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I knew today would be a bad day when it took you over three hours to finish your miserable bowl of porridge—one spoonful carefully taken, five minutes of chewing before gulping it down and staring into the void for varying amounts of time, rinse and repeat.
I’d made it as hot as was bearable to eat because the stuff was bad warm, but cold? Yuck. (You were thoroughly unbothered by it and refused to let me reheat it, which, suit yourself I guess, but still YUCK.)
Sorry about the general quality by the way. I was still working on my cooking skills.
You hadn’t picked the fruits out of the porridge today, which would’ve been good, except that it seemed to be due to a total lack of energy to argue even that. Fuck, I missed your spite and your scowl and anything that wasn’t you looking this awfully sad and miserable.
Eventually, having bravely battled the entire bowl and won (I was very proud of you), you put it down on the bedside table, threw the spoon in and then sunk back onto the mattress.
“Still need a couple minutes?” I asked. You looked at me like you’d forgotten I was in the room.
All you ultimately did was give me a curt nod before going back to forgetting I existed altogether. That last part in and of itself wasn’t completely out of character, but curt nods weren’t a Nonagesimus thing, since they kinda ruined the whole gothic splendor act. You were obviously out of it.
I tried not to seem too worried—you hated it when I got worried, and not in the charmingly pissed off way I was used to. (You didn’t really get pissed off at me at all anymore, which obviously meant I wasn’t trying hard enough. I would have to work on that going forward.)
You hated my worried expression because you thought it shameful to seem weak and vulnerable enough to receive one of those. That you had the audacity to be human. You were also under the utter bullshit impression that you weren’t worth worrying about, or taking care of. But well, you were. And it wasn’t like I minded making that my job.
Damn it, Harrow, I’d died for you like, at least twice at that point! Three times, depending on how you counted. Which is more times than most people are reasonably expected to die, by the way! For some reason that was still completely beyond me, I was determined to keep your sorry ass alive one way or another—and, weird healing abilities or not, I would gladly take cooking for you and sitting by your side as you ate over another spike through my chest any day.
I filled up your glass with water again, then went to put away the bowl.
When I got back, you hadn’t moved an inch. You were still sitting there, staring off into the void. It made the wall seem way more interesting than it actually was. I pulled my chair closer to the bed so I could sit next to you and stare at it with you, placing my hand next to yours on the mattress in case you might want to take it. You didn’t.
I was torn on what to do. A part of me wanted to speak up, ask if there was anything I could do to make you feel better, or anything you needed. If you wanted to talk about it. But I wasn’t your therapist, and I wasn’t sure if you were ready to talk to anyone else. I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t. But I also wanted to let you know I was there for you if you were. You could say I was kinda… on the fence about the whole thing. (Okay, no, I promised you not to make jokes about that anymore, so I wasn’t going to. One would think I’d be the one with worse trauma from that particular incident, considering I died and all, but I guess I didn’t have to watch it. At least you got to grieve me in your own body—not to mention how you goddamn asshole just copped out of our Lyctor agreement and cut me out of your brain altogether.)
Okay, so maybe I eventually went from staring at the wall to staring at you. In my defense, you were way more interesting. Not that that was hard.
Maybe it just felt good to watch the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, now that your body was back to being yours.
…not that I was staring at your chest. Or ever had. I was still not taking that one way trip to no-town. Nope. Not happening.
Finally, you said, more to yourself than me, “I don’t think I’m making it out of bed today.” I hated how disappointed in yourself you sounded.
“That’s okay.” I got up. You startled at my voice, which, really, if you could stop forgetting my existence for five seconds, I’d appreciate it. “I’ll go get the paint.”
“I- Gideon?” Now I was the startled one. Harrow, your voice was so terribly unsteady, and my mind didn’t even have the mercy to come up with a joke to throw at the fact. Your voice didn’t shake like that, and it was never this quiet, this apologetic. And fuck, Nonagesiumus, you’d called me Gideon. It just made me want to cry. “I… I think I don’t feel up to that either.”
Not to be dramatic, but getting a metal spike through my body had been less painful than hearing that. In all the miserable years that I’d known you, which made up your entire life and almost all of mine, there wasn’t a day I could remember that you’d neglected putting on that godawful paint. I was convinced you’d emerged from the womb with your face already painted appropriately. Hearing you say this… it left me shattered, Harrowhark, completely fucking shattered. I was actually tearing up now, which, not cool.
The thought of turning my back on you terrified me at that moment. A part of me was unreasonably convinced that the second I did, you would just disappear. But I made myself do it anyway, both because I didn’t want you to see me cry (you were already dealing with enough as it was) and because I needed to get the stupid paint.
…I still breathed an embarrassing sigh of relief when I left the bathroom with the paint box and you hadn’t, in fact, disappeared on me.
“Gideon, I mean it, I can’t. I just… I just can’t.” Your voice had somehow grown even more unsteady, and you looked so small—you looked small normally, but this was different, like Dreaburh's shadows were threatening to swallow you whole.
“I’ll do it,” I said, attempting to sound nonchalant but probably failing horribly because I was still sniffling a bit. Oh well. At least my eyes were covered by my sunglasses now, which made me look 200% more cool and at least an equal amount less teary-eyed. “If you want me to, that is.”
Your—my—amber eyes blinked up at me.
“Gideon, you don’t-” Fuck, I’d never longed to be called Griddle this badly in my life.
“I do, actually!” I was confident in my abilities, and hey, I had every right to be. I’d practiced. “I’m great at face paint these days. I can do beautiful face paint that even you won’t be able to complain about, which we both know is really saying something. You should’ve seen your face those last couple months!” I couldn’t help but grin, watching your eyes go wide as saucers.
“You… you painted my face?” you whispered, your expression pure disbelief and something that I hoped was a flicker of joy. “But you hate the paint. And you couldn’t care less about-“
“True as that may be,” I interrupted, because I was kinda hoping that would piss you off. It didn’t. “You care. You care a whole lot. And it wasn’t my body. I wasn’t about to leave your face exposed or paint it subpar just because it meant little to me.”
Okay, and maybe I was still salty at pops for refusing to give you proper paint back at the Erebos. Either way, you deserved someone who did right by you, even if it was partly out of spite.
And… fuck, now you were crying.
Well, it was better if you got it out before there was any paint to smudge. (Not that I would’ve minded painting your face a second time if you wanted me to.)
I set the paint box down on the bedside table, then offered you my hand again. You took it this time, nails pressing into my knuckle joints as I stroked the back of your shaking hand with my thumb. Hell, I would never get over how tiny your hands were in mine.
“You don’t have to paint my face,” you whispered, and it only occurred to me then that this was probably what you’d been trying to say earlier. Not that you attempting to roast my inadequate painting skills hadn’t been a perfectly good guess. I honestly would’ve preferred that to this… this stupid look of guilt on your face over me showing you what I considered basic decency.
“Well, maybe I want to! You know how I am, I love showing off.” My attempt at faking a smug grin came out mediocre at best. “I know it’s only gonna do so much, but… I want you to be as comfortable as possible. So if you trust me to-”
“I do,” came your immediate reply. You sounded so certain, there wasn’t the smallest hint of hesitation, which, wow, genuinely flattered over here. You sniffled as your second hand wrapped around mine. “If you really… if you really don’t mind…”
“Not at all. One flesh, one end, one paint job or something.” I grinned, and there was another flicker in your eyes that wasn’t all-consuming sadness, which I counted as a win. “I thought I could try something new tho? Maybe pink paint would look good on you.”
“Hilarious, Griddle.” You mostly just sounded weary and not really annoyed at the suggestion, but that was still the weight of the Tomb stone off my mind.
“Alright, black and white it is you buzzkill.”
We didn’t even have pink paint. You probably knew we didn’t.
You sat perfectly still as I gently dried your tears with a cotton pad and got started. Even though it’d been a while since I’d first started using the paint properly, the sheer amount of steps was still ridiculous to me. Moisturizer this, primer that, and that was before you even got to the actual paint. Totally insane. Who had time for that?
Well, I guess me currently, but still.
You watched me attentively, your eyes following my every movement. I held up a tiny hand mirror every now and again so you didn’t have just my words to trust I wasn’t doing a terrible job. You told me which skull you wanted, and I complied, starting with the white paint and working from the inside out.
You were very quiet, but more relaxed than I’d expected you to be. You’d always been so tense to the touch, having gotten so little since you were a child. The fight or flight or play dead reflex of my first time hugging you was gone. You appeared to feel… safe with me.
The brush strokes were perfectly gentle, if I do say so myself. I didn’t even get paint in your eyes when I painted your eyelids.
…not that that had ever happened before.
Occasionally, you quietly asked for a thicker layer of paint in some portion or pointed out a small spot of unpainted skin (which I’d already seen, thank you very much), but it was never in a critical tone, more a suggestion than anything. I had some… confusing feelings about that.
I wasn’t sure what changed, if it was anything specific at all, but when I showed you the mirror again, just about finished with the white paint, you stared right through it and clenched your hands into the blanket.
“C’mon, it’s not that terrible, is it?” I tried carefully. “I know it’s still missing your favorite color, but even you have to admit I did a decent job.”
“I… yeah. It’s not so bad.” You gestured for me to continue, and so I did. I wasn’t really expecting you to open up to me. Honest conversation had never been our strongest suit.
You continued to cling to the fabric.
I was a few strokes into the black paint when you suddenly spoke up again.
“I feel so overwhelmed with my entire existence right now,” you said, fists clenching tighter. Your voice sounded oddly monotone for someone who appeared to be fighting an urge to scream. Or cry. Or both. You weren’t even really here—I’d known you long enough to be able to tell when you got lost in your head. “I just… it’s disgraceful that everything feels like too much when I’m doing so little.”
My hand slipped in stupefied horror, leaving a fresh black line diagonally across your nose, where it really shouldn’t have been. But that was the least of my concerns right now. I put the brush down, and my hands found your shoulders.
“Harrow, you went to hell and back. Literally. Several times, actually! You almost died more times than I can count, to the point that you couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be safe.” If he hadn’t been so impossibly difficult to kill, I would’ve reanimated dad just so I could beat the shit out of him for that a couple more times. “Of course you’re not okay right now. How would anyone be?”
“But I’m not just anyone,” you said, more to yourself than me. You’d always excelled at that—burdening yourself with importance until the weight crushed you. “I used to run a whole House. And now I can’t even bring myself to paint my fucking face, which really isn’t difficult!” There was the yelling I’d been expecting, unfortunately targeted at yourself instead of the things in your life that actually deserved to be screamed at. I kind of wished you had yelled at me instead. That would’ve been way more bearable.
“Harrow, you’re being ridiculous.” Alright, maybe I was being a bit blunt, but that was the only way I knew to get through your thick skull. Your tendency to hold yourself to completely insane standards had somehow gotten even worse since we left the Ninth, which was almost impressive. I took a deep breath, then continued, “Are you expecting me to be okay right now?”
“Of course I’m not!” You sounded affronted, and in the ridiculous irony of it all, I almost wanted to laugh. Alright. Spelling it out for you it was.
“Good. Because I’m not okay. I’m not okay in the slightest.” You looked up at me with what was probably even more guilt. Well, this was off to an amazing start...
I pulled you into a proper hug, which most definitely left paint on my top but at least hid my trembling hands. “I thought you were dead, Harrowhark. After a few weeks, I was completely convinced you were never coming back.” That had been a special kind of hell. Do you know how hard it was to hear your voice every time I spoke, thinking I would never get to speak to you again? How fucking impossible it was to move on when every time I looked in the mirror, your face stared back? Do you stubborn ass have any idea how many times I wished you had just let me die? “I remember what it was like to struggle to get out of bed. How some days, I couldn’t bring myself to shower or eat, which would then send me into an impossible guilt spiral because it wasn’t my body to ruin. Very fun times, let me tell you.”
“Gideon, I’m-”
“Don’t apologize to me,” I instantly interrupted you. I was sick to death of you apologizing. “You sacrificed your mind and body to keep me alive. You almost died. I don’t want to hear it. Anyways, what I’m trying to say here is: I don’t think I would’ve made it alone. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. And you don’t, either.”
“But-” You struggled against my offer of support—your very need for said support—like prey against a predator. A byproduct of the lovely people who had raised you, surely. Of a childhood spent in the dark with no one to trust; not even yourself. But you weren’t alone anymore—and whether you liked it or not, I’d make sure you never would be again.
“No. Shut up. To hell with terms like ‘disgraceful’, Harrow. You’re struggling. And that’s okay. I struggled, too—and I still do, even if it’s gotten a bit better with time.” I squeezed your shoulders gently. After another moment’s hesitation, you finally hugged me back. “And since I’m literally God’s daughter, you’re not allowed to hold anyone to higher standards than me. Not even yourself. Checkmate.”
An “I hate you” that was too soft to actually come across as annoyed was muffled into my shoulder, and I almost laughed. I think we both knew that you didn’t, and that you never had. (Not that you’d never tried to.)
“I’m glad to have you back,” I choked out, and, overwhelmed by my sudden display of honesty, added, “Life’s just no fun when I can’t push your buttons.”
“Fuck you,” you said, with just the slightest hint of your beautiful sarcasm. Your eyes were swimming with tears.
“It’s fine, go ahead and ruin the paint—y’know, even more than you already have,” I joked, gently drawing circles onto your back. Your shaking hands clung to my shoulders. “I’ll just redo it.”
“Hell, what did I do to deserve you?” you mumbled, and we were so not starting that conversation right now, because your day was already going bad enough without a rundown of ‘every reason Gideon Nav shouldn’t be in my life right now’ (all of which were overruled by the fact that it wasn’t your decision to make, you ass). That was a conversation we needed to have at some point, but it didn’t have to be today.
“You must’ve really annoyed the shit out of someone in a past life to get stuck with me in this one,” I teased. “Knowing you? It was probably several people.”
Who knew, maybe you were the reason my dad had to do the resurrection. Maybe you’d annoyed our entire species to death.
But hey, if you hadn’t been insufferable 99% of the time, you wouldn't be Harrow.
And well, maybe I liked insufferable you. I knew she’d be back eventually—in however much or little time she thought convenient, because she was a bitch like that.
For now… I’d just hold you, your paint on my shirt and your heartbeat against mine.
…
…
…
Oh, right. The paint. I knew I was forgetting something.
I did an amazing job with the skull the second time around. There were significantly less mishaps. When I showed you the mirror, you looked… ‘happy’ would’ve been claiming too much, but you did look heaps more comfortable.
Then I did an absolutely terrible job painting one of the skulls I’d made up onto my own face, just to get on your nerves.
“Admit it. I look cool.”
“No. You look stupid. It’s honestly a little insulting.” You rolled your eyes. You mostly just seemed weary, and were nowhere near as salty as you could’ve been—definitely a lot less than you would’ve been back at the Ninth—but I’d take it. “It’s sacramental paint, Griddle. It’s not supposed to ‘look cool.’”
“See? That’s the issue with you evil nuns. Maybe if it was cool, the Ninth wouldn’t have struggled to get new members!”
“Hilarious,” you mumbled, but your voice lacked the usual bite, and the wall seemed to be mighty interesting to you again. I guess this was as far as we would get today. (Which was totally okay.)
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Midnight Hagette? Would you like some tea? A sandwich?” You grimaced, which made me smile just a tiny bit. One of these days I would find something you actually enjoyed to eat, and yes, that was a threat. “Any dumb bone books you’d like to read?”
You shook your head slightly, which was another thing you never did. You couldn’t even be bothered to comment on “dumb bone book.”
I was worried about you, Harrow, really fucking worried, and I hated that this was to be expected after everything we’d gone through. I just wanted you to be okay. But as long as you weren’t, I’d make sure you had it bearable and help you to take care of yourself however you let me.
“Can you just… stay?” you asked tentatively. Your voice was really quiet, and you looked pretty damn embarrassed when you patted the mattress next to you.
“Always.” (Like I hadn’t already been planning to.)
I climbed into bed and you moved your head into my lap and pulled my arms around you.
‘Anything you need, my umbral sovereign.’ I would’ve liked to annoy you with that out loud, but you currently had a lot of complicated feelings regarding us, and I didn’t want to push my luck, so it remained my own, private thought.
You were staring straight at the ceiling now. Apparently the wall had finally lost its appeal.
“And… Thank you, Gideon. For the paint, and-”
“Don’t mention it.” I made sure the blanket covered you properly, then gently lifted your head so I could move a freshly fluffed-up pillow between your head and my thighs. Not that I didn’t like having your head in my lap, but I couldn’t imagine it being very comfortable. “And stop calling me Gideon. It’s fucking weird.” You didn’t reply, but you managed a small smile, hands crossing over your midsection. Like that, you rested, eyes closing as your perfect, slim fingers intertwining with mine.
‘Anything you need, before you even know you need it.’