dulcinea goes quiet, thin lips creasing into a frown and, for a moment, Gideon thinks that she might actually get off scot free. Maybe Dulcinea will take Gideon’s silence on the matter as her being uncomfortable and will move on to another topic, or ask Gideon to bring her some lunch from the dining hall. Gideon would be positively elated to fetch Dulcinea some soup. She’d do absolutely anything to get out of this conversation, even run after Harrow, if the opportunity presented itself.
Dulcinea’s face changes.
Her frown slowly, but surely, turns into a faint smile. Her eyes start to sparkle again, and one of her hands, the fingers long and thin with prominent knuckles, falls onto Gideon’s forearm and lightly curls into the fabric of her robes.
“Gideon the Ninth,” she says slowly, her smile growing bigger with every word, “have you seriously never kissed anyone?”
Gideon would very much like to die.
She can feel her face flushing with a blush so powerful that Dulcinea can probably see it even through her face paint. It feels like there’s sweat pooling in every crevice of her body, and her heart is beating like a frantic creature trapped in her chest.
She could still run away, flee like a coward. There’s nothing stopping her from doing that, nothing but her damnable pride and the knowledge that, even if she did run away, even if she tried to disappear into the walls of Canaan House, she wouldn't be able to stay away from Dulcinea for long.
No matter what option she picks, she’s going to be humiliated for approximately the rest of her life, so she decides that there’s no point in drawing out the moment of mortification any longer. With a resigned sigh, she nods her head. A tiny gasp leaves Dulcinea’s parted lips, and she tightens her fingers into Gideon’s sleeve.
“Oh my goodness,” she says, sliding over closer, so that her side is pressed against Gideon’s knee. “I mean, I didn’t think that the Ninth was the kind of house that would sanction teenage cavorting, it takes itself far too seriously for that. No offence, of course-“
(It pains Gideon not to respond with, “None taken.” She wants to tell Dulcinea that she can shit on the Ninth as much as she wants. The place kept her as an indentured slave for the entirety of her life – if the planet suddenly imploded tomorrow, she would get drunk and celebrate.)
“-but really? You’ve never kissed anyone? Not even that necromancer of yours?”
A tiny sound, a small exclamation of ugh, slips from Gideon’s throat, and Dulcinea lets out a laugh that almost resembles like a cackle.
“The two of you have a very strange relationship.” After a moment, Dulcinea releases her grip on Gideon’s robe in favor of resting her hand on Gideon’s shoulder. Even through the layers of fabric, it still feels like her hand is burning into Gideon’s skin, leaving a permanent mark. “I’m sorry, Gideon. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just find it shocking that, Ninth House or not, you didn’t have people tripping over themselves to kiss you.”
Gideon can’t help but laugh and roll her eyes. She doesn’t exactly have a thing for old, old women, or men of any kind, and if she were to exclude everyone that fell into either of those categories, her only remaining options would be Harrow or skeletons.
If the chance presented itself, depending on how bitchy Harrow was being on that day, Gideon thinks that she might prefer to take her chances with the skeletons.
After a moment, she realizes that Dulcinea is still staring at her, still holding onto her shoulder, looking more pensive than amused. Gideon shrugs, trying to convey that it’s fine. It isn’t, not really – she’s spent so many years wanting to do so much more than kiss a woman that she thinks that, during her first time, she might just explode - but it is what it is. It’s just another facet of the bullshit that has comprised most of her life.
Dulcinea’s thumb strokes back and forth over the line of her shoulder blade, and even though Gideon can’t actually feel the touch on her skin, a shudder still runs down her spine. Her head feels a little woozy – it might be partially due to her lingering embarrassment, but she thinks that part of it might be a side effect of having Dulcinea’s attention solely focused on her. It’s absolutely intoxicating.
“Gideon,” Dulcinea says slowly, and Gideon immediately looks up from her lap, compelled as surely as if Dulcinea had cast a spell on her, into Dulcinea’s wide eyes. “Would you like to kiss me?”
Gideon’s mind turns into molten lava. She expects the chair underneath her to disappear at any given moment, because while Gideon likes to think that she has a fairly solid grip on reality, there is no way in hell that this isn’t a hallucination. There is no way that Dulcinea Septimus, one of the most beautiful women she has ever seen, is asking Gideon if she wants to kiss her. This has to be some weird kind of trick that someone is playing on her.
Maybe she did die. Maybe the floor of Canaan House crumbled underneath her, and this is her last vision as she plummets towards the sea far below, her mind's attempt to make her imminent demise a little less painful.
Either way, who cares – if this is a hallucination, it’s a damn good one, and if it’s somehow real life, she’s not going to throw away the opportunity, especially since lord knows when a similar one might cross her path.
She nods enthusiastically, not bothering to try to hide how beyond fucking hyped she is, but hoping desperately that her enthusiasm will mask the fact that she is utterly terrified. Her hands are shaking in her lap, and her whole body is itchy with nerves. Dulcinea’s lips curl into a thin smile, and the hand resting on Gideon’s shoulder slides underneath her hood, until it’s resting on the side of her neck. Gideon is sure that Dulcinea can feel her pulse hammering against her skin, but if she’s amused or disconcerted by it, she doesn’t show any sign. Instead, she slides closer and tugs gently on Gideon’s neck, coaxing Gideon to lean down and close the gap between them. Her eyes fall closed, and her lips part slightly, and Gideon immediately follows suit, twisting her hands into the loose fabric of her robes, unsure of where else to put them. Yes, Dulcinea may have been the one who initiated this, but that doesn’t mean that Gideon wants to ruin it by accidentally stepping over a line.
So instead, holding her breath, she lets Dulcinea tug her down, until their mouths touch.
Dulcinea’s lips are a strange mix of soft and chapped, and she tastes faintly of blood. Her breath isn’t as warm as Gideon expected, but truthfully, she can barely focus on the details, because holy shit she is kissing Dulcinea. Automatically, she leans in further, deepening the kiss, and Dulcinea makes a quiet sound, a muted gasp that reaches down into the very core of Gideon’s being. The hand that is wrapped around Gideon’s neck tightens, while her other hand reaches into Gideon’s lap and threads their fingers together. Gideon is immediately aware of how damp her palms are, but she’s too distracted by the kiss to be too mortified.
They only kiss for a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Before Dulcinea pulls back, she softly brushes the tip of her tongue against Gideon’s bottom lip, and Gideon groans in the back of her throat.
How on earth can something as gross and slimy as a tongue feel so damn good?
Dulcinea is still close enough that Gideon can feel her breath on her mouth. When Gideon opens her eyes, Dulcinea is smiling at her, lips covered in a thin layer of white paint from Gideon’s mouth.
She’s the most gorgeous thing Gideon has ever seen, and how is this her life?
“Holy fuck,” she says, squeezing Dulcinea’s hand. By the time she realizes that the words have left her mouth, it’s too late to take them back. Dulcinea’s smile grows into a delighted grin that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle up.
“Why, Gideon the Ninth!” Dulcinea says brightly, moving her palm up to rest against Gideon’s fevered cheek. “You can talk!”
Harrow is going to be so pissed about this. She doesn’t know how Harrow will find out (because she’s sure as hell not telling her), but she suspects that the next time she sees Harrow (if she doesn’t die first, the twerp), Harrow will probably stick a note to her forehead that reads how dare you be bewitched by a beautiful woman when we have important bone business to conduct?
Gideon can’t bring herself to care about that right now. It’s a problem for future her.
“I can,” she says, clearing her throat slightly. “Sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.”
Dulcinea shrugs. “I’m sure that you had your reasons. Besides, I feel honored – I can’t say that my kiss has ever broken someone’s vow of silence.”
“It was a good kiss,” Gideon replies. Her cheek, where Dulcinea’s hand is still resting, feels like it’s on fire in the best way possible.
“Thank you,” Dulcinea says, inclining her head in a small bow. When she straightens back up, that mischievous look has returned to her face, and a tingle runs through Gideon’s body. “Would you like another one?”
Even though she feels free to speak now, Gideon doesn’t bother to use her words.
She leans in and kisses Dulcinea instead.
Somehow, the second kiss is even better than the first.