Work Text:
So. Harrow wasn’t exactly sure what to do.
She was laying in her entirely too-big bed, staring up at the ceiling with no hope of sleep consuming her anytime soon. She could hear Gideon breathing, shifting in the— frankly, abysmal— cradle at the foot of her bed, and she thought that it must be miserable to sleep like that, but the thought of inviting her cavalier any closer to her made her freeze in fear so sharp and potent that she just left it alone. She was, ultimately, at a complete and utter loss as to how to handle this terrifying new facet of openness in her relationship with Gideon Nav.
And it was— terrifying, that is. The thought that Gideon now knew the things that Harrow had clutched tight to her chest, had fought tooth and nail to keep buried in the darkest festering corners of herself, since she was old enough to understand the weight of her existence. Harrow didn’t know what to fucking do with that. She had bared all of herself— every atrocity, every unspeakable thing that she consisted of— to Gideon, expecting to be met with familiar vitriol and spitting hatred. She had fully expected Gideon to laugh in her face and walk away, and she would have welcomed that! Hell, Gideon could loathe her for the rest of eternity and Harrow would be deserving of every ounce of it, but Gideon— she didn’t do any of that.
Thoughts were spinning through Harrow's head with a dizzying intensity now. The feel of water lapping at her shoulders, closing in over her head, the smell of salt that still clung to her now, the unmitigated intensity with which Gideon had looked at her when she learned of Harrow’s nature. Not with contempt, or disgust, or anything remotely similar to how she had ever looked at her before, but with such a deep sorrow that it was, in all honesty, too much for Harrow to bear.
Of all the things Harrowhark Nonagesimus was deserving of, compassion was not one of them. Not in a million fucking years. And especially not from Gideon Nav.
She wanted to scream.
Please hate me, I don’t know what to do with myself, please loathe me with every fibre of your being because maybe then I’ll feel as though I have earned something.
And then. Harrow thought of the way Gideon had held her. That was, maybe, the first time in her life she had been touched and hadn’t wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She had very nearly drowned and it was still the safest she had ever felt, tucked between Gideon’s arms, shivering by the side of the pool. She hated herself for it.
And— Harrow had spent so long using her hands to hurt Gideon that she had trembled with the sheer and terrifying unfamiliarity of using them to hold her.
And Harrow just didn’t know what to do with any of that.