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It’s late when Blake emerges from the office, rolling her head on her neck and stretching her arms back until her spine un-contorts itself after a day spent hunched over her computer. The living room lights are off but the room is lit by the streetlights outside and the reflection off the snow piling up on the streets, and Weiss is curled up in the corner of the couch, chin propped in one hand and a mug resting on her knee, staring absently out at the snow, and Blake pauses mid-stretch.
“I thought you went to bed,” she says, finishing her stretch with a satisfying crack from each elbow and relaxing out of it, hands falling onto Weiss’s shoulders. She bends over the arm of the couch and presses a kiss to Weiss’s hair, hums into the way Weiss leans into her touch.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Weiss cranes her head back, a half-hearted smile on her lips, and Blake frowns because Weiss doesn’t do half-hearted, doesn’t do anything by half measures, and there’s a disappointment still weighting her shoulders.
“I’m sorry we had to cancel.” Blake circles the couch, wedges her way down onto it and hauls Weiss’s legs over hers. It nearly upends Weiss’s mug of tea and earns her an indignant hmph , but Weiss curls closer like she always does, and Blake wraps an arm around her back until she can hold onto her, murmur another apology at the way the weekend’s snowstorm had blown in a day early, had shut New York and the trains down, had taken what was supposed to be their first long weekend away together in months and turned it into the both of them instead just working from home yet again.
“There’s a blizzard,” Weiss says drily. “It’s not like you can control that.”
“You never know,” Blake says, aiming for mysterious and landing squarely in stupid instead, but it works at drawing half of a real smile out of Weiss, and she counts it as progress. Maybe she can find a way to salvage the weekend for Weiss anyways. “But it still sucks. I’m bummed, too.”
“There will be other weekends,” Weiss says. One of her hands curls absently up into Blake’s hair and Blake tilts into it, hums, pretends they both don’t know that it had taken three weeks of planning and finagling their work schedules just to plan this weekend a month in advance and that it’ll take just as much effort again to find another one.
The stubborn attempt at optimism is more aching than disappointment, and Blake frowns, shakes her head, stands up so suddenly that Weiss nearly topples off the couch.
“What the--”
“Get dressed,” Blake says, hauling her up to standing as well and dodging flying elbows with years of experience. “I have an idea.”
“What--”
Blake marches past her towards the garage, slapping her ass on the way and ignoring the indignant yelp it earns her. “Get dressed!”
“This is a terrible idea,” Weiss says, even as she steps into her ski boots. Blake grins at her, points at her ears and shrugs as she revs the motor. Weiss glares at her, at the ancient Ducati Blake had hauled home one day and deposited in the garage with a grin and a declaration that she was going to fix it up.
(“You’re the one who wanted a garage!” Blake says from where she’s kneeling next to the motorcycle, inspecting the carburetor. “The other house didn’t have one and that was your dealbreaker--”
“So we could have a car at some point, Blake! Not a deathtrap from 1965!”
“A car in Brooklyn,” Blake snorts. “Yeah, okay, babe.” Her head pops up over the seat, grin sly and knowing, and Weiss fights the urge to stomp her foot and already knows she’s lost.
“You do not get to yell at me the next time I buy new skis,” Weiss says with an air of resignation.
“Would I do that?” Blake props her chin on the seat, offers a winning smile, the one it took Weiss the first six months of their relationship to coax out of her, the one she keeps in reserve and every single one of her colleagues is sure doesn’t exist, and Weiss sighs.
“Please just-- all the proper gear,” she says. “All of it. Promise?”
“Promise,” Blake says with a nod, eyes shining, and Weiss sighs again and resigns herself to the fact that she’s lost Blake’s free time for the foreseeable future.)
“It’s gonna be great,” Blake says, tweaking the throttle again and frowning, adjusting the choke until the idle settles, and then turning back to the tow line she’s threading through the luggage rack over the rear wheel. “Come on, you know you’ve always wanted to try something like this.”
“I have not ,” Weiss says shrilly, even as she buckles her boots. “Have you even gotten tags for that thing yet?”
“She’s perfect for this and no DMV can say otherwise,” Blake says, dodging the question expertly and knowing that if it weren’t beneath her Weiss would be throwing a snowball at her in irritation. She traipses through the snow past Weiss, pausing to kiss her temple, and then continues into the garage to grab Weiss’s skis. “You good?”
“Helmet!” Weiss says, glaring when Blake walks past the helmet hanging above the workbench; Blake grabs it smoothly and pops it over her head with her free hand. She waits patiently in front of Weiss as Weiss buckles the helmet under her chin, familiar fingers brushing against her throat in the process, and then as Weiss puts her own helmet on.
“Ready?” Blake flips the visor up so Weiss can see her wink, and Weiss huffs and snaps into the bindings. The idle speeds up, the lovingly restored motor finally warm enough to run, and Blake practically bounces in place.
“This is so stupid,” Weiss grumbles, as if that can hide the bright tint of excitement in her eyes that she always has when she’s on skis. Blake nudges her elbow into Weiss’s side and bounds over to the motorcycle, practically leaping onto it in excitement and wholly uncaring that it’s midnight in the middle of a blizzard that shut the city down and the engine is painfully loud in the quiet of the snow.
She resets the choke and tosses the tow line back towards Weiss and waits as she gathers it up to a shorter hold and nods, barely visible in her coat and helmet. Blake grins in her own helmet and kicks the bike into gear, easing them out to the street. There’s a moment of resistance as Weiss starts to move, and Blake glances back over her shoulder to see Weiss perfectly upright like always, spine an easy straight line even as she’s towed on skis by a motorcycle out onto Vanderbilt.
The streets are empty, no one out in the middle of the storm and most of the street parking cleared out for the impending crush of snowplows tomorrow, and it gives Blake room to work once they build up speed. There’s a short jerk each time Weiss lets out another piece of the tow line, giving herself more distance from the rear wheel once they make it out onto Atlantic.
Blake glances back over her shoulder and offers a thumbs up to Weiss, questioning, waiting, and when Weiss peels one hand off the tow line long enough to offer her own, clicks up a gear and accelerates down the abandoned street. Just barely audible over the sound of the motor and the wind and the powdery snow crunching under her tires is a laugh from Weiss, bubbling and bright, and it warms Blake from the sternum out.
This is completely illegal in more ways than she can count, but the laughter from Weiss, the way her whole body seems to lighten and the tension she wears like a second skin evaporates when she’s on skis and in the snow, makes it worth it. The city is quiet except for them, blanketed in snow and streetlights that offer long clear sightlines down the straight arrow of Atlantic, and Weiss is having fun, and Blake smiles into her helmet.
They’ve cruised through nearly a dozen empty intersections and started the trip back home and Weiss has let the tow line out as far as it goes, set far enough back that Blake can’t hear her anymore but still steady and strong on her skis, when suddenly headlights appear coming from the other direction. Blake blinks, letting off the throttle and only barely remembering not to hit the brakes hard on snow, and glances back to Weiss and waves, points, slows more. The line goes slack as Weiss coasts up alongside it towards the bike, sliding to an easy stop next to Blake and popping her goggles up off her face.
“Who’s out driving in the middle of this?” she says indignantly, as if they’re not out driving in the middle of this.
“Who knows,” Blake says with a sigh. She pushes her visor up and watches as the headlights creep closer, and then she frowns, pulls her helmet off, tilts her head.
“What?”
“Did you hear that?” Blake says absently.
“Hear what--” Weiss cuts herself off, and her nose wrinkles as she hears it as well, the familiar crunch of snow compressing under skis. She frowns and squints through the heavy snow at the headlights coming towards them, and then the both of them let out a surprised noise when the car is twenty meters away and suddenly a figure on a snowboard swings out from behind it, narrowly missing the curb in the wide arc of a turn that sends snow spraying up across the sidewalk.
“What an idiot ,” Weiss starts, steam practically coming out of her ears, and Blake blinks at her and considers if it’s worth it to mention that they’re doing the exact same thing.
There’s a crunching swish as the snowboarder makes it nearly out in front of the car before swinging back out of its path and the person waves at them, and Weiss is about to vibrate through the asphalt with irritation.
“Maybe they’ll want to race?” she suggests, grinning when Weiss takes the time to yank her own helmet off so she can glare at Blake properly.
“Hey!” The woman on the snowboard-- she’s much larger than Blake had realized, now that she’s skidding to a stop in front of them and tossing her tow line out to the side so it doesn’t catch under the tires of the care; blonde hair tumbles out from under her helmet and she yanks her goggles off to display red cheeks and a red nose and a smile so wide it puts the streetlights to shame-- says cheerfully. “Looks like we weren’t the only ones with this great idea.”
The car rolls to a stop behind her and the driver pops out, bounding towards them with an equally bright grin, and Blake considers heading off the impending explosion from Weiss but decides against it, shoves her hands into her pockets and slumps more comfortably on the saddle of the motorcycle to enjoy the spectacle.
“Is that a Zipcar?” Weiss says, halfway to shrill. “You’re snowboarding through the streets behind a Zipcar ?”
“Uh, yeah,” the driver says with a snort. She shakes snow out of her dark hair. “It’s not like we own a car.”
“But that’s idiotic,” Weiss half-yells. “The liability issues alone, but also-- you’re not familiar with the car-- you could be killed --”
“Whoa, hold up,” the snowboarder says, yanking her helmet off and oh , okay, she’s hot. Blake takes a moment to appreciate the understanding, now that they’re close enough, that this woman has shoulders approximately as wide as a New York sidewalk; she glances at Weiss and there’s a darker flush under her own red cheeks, the one that Blake has been drawing out of her for years now, and raises an eyebrow. “You’re doing literally the same thing.”
“Not with a rented Prius ,” Weiss throws back, gesturing wildly. “And you nearly crashed into a curb just now!”
“She did not!” the driver says indignantly.
“Yes she did!” Weiss is gesturing wildly now, and snapping out of her bindings, and Blake could stop her but also she’s always liked it when Weiss gets riled up-- the first six months of their relationship was, mostly, predicated on her riling Weiss up until her self control snapped-- so she props her elbows on the handlebars and her chin in her hands and watches Weiss stomp forward.
The snowboarder yanks her own boots free and hurriedly steps in front of the driver, glaring down at Weiss, and Blake raises an eyebrow.
“I know you’re not about to yell at my sister,” the snowboarder says, voice light and pleasant and promising a world of hurt if Weiss does indeed yell at her sister. She towers over Weiss, more than a head taller than her, and Blake watches with unabashed interest and considers both the height difference and the clean strength broadcasting out of the snowboarder’s broad shoulders.
“I don’t care if either of you are the queen of England,” Weiss says with her full Schnee fury, voice snapping and sharp and sending familiar shivers down Blake’s spine. “You were both being reckless and using someone else’s property--”
“--as if Zipcar wouldn’t charge us for damage,” the snowboarder says with a scoff.
“--and you could have run into us--”
“Or you could have run into us, princess--”
“--and this is the first break we’ve had in six months and you’re in the way !” Weiss finishes on a bellow, and something flickers in the snowboarder’s face. Her sister steps up next to her, head cocked to one side, and Blake sits up straighter and levers herself off the motorcycle, ready to play backup as necessary if Weiss is outnumbered.
“Okay,” the sister says, cheerful and calm, and Blake relaxes. “This is just a misunderstanding, yeah?”
“Misunderstanding,” Weiss mutters, arms folded over her chest and spine a tense line under her jacket, and Blake steps up to her side, pulls her hand free, winds their gloved fingers together and squeezes her hand gently. A minute edge of the tension in Weiss leaks away, and Blake squeezes her hand again.
“Why don’t we start over,” the sister says. “I’m Ruby. This is Yang.”
Weiss is still glaring, mouth twisted into a scowl, the dramatic one that means she’s not actually angry at the situation and is instead annoyed at herself for not being more angry, and Blake elbows her gently.
“Blake,” she says, and elbows Weiss again. “This is Weiss.”
“See, isn’t that better?” Ruby says, rubbing her hands together.
“It will be if your sister stops looking like she’s going to punch my partner,” Blake says blithely, looking Yang up and down.
“Yeah, well--”
“No one is punching anyone,” Ruby says loudly over Yang, cutting her off with a glare. “Right?”
Yang continues to glower at Weiss for a long moment, and Blake neatly puts aside the fact that Yang is screamingly hot in favor of readying herself to lay Yang out in the snow if she talks shit to Weiss-- Weiss is a bitch, yes, but Blake loves her for that and no one else gets to say a thing about it-- but is saved from the need by Weiss sighing.
“I’m sorry,” she stays stiffly, and Blake raises an eyebrow, glancing sidelong at Weiss and then back to where surprise is written across Yang’s dropped jaw. “I-- overreacted, and took it out on you. It was uncalled for and I apologize.”
Yang stares down at her, mouth working for a long moment, and then sighs as well when Ruby elbows her in the side.
“Okay, okay,” she mutters. “We’re cool.” She glances from Weiss to Blake and back again, and there’s a scalding weight to her gaze that Blake feels deep in her stomach, and her hand clenches around Weiss’s. “Y’all wanna race?”
“What?” Weiss says explosively, exasperated. “No!”
Ruby pops up at Yang’s side, a thermos in hand; Blake hadn’t even noticed her returning to the car. She unscrews the lid and offers it to Weiss.
“You guys look cold,” she says by way of explanation. “It’s hot chocolate.”
“You brought hot chocolate on your extralegal snowboarding excursions?” Weiss says, even as she takes the thermos tentatively.
“If you don’t want it, I do,” Blake says, yanking it out of her hand and inhaling the warm steam.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want any,” Weiss says indignantly, even as she waits patiently for Blake to take a sip and offer it back to her.
“Y’all live around here?” Yang asks, reaching for the thermos when Weiss offers it to her. “We do this every time it snows, but haven’t ever run into anyone else doing it.”
“We don’t normally do things like this,” Weiss says, cagey, guarded.
“The bike just got running recently,” Blake says, curling an arm around her shoulders and rubbing at her arm.
“What was wrong with it?” Yang tilts to one side to peer past Blake to the motorcycle sitting in the street, gathering snow on the saddle.
“What wasn’t wrong with it, is the question,” Weiss mutters. Blake rolls her eyes, shrugs ,glances back at it as well.
“It’s been a pet project for a while now,” Blake says.
“Is that a ‘55?” Yang says, still leaning, practically tilted onto one leg.
“‘56,” Blake says, eyebrows lifting. “You’re familiar?”
“I dabble,” Yang says with a shrug as she straightens back up.
“Dabble,” Ruby says with a snort, swiping the thermos from her.
“Sounds like an understatement,” Weiss says. Her arm curls along Blake’s waist, hand rubbing at her back through her coat, the minute friction better than nothing at warming Blake a fraction. Weiss has always handled the cold better than she does.
“She dabbles in them for a hobby and builds them for a living,” Ruby says, and Yang clears her throat and flushes brilliantly.
“Oh,” Blake says faintly, looking intently at Yang with a new interest that has less to do with her powerful shoulders and more to do with the probable wealth of knowledge about internal combustion engines Yang has to offer.
“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Weiss mutters. “She’s going to follow you home until you answer all her questions.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Yang says, and then flushes even darker red when Blake straightens up at the implication and Weiss follows. “Uh, I mean-- either of you. Don’t let me stop either of you. Because you’re-- together--”
Blake glances at Weiss and the way her lips are twitching up into a smile at Yang’s scrambling. Across from them, Ruby rolls her eyes and occupies herself with her phone; there’s no telling if it’s because she’s used to her sister hitting on people or embarrassed at how poorly she’s doing it, or both.
“Look at that,” Ruby says loudly, decidedly not looking up from her phone until there’s a quiet flurry of movement of the three of them breaking eye contact, Yang clearing her throat, Weiss pressing her lips together into a thin line, Blake’s hand tightening on Weiss’s arm. “Nora said the plows already came through Harlem and she built a ramp over a car and needs a tow because Ren bailed.”
“She wants to what ?” Yang squawks out, hitting a register even higher than Weiss had. A clump of snow falls from its towering perch atop a street light and Blake would be hard pressed to say it wasn’t because of Yang’s voice.
“Oh, that’s your standard?” Weiss says tartly. She plants her hands on her hips and glares up at Yang’s towering height. “Your own nonsensical shenanigans are completely reasonable but someone else’s are a bridge too far?”
Blake reaches for Weiss, mouth curling in amusement at the irony and ready to call her out publicly over it because it’s the exact sort of callout that will ruffle Weiss up for some excellent fun once they get home, but Yang beats her to it.
“Okay, first off: yes, bridge too far, because Harlem, ” Yang says, flinging a hand with one finger lifted out til it’s waving right in front of Weiss’s face, and then flicks another finger out. “And two , that’s hilarious coming from someone who was yelling at my nonsensical shenanigans while doing the exact same nonsensical shenanigans.”
Weiss’s mouth snaps shut, opens, snaps shut again, and Blake can’t stop the snort of laughter that escapes out into her scarf. It earns her a glare and a muttered traitor from Weiss (worth it, in all regards) and a wink from Yang (also worth it, assuming Weiss also finds it worth it). Weiss whirls on her, looking from Blake to Yang and back again, and any trace of levity or indignation disappears into the snow falling around them.
There’s a protracted moment, awkward and infinite, of Blake staring at Weiss and Yang shifting her weight awkwardly, Ruby ignoring all of them. Weiss raises an eyebrow, tilts her head, looks from Blake to Yang and back again, and possibility ignites low and smoldering in Blake’s stomach.
It’s not like they’ve never discussed it, the possibility of inviting someone home with them; it had taken Weiss a few years and a not insignificant amount of therapy and uncomfortable conversations for Weiss to realize that they were solid, that their relationship was sturdy, that bringing someone into their bed wouldn’t be the beginning of the end for her and Blake. They’ve been on the same page about it for years now, but the opportunity had never presented itself until now, now with a stranger in the street, recklessly snowboarding behind a rented car, shoulders as wide as a New York sidewalk and smile as kind as Weiss is guarded.
Blake tilts her head, looks back to where Yang is flushing dark under the bright red left from the cold; to Weiss, who she’s loved and shared a life with for years; to the both of them and the thrum of possibility between the three of them. Yang clears her throat, scuffs a boot in the snow, flicks her gaze from Blake to Weiss, and clears her throat again, and Blake laughs low in her throat because she’s been locked in the crosshairs of Weiss’s calculating stare more times than she can count and knows exactly how paralyzing it is.
Yang straightens up under Weiss’s gaze, lifts her chin, squares her shoulders, and pins Weiss back with just as tense a look. Another extensive moment passes and there’s a quiet hum from Weiss, the one she makes when she’s solved a particularly complex problem, and Yang flashes a smug grin Blake’s way.
She’s saved from having to figure out how they’re going to do this-- they’ve never actually done this; have agreed to the allowable contexts and ground rules and emotional check-ins, but never actually broached the logistical complexities of inviting someone home with them, much less in front of a sister -- by the car starting and Ruby yelling out the window.
“I’m going to Harlem,” she bellows out the window. “Have fun.”
“Hey!” Yang yells after her, nearly tripping over her snowboard as she starts to run after the car; she kicks a spray of snow that falls short of the rear bumper and lets out an indistinguishable yell after her sister.
“Did she just--” Weiss cuts herself off, incredulous.
“I think she did,” Blake says noncommittally. She slings an arm around Weiss’s shoulders as Yang turns back from glaring at Ruby’s retreating license plate, pulls down her scarf to make sure the amusement is clear and is rewarded with a huff from Yang. “So is she expecting us to get you home?”
“She’s expecting an asswhooping, is what she’s expecting,” Yang mutters.
“Blake could give you a tow home,” Weiss says helpfully. Her hand tightens on the back of Blake’s jacket, tension that only Blake knows how to see rolling through her body because now they’re alone with the hot stranger they want to invite home and have no idea how to do it.
“I can walk.” She picks her snowboard up with a groan, grumbles unintelligibly.
“Or,” Blake ventures, thumb tapping a familiar rhythm on Weiss’s arm: a question. Weiss’s fingertips match pace against her back: an answer. She tilts her head until, brushes a kiss to Weiss’s hair slowly, keeps her eyes on Yang. “We live a few blocks away. Just over on Vanderbilt.”
Yang pauses in swiping nonexistent smudges off her snowboard, freezing in place and staring at them, eyes on a volley between Weiss and Blake.
“Only if you want,” Weiss says smoothly, as if she’s not tangibly anxious in the curve of Blake’s arm.
“Go home with you,” Yang says slowly. “Both of you. To--what, exactly?”
“If we have to explain it, then never mind ,” Weiss says with a huff, and it draws a bright bark of laughter out of Yang, a slower one out of Blake.
“Hey, don’t blame me for clarifying.” Yang holds her hands up, pacifying, as best she can with a snowboard in them, and grins wide and toothy and cracks her neck, rolls her shoulders. It’s like watching a mountain move, and Blake’s mouth goes dry, Weiss’s hand tighter at her back in equal measure. “You never know with random strangers you meet on the street, y’know.”
“Clearly,” Weiss drawls. She slips out from under Blake’s arm, moves to head back towards the Ducati. “Well, in that case, I guess we’ll just be on our way then.”
“Whoa there, princess,” Yang says, grabbing for Weiss’s hand. She towers over Weiss and Blake tucks her hands into her pockets, considers the fact that if she can pick up Weiss easily enough then Yang could do just as much and then some, and they have a very spacious walk-in shower at home. “I didn’t say no.”
“Well, you didn’t say yes, either,” Weiss throws back, and then exhales sharply when Yang drops her snowboard and pulls Weiss closer by the zipper tab on her jacket. A thrill of heat runs along Blake’s neck, settles into a low pulse at the base of her spine, and she clamps down on the inside of cheek to stay quiet because Weiss looks hungry and Blake can relate.
Yang pauses deliberately, looking slowly over towards Blake, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t tell me you’re asking my permission,” Blake says, even as she steps closer.
“More like a confirmation,” Yang says, and this close Blake can see each freckle sitting atop her flushed cheeks, hear the clench of her hand on Weiss’s, clock exactly how dark Weiss’s eyes have gotten as she doesn’t look away from the strong line of Yang’s jaw.
“Why don’t we go to our place and find out,” Blake suggests. “Before Weiss climbs you like a tree right in the middle of Atlantic Avenue.”
“Yeah, right,” Yang says with a snort, letting go of her hold on Weiss reluctantly and straightening up.
“She’s not wrong,” Weiss says airily, already marching towards the Ducati and her skis, and Yang trips over her own snowboard.
Blake follows at a more leisurely pace, strolling along behind Yang, anticipation burning in her chest and flushing along her skin under the layers she’s wearing. There’s a shriek from Weiss just as the engine on the Ducati roars to life, and Blake glances back from in her helmet to where Yang has hauled Weiss up over her shoulder as they fight over the tow line, and smiles.
The weekend is absolutely salvaged.