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It takes a moment to blink the sleep from her eyes and let the room filter back into focus. A moment longer still to remember where she is and why.
The soft snoring that wakes her in the first place does a good job of reminding her.
Fiona half rolls to look over her shoulder -- pinned the rest of the way by the cool weight of Rhys' cybernetic arm -- and snorts to herself.
Mouth open, drooling into his pillow, oblivious to everything and everyone else around him, is Rhys.
Some things don't change.
Some careful maneuvering later, Fiona plucks his arm from around her waist without waking him. The first stretch of muscle and bone feels nice, loosening the tension of a long night cycle.
Picking out her clothes from the pile on the floor is a little less easy by half light, a little more unsettling by her surroundings. Even in an apartment that's meant to be Rhys', it's still Helios. And it still feels like something Hyperion: too functional, too clinical, sleek metal and polished windows, crisp linens and spotless flooring.
If not for the unforgivably ridiculous polkadotted and striped socks next to her shirt, anyway. Fiona never thinks she'd be happy to see them in her life. But she is. A reminder of the reasons why she's here and the reasons why she isn't, too.
She shrugs into the clothes and lets herself out the room as quietly as she can. Even the soft click of the door latching behind her feels too loud.
And the lights that spring to life the moment she steps outside? She could do with less of those, too.
One hand raises to shield Fiona's eyes, the other balling into a fist -- but there's no one beating down Sleeping Beauty's door in an attempt to catch onto his little game.
The jackass has an automated light system.
"For the Hyperion suit too important to walk the five feet it takes to find a switch," she mutters dryly, shaking her head and trying to remember the way to the kitchen.
A few uselessly vast rooms later, she finds another with too much space and too little junk in it, but at least among all the polished countertops, this one has a stove.
The problem becomes the fridge. And not the kind she's used to.
That? Has plenty of stuff in it. Stuff she isn't sure is even edible and things she's only had on lucky hauls and heists.
Leave it to Hyperion to make food complicated.
Fiona eventually settles on something she's reasonably sure she doesn't need a five star chef to so much as stand near and lets it simmer on the stove. Pancakes aren't exactly top quality, but she's hungry. If Rhys is going to complain -- and there's a seventy-five percent chance he will on any given day -- he can fend for himself in the lawless jungle that is his overpriced refrigerator.
She's turning the half cooked batter, shuffling each to the next side, when she hears the echoing crash from somewhere down the hall. Followed by a heavy, fast set of footsteps.
A haphazardly dressed Rhys rounds the corner, still in the process of wrangling his tie around his neck, when he stops to stare at her. From what Fiona can tell from her place at the kitchen island, he seems to droop under the weight of his own relief.
"Uh. H-Hey," is his anticlimactic greeting. And Fiona tries not to let her thoughts linger on how small things like that, even after everything, have gone a long way to making her miss him. A lot.
"Hey yourself. What's with the rushing around? Thought you had the day off."
"Oh. That? Pfft-- That--"
Squirming. He's doing a lot of it. Fiona isn't going to help him one bit. Because even if she likes all the other stuff, she still likes this, too.
"Deep breaths. Count to ten or something. Then use your words."
The dryness in her voice is enough to unwind whatever small fit Rhys is having; he huffs a laugh instead.
"I thought I. Uh. That you had to go or something."
Or thought she'd already gone. The big sap.
She rolls her eyes. Has to. Sometimes, it feels too open, too bare, to stare right at him in the quiet moments, like he can pick a part each and every stray fragment of who she is. She wonders if there will be a day when it doesn't raise chills on her skin -- but not more than she wonders if it'll ever stop feeling like she's weightless, nothing more simple and complicated than just herself, in an apartment, with the dope who's seen her at her best, her worst, her everything.
Who's the sap, again?
She settles for turning over the pancakes instead of rolling her eyes.
"Haven't tossed myself out an airlock yet. Relax."
"Good, good. I mean, I'd have understood, but."
The voice stops and there's some movement she isn't aware of, until arms wrap around her waist. Or try to. It's more like her torso because he's tall and she's shoeless, losing another few inches to his six-foot-something. Somehow, he makes it work.
"Still glad you're here," he breathes into the crown of her hair.
"Locale leaves something to be desired, but the company grows on you."
"I mean, how much growth are we talking here? Enough for me to, I don't know..." And there's the flash of sleek metal fingers ("No longer mustard striped. Improvements all around," Fiona had said), reaching to pluck a piece of food from the skillet. They're parried away by the spatula.
"Okay, wow. My feelings could be hurt, but because I'm a nice guy and all, I'm gonna overlook that." Both arms up, Rhys backs away slowly.
"Suck it up, Hyperion. My pancakes, my rules."
And Fiona wonders if he'll argue about his fridge, his stuff, but he doesn't. Not so much as a word of it, like she just belongs there with all the expensive fodder and the glitz. Like she always has.
It's good thing there's distance because she might do something stupid again, like kiss his face, and then there would go the pancakes.
It's one of few times Fiona doesn't mind a knock at the door, even if Rhys seems a little more flustered.
"That's your cue. I'll hold down the capitalist fort. Go ahead."
The door is close enough that sound reaches through the rest of the apartment. Fiona catches excitement in someone's voice, confusion and hesitation in Rhys'. Really, that's about right for any day of the week. It still isn't his bosses raining down the wrath of HR on their heads, and that's where she's content to leave it.
With a few quick flips, the pancakes are stacked high on the plate, the flame turned off; Fiona doesn't quite make it as far as putting them down on the dining table before determined footsteps march in, not for the first time this morning. Not Rhys', though he soon shows up behind their guest.
"Uh. He-ey, Fiona. This is Yvette." His cheeks are an interesting shade of flustered; Fiona can't help but smirk. "My dear, sweet friend who would never in a million years make this awkward."
"I knew she was here," is all Yvette says. "You're obvious."
Then, a pleasant enough smile turns on Fiona, and she decides it's safe to set the food down after all.
"You don't even sound surprised," Fiona observes, reaching out to offer her hand. "Nice to meet you, by the way. Your name came up a lot, usually right around the time Genius One and Genius Two ruined something beyond all repair."
"That's any day ending in 'y.' They'd get lost between the copy machines and the printers if they didn't have ECHO reception."
"Tell me about it. Did they tell you about the day they were stranded in the Badlands?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Rhys begins to protest, subtly trying to use his height to break up the instant bonding. "You mean after the joyride that totally saved our lives from like, fifty rakk hives and even more moonshots. You remember that? 'Cause I remember that."
And that's exactly, when Fiona offers an opportunity Yvette to stay for breakfast, how the visit goes. The ladies talk, and Rhys sulks, his protests lost in laughter and looks that say they already know better. But behind the scowls and the exaggerated shakes of his head, Fiona catches the smiles, too, when he looks between the two of them getting along.
It kind of hits Fiona that, in a way, this is Rhys' little circle of family connecting with the last piece of the puzzle: the person who had silently rooted for them in shark infested waters, so to speak.
She makes sure to send Yvette off with the rest of the pancakes. After listening to Rhys rant, she's earned them.
"I like her," Yvette declares once she thinks she's out of earshot. What Rhys says in reply, before closing the door, is lost in the hum of the dishwater.
Fiona does her best to put some distance between the kitchen and herself and settles for the living room, namely the couch that's big enough to seat about five people.
Rhys finds her before long, where she half lounges and lazily flips through TV channels.
"What's with the look? You lived."
But it isn't that he looks particularly harrowed. It's that he's smiling -- soft, full, open -- and the nervous flutter it tugs at makes it hard to ignore.
The remote drops from her fingers in favor of folding her arms, an eyebrow raising. It isn't like him to do quiet. Not without a reason.
And the reason is an outstretched palm and a sweeping bow. "C'mon. Dance. Just one."
Fiona realizes there's music from the channel she stops on.
It's ridiculous.
And a little bit charming because of it.
Or a lot charming.
Fiona doesn't say no.
Her hand in his, she's on her feet; they sway to some half heard tune, a concert from the Edens and artists she's never heard of. Sasha would know them, but she isn't here. Wouldn't be happy about if she'd know Fiona is, either.
You went to Helios and danced? Seriously? Fiona could practically hear it.
She dances, anyway. Hazy, unhurried, letting her head tuck into the space beneath Rhys' chin, until it isn't really more than the reassuring weight of closeness and warmth.
It feels more like a promise.
Fiona used to tell herself she wasn't ready for promises, for anything she couldn't see with her own eyes and touch with her own hands. And some days, that urge to turn around and never look back is still there. Old habits, older scars, the space between alive and dead on a dusty backwater planet.
But she learns to be ready for them. She learns to read it in a stolen kiss, the brush of a hand against hers, the gazes that linger too long, the lips pressed against her hair.
She learns to read it in the sincere pleas for her to stay for a while.
Promises like these? Fiona could get used to them.
"And you're like a million miles away now."
At that, she tips her head back. "Funny, 'cause it feels like I'm right here."
As if to test her on that, Rhys twirls her once and follows with a dip.
And like that, they're both crashing to the floor when he lets her slip.
The stupidly expenisve, plush carpet softens the fall. All she can do is laugh.
Yeah, still ridiculous.
"Nice one, Romeo. How about you hang up your dancing shoes and call it a day?"
It's good carpet, and standing takes an energy, a distance, neither of them quite want yet.
"That, uh... wasn't what I was going for," Rhys says, not looking nearly as sorry as he should be. Fiona soon understands why. "You could still say I swept you off your feet."
"Unbelievable." She scoffs, moving to roll away, only to find his arms locked around her and dragging her back in. She could wriggle free if she wants to; she doesn't. "The only things dazzling about your moves are your dumb socks."
Rhys carries on, all feigned obliviousness. "No, no. Got carried away, even."
Her palm slides not so subtly over his mouth. "Stop talking."
Rhys is smiling, the shape of it warm and soft against the back of her hand.
Better covered by her mouth on his, and Fiona never skips out on a good deal.
He senses the change as she does, leans up to meet her, the gentle flutter of cool fingers tilting her face against his. She tastes mint and syrup and sincerity, and she's never known what to do with the last, bumbled her way through it before, but she's willing to learn to handle that, too.