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Gideon Nav is a menace and Harrow is going to die young. This is never more apparent than on an ordinary Thursday when Gideon decides, as she normally does on days that end in -y, to ruin Harrow’s life.
In Harrow’s defense, Gideon never goes into the bone chapel, not voluntarily: how was she to expect Gideon would sneak up behind her while she was praying?
“I know your secret,” Gideon whispers into Harrow’s ear.
Harrow jumps and whirls around. She can already feel her stomach sinking.
Harrow has been afraid of this moment for the past ten years — ever since her parents died and Harrow discovered the true price they’d paid for a necromantic heir. She’s imagined the judgmental look in Gideon’s eyes dozens of times, and now she’ll finally see it in person.
“You’ve been sneaking around for days. You always look super-exhausted: the bags under your eyes have bags. And you’re even more jumpy than usual. I know what’s going on.”
“Then say it,” Harrow says, voice admirably level.
Gideon leans closer. Her voice, when she speaks, is barely a breath against Harrow’s face.
“You stole my porn comics.”
Harrow doesn’t have a working heart. It is scientifically impossible that all of her blood has rushed to her ears at once, and yet. “Nav, what the FUCK?!”
“What, so you haven’t been up all night reading them?”
“As if I would ever choose to read that garbage.” Harrow pauses. She should feel relieved right now. But instead of making a dignified exit, Harrow finds herself saying: “Not the vampire thing?”
“OH. Was that a secret? I thought we all knew.”
Harrowhark Nonagesimus rolls her eyes.
“WHAT?” Gideon straightens, holds up a hand, and starts ticking off fingers. “We live on the farthest planet from the Sun, and you’re still always inside. Like. Always. You wear those godawful black turtlenecks under your robes…”
“They are NOT…”
“Which no sane human would wear unless they were trying to cover up neck scars. Or scarr-y. Things. Scary things?”
“I JUST LIKE THEM, OK?!”
“Hey, no judgment! Neck scars are sexy, I get you. If I had hickeys on the daily, I’d show them off, but you do you.”
“Griddle. Stop,” Harrow says. She does not think about Gideon and hickeys in the same sentence; that’s absurd.
Of course, Gideon does not stop. “Also like. Do vampires eat other vampires because I’ve always wondered…”
Harrow can feel herself turning a shade of red normally associated with the lurid death scenes in Gideon’s comic books. “NO, WE DON’T EAT EACH OTHER. Why would we eat EACH OTHER? It’s about living blood and...you know what, I don’t have to explain this.”
“No, no, I get you. Long story short: you, tiny goth creature of darkness. Me, tragically sexy human prey. It sucks.” Gideon grins in a shit-eating way that suggests that she is not, in fact, sensibly concerned about this at all.
Harrow frowns. “Nav. I hope you know that I wouldn’t...I would never...I’m not going to suck your blood.”
"I SHOULD HOPE NOT. Your technique is terrible."
"...what.” Harrow watches, nonplussed, as Gideon gestures wildly.
“Don’t vampires drink from people’s wrists? That’s going to fuck up my tendons! How am I supposed to wield a sword with blood-drained noodle wrists?”
"THAT is your issue?! Not that I would be literally stealing the life force from your veins?!!"
“So over-dramatic, demon of darkness.”
Harrow takes a deep, patient breath. “This is serious.”
“You’re right, it is serious! My porn is missing! Quit changing the subject.” Gideon sighs. “That’s my second-favorite collection...”
“How is my dangerous vampiric heritage changing the subject -- “
“I know it’s in your room. I’m gonna go find it.” Gideon turns to continue down the hallway, raising a hand in a lazy two finger salute.
“For the last time, I don’t have Tantalizing Tits of the Third!” Harrow sputters indignantly.
“Aha, so you DO read them!"
There’s a solar flare, some asteroids decide to go dancing, there’s a giant space hurricane with plasma rain or a geomagnetic storm: fuck it, whatever it is, it means the comms are a garbled mess that probably translate to “next shipment delayed,” because the monthly shipment of supplies never arrives.
That means no Seventh-synthesized human blood for Harrow, and that means Gideon hasn’t seen Harrow in like. Two weeks.
Harrow left a large note that reads “I’M FINE GRIDDLE. DON’T WORRY,” and Gideon WOULD believe that Harrow is living her best, blood-soaked life, only Aiglamene and Crux are both wandering around looking alarmed, Ortus is still writing his terrible poetry, and everyone else on the Ninth is a literal corpse. Plus, y’know. It’s Harrow.
So, Gideon goes exploring.
There is no catacomb on the Ninth that Gideon hasn’t visited. Perks of being a weird little orphan on a dying planet: you find all the hidey-holes! Harrow’s not in any of her usual spots though, which means she’s making the effort to not be found; that’s fine, cool, whatever. Gideon respects this. Gideon is ALSO going to make sure Harrow’s not a shriveled-up undead raisin.
Harrow is in the fifty-first catacomb that Gideon checks, so honestly, she’s a master genius people-finder and should get a medal.
“Hiya, corpse queen.” Gideon saunters into the catacomb and sits on a coffin, with a pat of apology for its former occupant. “Nice digs.”
“Go away, Nav.”
Harrow’s practically swaying on her feet, her face three shades paler than its normal ungodly undead hue. She turns even whiter when she sees Gideon, dark eyes comically huge, and takes three large steps back.
Ugh, so dramatic.
Gideon glances at the nearest wall before Harrow can catch her looking concerned.
“So, the decor in this place really lacks a certain something, huh?”
“You can’t be here.” Harrow’s teeth are gritted so hard they seem like they should crack. Her voice sounds thin.
“No, seriously. Like, if you’re planning on hiding in these things for months at a time, don’t you think we should spruce ‘em up a bit? Hang inspirational posters? Knuckle-bone-beads? Come on, high priestess, work with me here.” Gideon leans back and knocks on the stone wall, tugs on a nearby rattly chain. “I do appreciate the chains, though. Kinky."
“Griddle, shut UP!”
"Wow, cranky. You know, you’re just not you when you’re hungry.” Gideon looks at Harrow, then looks at the sad, super-boring wall.
Okay. Trick is not to think about it, right? Gideon’s good at not thinking.
She yanks off her robe in one smooth motion and drops it on the coffin beside her. (Like Harrow’s the only one here who gets to be dramatic.) Gideon’s wearing her standard pants and shirt beneath it, no big deal, but Harrow reacts like it’s the end of the world anyway. She actually hisses, fangs and all.
“What?! You’ve got to get to my arm somehow, excuse me for saving the robe.” Gideon shrugs. “Though it is pretty ugly, I think teethmarks would improve it…”
“NO.”
“Oh, so you passing out on the floor is better?” Gideon turns and raises an eyebrow at Harrow.
Yep. Harrow’s definitely swaying a little more now.
"Look. Just...go for my arm, okay? Or neck! Hell, even legs, there's a pretty major artery..."
"NAV, KEEP YOUR DAMN PANTS ON."
"WELL LEAVE MY TENDONS ALONE THEN! I am giving you OPTIONS!"
Harrow glances back and forth between the coffin and Gideon. Her next words are directed at the floor. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t have to do anything, bone liege.” Gideon rolls her eyes. “Come on, Dracu-babe. Bottoms up.”
"Harrow... what the fuck are you trying to do, give me a hickey?"
Harrow freezes, her lips now motionless on Gideon’s neck. She’s barely scraped the surface with her fangs and is abruptly glad she chose the one feeding position where Gideon could not see her face.
"...idon'twanttohurtyou..." Harrow confesses wretchedly.
"Then don't."
"Griddle, I mean it!”
“So do I! Here you go, giving me hickeys and then apologizing for them. Romance really is dead.”
Harrow flinches horribly.
"OW!”
“Sorry!” Harrow recoils instantly, hands against her sides, fingers clenching into fists. She startles at the sting of claws piercing her own skin and instantly retracts them.
“Don’t be sorry.” There is a terrible, ominous pause. “Have you done this before, or…”
“What do you think?” Harrow spits, avoiding eye contact.
“What, didn’t want to take a nibble out of Ortus?”
Harrow does not dignify this with a response.
Gideon sighs. “Just bite me, Nonagesimus. I promise I don’t bite back. Well, unless you ask- “
And that is a line of conversation which Harrow is absolutely not prepared for. She bites down and Gideon cuts off mid-sentence.
It is entirely unlike a Seventh House blood pack. Too many variables vying for Harrow’s attention: the acceleration of Gideon’s heart rate, the ragged breathing, the change in temperature (Gideon is so warm), and underneath it all the gnawing howl of Harrow’s own hunger. But Gideon is here, Gideon has offered. Gideon trusts Harrow to do...this, even though it’s parasitic and monstrous, even though Harrow would never have asked.
She breathes in, closes her eyes and relaxes minutely into the instinctive rhythm her body falls into, and it’s… it’s nice, almost. Except.
There is the slow awareness of something repeatedly striking the top of Harrow’s head. No, not striking...
Harrow reels back. “Gideon.”
“Yeah, uh-huh?”
“Are you petting my head?”
“Uh.” Gideon clears her throat. “I don’t know! I have, like, hands? And they aren’t doing anything…”
“I’m drinking your blood, Nav.”
“Right! And I’m just sitting here! It’s awkward!”
Harrow sighs. “Don’t.”
“Sure, makes sense, it seemed weird at the time…”
Harrow returns to drinking.
A few moments later, the pat-stroke motion resumes, this time on Harrow’s shoulder.
“Not my shoulder either.”
“Well, then, what do you want me to do?”
Revile me for all of eternity, while a half-truth, also does not seem to be what Gideon is looking for. “Do what comes naturally.”
“Because that’s working so well.”
Harrow barely returns to drinking for half a minute before...
“Nav…those are my tits.”
“You said what comes naturally!”
Harrow briefly, violently contemplates murder.
“Here. Hands here.” Harrow grabs Gideon’s wrists and tugs her hands down, placing them on either side of her waist.
“Yeah, okay, if you…”
“LEAVE them.”
“I didn’t even know you knew the word tits,” Gideon says as Harrow returns to drinking.
“I hate you,” Harrow mumbles against Gideon’s skin.
“No, seriously.” Gideon’s hands flex slightly on Harrow’s waist. They feel like hot coals even through Harrow’s robe; Harrow is acutely aware that one of Gideon’s fingers is brushing the top of her hip. “That’s from my books, isn’t it? This is solid evidence of book-stealing.”
Harrow hums a denial.
“Uh-huh.” Gideon shivers; Harrow starts to pull away, but Gideon shifts one hand to the small of Harrow’s back, holding her steady. “Nah, I’m good, I’m fine, you’re good. I mean, not a good liar, I definitely don’t believe you...”
All of Gideon’s talking is complicating matters, and the hands are… distracting. Harrow moves closer, tilts her head a bit for better access.
Gideon’s breath rushes out. “On second thought, maybe you don’t need the book? Like. Uh. Never mind, ignore me, just let me know if the blood is, uh, tasty or whatever...”
Gideon’s breath and Gideon’s heartbeat and Gideon’s unsteady, unstoppable voice are all Harrow can hear, and Harrow can feel every spot where Gideon’s body touches hers like a candle flame; Gideon’s hands are barely moving and each movement still feels like an earthquake. Harrow will never unknow this experience; she can already imagine how often she will have to lock this memory away. But yes, Nav, the blood is tasty.
“Just, do you mind if I -- “ Gideon’s hand is back on Harrow’s head, only this time, she’s holding it, not petting. “The angle’s weird. Is this okay? I can put my hand back.”
Harrow shifts, raising a deliberate hand to where Gideon’s is resting. She pats it. Twice.
“Haha, you’re hilarious.” Gideon’s hand moves absently to brush a strand of hair behind Harrow’s ear; her thumb brushes back and forth across the nape of Harrow’s neck.
“Sorry,” Harrow mumbles, suddenly self-conscious.
“Hey. Seriously.” Gideon’s voice is soft. “You’re good.”
And that -- that is officially too much.
Harrow pulls back abruptly, swiping a hand across her mouth. “That should be sufficient.”
“Uh.”
“Are you alright?”
Gideon blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I. Uh. Is that...enough?”
It is absolutely enough. If Harrow keeps feeding on Gideon while Gideon is talking to her like that, Harrow will die. “It’s fine.”
“Did… did you just lick your fingers?”
Harrow glances down in horror to find her fingers in her mouth. She tugs them out. “Shut up!”
Gideon’s grin is brighter than sunlight and twice as likely to make Harrow spontaneously combust.
“Does that mean I’m finger-lickin’ good?”
“Shut UP, NAV.”
“OW HEY OW.”
Harrow has only used her claws a little. Gideon will live.
“So like. Does that make this...TENDON loving care?”
“I can still drain all of your blood and kill you.”
Gideon grins at the ceiling. She’s light and happy, and possibly slightly loopy with blood loss; she’s definitely had worse from Aiglamene during swordfighting. “I’m fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.”
“Your pulse seems stable. I’m trying to assess. Hold still.”
Gideon isn’t interested in holding still. She kind-of-extremely remembers what Harrow felt like in her arms -- a little cold and very fidgety and human, undead or not -- and would like to do it again, except that’s a bad idea? For some reason?
“Why don’t we do that more often,” Gideon says.
There’s no answer. Gideon cracks open an eye to peek at Harrow, just to make sure she’s still there.
Yep. Harrow’s staring at her with Annoyed at Gideon Face #7, that’s one of Gideon’s favorites.
“Me drinking your blood,” Harrow says flatly.
“Yeah, that!”
“Drinking. Your. Blood.”
“I mean, you have to drink somebody’s blood. Or blood pack, whatever.” Gideon shrugs a shoulder. “Why can’t it be me? I’m a legit snack!”
Harrow ignores this. “Your blood sugar is probably low. Lie down.”
Gideon spins around and lies down. “Okay.”
“...not on me.”
Oh. That pillow had felt more comfortable than a coffin. Gideon blinks and moves a bit, so her head’s not on Harrow’s lap. “My bad.”
For some reason, Harrow doesn’t jump up and flee to the other side of the room immediately. Instead:
“Thank you.”
Gideon blinks. That is...not a thing that Harrowhark Nonagesimus normally says. “Huh?”
“Thank you. For. This.”
“No, no, I heard you. Just, can you repeat it? Gotta commit it to memory, write it down…what is this, is this Thursday? On Thursday, at who-knows-what-time o’clock, Harrowhark Nonagesimus thanked me and then I said…”
Harrow sighs. There is a soft pressure on Gideon’s head: Harrow’s hand brushes through Gideon’s hair.
She pats. Twice.
“No,” Harrow says, removing her hand because she’s an evil vampire witch who hates Gideon. “I’ll be back with food. Don’t you dare get up.”
Gideon scarfs down three snow leeks and a bowl of gruel before her energy seems to return.
Harrow exhales. Gideon’s vitals were fine, it was clear she would recover. Just…
Gideon stretches and reaches for another snow leek. “So. Bone-liege.”
Gideon’s grin is brightly terrifying. Harrow regrets her relief.
“Same time next Thursday?”
Gideon Nav is a menace and will be the death of Harrow.
(Gideon is the lifeblood in her veins, and Harrow is going to die young.)
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