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0.
Gideon couldn't remember ever seeing Harrow in a color other than black.
That's not true - there were shades of gray and darker gray, and the occasional deeply rusted blood brown. But this was only apparent on the close inspection available to them growing up in each other's pockets. Harrow always got the nicest black shrouds that came through the church's thrift store; Gideon was left with mostly oversize basketball shorts and t-shirts. Not that she minded. Wearing the dark Drearburh uniform was as abhorrent to her as anything, but it was always a harsh reminder that Harrow was favored and treasured as much as the vile nuns were capable of. Gideon was an afterthought.
When Gideon got out from under the thumb of the cult/church/whatever the fuck, she didn't immediately put much thought to her clothes. She was sleeping on Aiglamene's couch and spending most of her money earned from the job at the moving company on food or saving for her own place. It was Camilla, from Aiglamene's martial arts gym, who carefully asked why she'd been wearing the same outfit to class for two weeks.
"It's not even that it's gross—"
"Gee, thanks."
"—you don’t smell worse than normal, post-workout. But. Do you need clothes?"
"I guess I hadn't thought about it?"
Cam gave a curt nod. "Are you working tomorrow?"
Cam took her to a thrift store (not run by a cult church! Miracle of miracles!) and helped her pick out some sweatpants and tank tops and hoodies. Functional, flexible, comfortable. It was one of the first things that made Gideon really feel at home out in the real world.
"What about this one," Cam said, holding up a black tank.
"No way." Gideon flipped through a few more shirts. She picked one out and grinned.
"Oh, gross." But she didn't stop Gideon from buying the blue shirt proclaiming, "I FLEXED AND THE SLEEVES FELL OFF." She even tried not to make a face when Gideon wore it.
Gideon didn't really know how to thank Camilla, other than going hard at sparring for two hours. If she'd let her win, that would've been an insult, but Camilla took two out of three matches anyway. Aiglamene, watching them fight, said, "Thank god you've gotten out of those baggy shorts, I was always worried you'd get pantsed." And that was that.
I.
Gideon had Harrow out for a month or so — no small task, to go back, to coax her out, to convince her that as much as they might've fought since they knew how to throw weak little punches, no one deserved to live in a cult — no small task for Gideon to convince herself of that — when she realized Harrow faced the same problem.
In her first few weeks of the real world Harrow had barely left the apartment. She claimed this was in protest at the separation from her beloved tomb and its contents, but Gideon could tell she was scared shitless. The sirens and the crosswalks and the supermarket lights were a far cry from the church basement. Gideon remembered the adjustment and she tried to have sympathy. Harrow fucking sucked sometimes, though. She sucked when she refused to wash her church garments that still smelled like incense, she sucked when she insisted on the intercession before picking at her boxed mac n cheese, and she really sucked when she begged Gideon, only once, to go back.
"The real world is no place for me, Griddle, please— I can't— I'm a horror, an abomination, all I was ever good for is reading scriptures in that pulpit and I can't, I can't be— please don't expect this of me— please, please take me back and I'll rot there and you can forget me—"
Gideon held her to keep them both from violence and, when all the energy had gone out of Harrow, she placed an awkward kiss right between her eyes.
"No takesies backsies, Harrow. We’re gonna do this, but we have to do it together. This is all we've got." It was weird and embarrassing for both of them. It was also true. What more did they have than each other? This close, Gideon could feel Harrow's crusty vestal garments. Each other, and an extremely meager wardrobe.
"But you need to get some different fucking clothes." Gideon did not have Camilla's tact.
"Mhmhph," Harrow said, shocked and offended.
They went to the same place Cam had taken Gideon.
"You'll love it. It's just like the church store but they don't shove pamphlets at you." Harrow screwed up her face and looked ready to defend the accursed pamphlets, many of which she had written. She stopped as they entered and were immediately greeted by a spring display of short shorts and pink mesh.
Harrow's eyes widened and she made, quickly, to turn around and run right out of there.
"Griddle, I cannot—"
Gideon caught her. "Don't freak, my sepulchral mistress, it's not all like this. Let's go look at the shirts."
Gideon led her to the t-shirts, which seemed like a relatively neutral starting point. Harrow still wrinkled in distaste at the band graphics and slogans, but she pulled out a soft black cotton number and held it, almost tenderly.
Gideon waited, but Harrow just looked at her impatiently, her eyebrows asking, now what? Gideon decided to fight the battle of "you need more than one shirt, doofus," another day. She led her over to the pants, which only resulted in a look of consternation from Harrow.
"I've never. Worn pants," she said haltingly.
Right. Duh. Gideon knew that.
"Okay. Uh. Probably best not to wade in waist deep right away, huh?"
Harrow looked at her.
"Get it? Waist deep? Ha ha?" She tugged at a pair of pants.
"I don't appreciate you making light of what the nuns forced upon me, Griddle." Harrow stalked away.
Wait. Forced? Now that Gideon did not know. She blinked away the confusion and realized Harrow had gotten to the end of the row and then stopped, unsure of where she was going. As Gideon caught up to her, she spotted the SKIRTS sign above another row and headed for it.
II.
Flicking through the hangers, Harrow was severely shocked by the length and color of most skirts on offer. She was raised to dress modestly. She liked her black shrouds and draped garments; they felt like a safe cocoon, even out on these frustratingly crowded streets. But as the smell and feel of the nun's chosen garb clashed with her new surroundings, she was starting to feel — not stifled. But out of place in a way that made her deathly uncomfortable. When she'd met Gideon's new friend Camilla, and her roommate, Palamedes, their sympathetic curiosity had felt all too much like pity.
"There must be some clothing on this earth, Griddle, that is neither garishly colored nor two inches long. I mean, really, this is my divine flesh— am I meant to bare it to the world—"
"Okay. Okay. I know I'm not a deprogrammer but we did set one rule, right?"
Harrow rolled her eyes. "No cult bull—. Well. Bullshit." She whispered this last word. Gideon looked delighted. Yes, even Harrow could admit there was some measure of joy in being able to curse and roll her eyes without fear of the nuns looking at her like their sun had burnt out. Still! Was she expected to suddenly be comfortable baring all like some —
Gideon had produced a long black skirt with tiers of ruffles and eyelet embroidery. She raised her eyebrows. Harrow took it, reluctantly, and draped it over her arm with the t-shirt.
In the end, they also found a long sleeve shirt and a cardigan. It came to twelve dollars at the register and Gideon paid, once again reminding Harrow, with the brute force of her kindness, of all that she owed Gideon. The debt continued to grow and grow, crushing Harrow beneath it.
On the way out of the store, Harrow grabbed a sheet of paper from a kiosk — a job application.
III.
Working at the thrift store was equal parts horror and excitement. Harrow was pretty sure she'd been hired as some sort of sick experiment — the girl in the interview had asked more questions about the Locked Tomb and the nuns than any of her skills — but she enjoyed the work. She liked the early shift, folding and hanging things before many customers arrived, especially because she could subtly shift the revealing clothing to the back. Gideon had made her promise not to proselytize, but subtle encouragement towards respectful choices seemed within the bounds of acceptability.
Her coworkers were shocking in their own right — Isaac, who couldn't have been older than fourteen, but had ears filled with metal, and Marta, a severe woman who ran the small thrift store like a military operation. Neither was worse than Ianthe, who wore dresses that practically slipped off her and constantly tried to provoke Harrow.
"Harry, would you help me shelve these shoes? Oh wait — you're probably too short to reach."
"Hey, Harry, could you grab that bra set? The one with the lace?"
"Ooh, you'd look so good in this, Harry — the slit up the leg is so you, no?"
Harrow burned, very conscious of her bare face showing the blush. She had expected to miss the sacramental paint least of all, but she had never realized how it deftly hid her expressions. Gideon often stared when she made a face, surely disgusted by Harrow's sharp features and frustratingly persistent acne.
Still, the store had perks. When she worked inventory, she got to take a first look at new items. Marta let her take a few things before they even went on the floor, often because she suspected they wouldn't sell anyway.
In this way, Harrow slowly built her wardrobe. She picked up a gray tweed blazer that fit her like an overcoat, and a few button down shirts with interesting ruffles or voluminous sleeves. Her first pair of pants was a pair of black slacks. They moved almost like a skirt, but the feel of fabric between her legs was — new, but not unpleasant. The fabric was pebbled and lightweight, and tickled her leg hair. It was nice not to worry about fabric getting caught on every rack's sharp corners.
When Harrow came home — back to their apartment — home, wearing a dark green pullover, Gideon stood dumbstruck in the kitchen.
"What, Griddle? Your eggs are going to burn."
Gideon closed her mouth. She looked at the eggs, which were fine.
"It's just — I've never seen you wear. A color."
"Don't be ridiculous, Griddle." She stomped off, but then circled back moments later for a glass of water. "If it's so abhorrent, I'll take it back tomorrow. Marta didn't even want me to—"
"No! No. You know I love when you do something that nunlet Harrow would hate. It looks— it looks good on you." It was Harrow's turn to stare at Gideon, standing in their kitchen wearing a sleeveless tank top the color of a caution sign, complimenting Harrow. Something her past self would hate, indeed.
IV.
In her Reverend Daughter finery, Harrow had only ever seemed cruel and sneering. Even wandering the depths of Drearbuhr in the off hours, drooping nightgown dragging on the ground, Gideon always thought she just looked cold and tiny. But now, months out of the dark and dressed in the discards of the thrift store, Harrow looked kind of... hot?
It wasn't just that she had started dressing in clothes that weren't eighty years old and cobwebby. It was that she moved with more confidence, less hunched-over-a-rosary-ness. She showed off new finds from the thrift store by twirling and posing a bit, and one time she thrust a hand right in Gideon's face to show off a few new rings. Gideon, not knowing how to react, had held her hand quite gently, looking at the large skull on her tiny index finger and the jointed row of bands on her ring finger. It was only after Harrow moved away that Gideon realized it was the first time they'd touched without either of them being violently upset.
The new clothes themselves were also... distracting. Harrow had found a few pairs of pants she liked, even some black skinny jeans. As much as it shocked her, Gideon could not keep her eyes off Harrow's tight little calves. She'd gone with her coworker Isaac to pierce her ears, and then gone again, and again, saving up paychecks months at a time. The glints of metal caught the light, drawing Gideon's gaze to Harrow's face and neck in the sunlight. Even as the days got colder and Harrow started to bundle up, Gideon found the sight of her wrapped in a blanket scarf irresistibly cute.
Harrow was also proving to be quite generous. Well, generous in a way entirely befitting her. Once she figured out her own style, she thought she had everyone else pegged as well. And she did have a good eye — she handed off a loose and cozy gray cardigan to Palamedes when they were all out eating tacos one afternoon, unable to look him in the eye. The next time they saw him, he was wearing it, and Cam informed them he'd hardly taken it off. Gideon caught Harrow's private smile. Regularly, Gideon would come home to find a neatly folded piece of athletic wear or a funny t-shirt or, once, a crisp and simple maroon button down. She'd put on weight now that she had regular access to food and a gym, and Harrow's picks always fit her perfectly. Gideon tried not to read too much into that. The button down stretched over her biceps in a way she thought looked very appealing — but that couldn't have been Harrow's intention. Could it?
Gideon nervously pretended this all meant nothing. There were plenty of beautiful women out here in the real world, and Gideon was constantly noticing them. Why is noticing Harrow any different?
Well. Because it absolutely, definitely, completely is.
Harrow, this new Harrow, out in the real world, ate food (however reluctantly) that wasn't gruel. She feigned disgust at every movie Gideon suggested, but still sat through them, transfixed by the rich colors and insane plots. She discussed Palamedes' medical studies with him, and even seemed interested in an academic future herself. And she wore clothes – a corset over a Tshirt over a long sleeve shirt, or two skirts of different lengths layered, or a button down that she'd vivisected and reattached to another half-shirt. Always a baffling, curious combination, always surprising Gideon when she came out of her room in the morning.
Everything Harrow did and said and wore served as a reminder that she was no longer the merciless death-obsessed Reverend Daughter. She was just a death-obsessed regular girl, and it was this that made Gideon realize her fascination was not benign. Of course fixating on Harrow made sense when they were the only two non-geriatric members of a death cult. But as Gideon's obsession persisted, she had to acknowledge that it was more than that.
V.
Harrow had never hated how the nuns dressed her. It had been part of life, part of being heralded as the future of Drearburh, part of being the keeper of the tomb. But she had never liked it either.
Now getting dressed is her favorite part of the day. This new ritual helps with ignoring the pull of habit to kneel and pray upon waking. The closet is full to bursting (Gideon, getting a glimpse through her door, exclaiming "How the fuck—") and there's more clothes strewn on the floor. The mess is liberating. It feels like a nest. It looks like her.
The fabric is still mostly black, but there's some dark greens and reds, and she's discovered she likes white and gleaming silver for contrast. Standing usually starts with one thing — a shirt she just got, or a skirt she hasn't worn in a while — and builds the outfit around that. Searching for contrast, for complementary textures, and always, always, for layers. The ensconcement is one thing she can't really shake. Even on the hottest days, when Gideon, in tiny gym shorts and a sports bra, looked on dubiously, she still wore a long sleeved mesh shirt under her tank top with the skull print. It was still more than she ever would’ve bared a year ago.
For Harrow, this slow evolution was easiest when it happened internally, and most frustrating when someone else decided to weigh in. The reminder that others were witnessing her mistakes and growth irked her beyond belief. Gideon, the most skilled interpreter of the complex mess of signals she put out, was mostly able to make jokes without hitting a nerve. Palamedes seemed to have figured it out through some measure of trial and error, and Camilla was unlikely to make personal remarks in the first place. There was only one real problem. Ianthe never left her choices alone, constantly trying to bring that blush up again or otherwise provoke Harrow.
"When are you going to grow out that monk cut, Harry?" They were both on register, and it was quiet in the mid-afternoon.
"As ever, your misguided aesthetic advice is unwanted."
"I'm just saying. It looks like there's a bit of curl there; could be really cute."
"I am not now nor will I ever be endeavoring to look cute, Ianthe," Harrow sneered.
Ianthe just rolled her eyes. "You know, Harry, you can't help that you're pretty. People are going to look. You might as well not have a complex about it." Before she could splutter a response to this, Ianthe was slinking away to rearrange the dress rack.
That evening, Harrow had stood in front of the bathroom mirror and studied her own face. Her black eyes and pointed chin and perpetual sneer certainly did not add up to pretty. But she liked the divot above her lip, and her dark eyelashes. She knew from the fashion magazines that Marta kept at the front of the shop that her thinness was a valuable currency in contemporary fashion. But then, she wasn't tall, or voluptuous like the girls Gideon always commented on in movies.
It was true she wasn't particularly interested in being pretty. What was she interested in being? Not sultry like Ianthe, or edgy like Isaac. Not butch like Marta and Gideon, or minimalist like Camilla and Palamedes.
Occasionally, someone would come into the shop wearing a mismatch of textures and colors that should never work, but they walked with such confidence... That was closer. As much as she was loath to admit it, Harrow missed the intimidation she achieved as Reverend Daughter. She had felt so tiny and overwhelmed her first months in this world. Probably even the most outrageous outfit could not command such religious awe, but it certainly seemed to keep people from talking to her.
Gideon pounded on the door. She'd probably been in here for half an hour.
"If you're dead, I'm breaking down this door and I'm gonna be so mad at you. If you're not dead, I have to shit."
Harrow opened the door. She realized, belatedly, she had shed a few tears, and she rubbed at her eye with a sleeve.
"Oh, fuck." Gideon put her hands on Harrow's shoulders. "Is this an urgent problem? Can it wait till after I shit? Be honest with me."
Harrow resisted the urge to respond cruelly. "It can wait," she said, shrugging Gideon's hands off.
"Okay. I'll be back in a jif." Gideon ruffled her hair (indignity of indignities, worse that it felt nice) and moved around her into the bathroom. Blessedly, she closed the door behind her.
Harrow went to sit on the couch. What to do now? It seemed unthinkable that she'd share her thoughts with Gideon; she wouldn't even know where to start. What a mistake to have been vulnerable, to have implicated Gideon like this. In her frustratingly persistent way, Gideon had broken down Harrow's defenses, with little touches as they passed in the hallway and asking after her day and making sure she'd eaten dinner. And it's not that Harrow didn't want — all this and more. Once, she'd thought herself capable only of loving the body within the tomb, the cold and unmoving corpse she was born to watch over. Fulfilling that destiny had been sure and comforting, in its way. But this felt different. Warmer, and terrifyingly real, and possibly returned. That was the horror — that Gideon, after being trod upon and tortured and forced to care for Harrow these long months, might have developed some misguided affection for her. It was more than she would ever deserve, and she had no idea how to refuse it without smashing Gideon's heart once again.
Gideon exited the bathroom shaking water off her hands. She dropped onto the couch next to Harrow and put one arm casually up on the back behind her. Harrow held her hunched pose, cautious of leaning back into that arm.
VI.
Rather than ask, Gideon waited. She knew Harrow would shy away from a direct question, and she could outlast a staring contest with the best of them, but Gideon had learned that a gentle silence would eventually coax truth out of her. Sure enough, after a second, Harrow pursed her lips.
"Ianthe said something today—"
"That slimy bitch? I told you she has rancid vibes." So much for gentle silence. Oops.
Harrow, ever the contrarian, just rolled her eyes. "Vibes aside, she actually gave me a compliment. I think."
Gideon's eyes widened. "Did she— did she hit on you? Harrow?"
Harrow shook her head minutely. "At least, I don't think so— I don't know if I'd be able to tell."
At this, Gideon had to choke down a surprised gasp, or laugh, or other unquantifiable noise of surprise. Harrow definitely wouldn't be able to tell, because Gideon had been trying for months and she'd never even noticed.
Harrow continued, "She said I was— pretty, but in such a way that implied I should already be aware of it. I was not aware, and I still don't entirely agree with the premise, and in the bathroom I was— considering— what it is that she might have been referring to." She looked away, evidently finished, and sat very still.
"Harrow, you are pretty."
Harrow looked at Gideon. "But I don't think I want to be," she said.
Oh. Oh. Very carefully, Gideon said, "Is there something you do want to be?"
"That's what I was thinking about in the bathroom. I think I want to be scary. Or, when people look at me, I want them to know I don't want to talk to them. Or... impressed, maybe. Intimidated."
Gideon smiled. "Well, you scared the shit out of me for seventeen years, so I think that’s probably doable.”
Harrow made a tiny and anguished sound. “How can that be true when you’re still here? If— I mean.” She looked at Gideon helplessly. “If I had truly scared you, why do you— care for me so?”
Ouch. “Give me a little credit, Harrow. I can deadlift you, the skull makeup only went so far.” She tried valiantly to bite this back: “And if you don’t want me here—”
“No!” Harrow cried, surprising both of them. She put her head in her hands and, very quietly, said, “You’re the one person I wish I didn’t terrify. If I could take it all back—”
Gideon sensed that they were no longer talking about Harrow’s outfits.
“You saved my life, Gideon. I owe you everything, every bit of my life, and yet all I’ve ever done is treat you horribly. Other people— they cannot be allowed so close— but you I can barely stand to let out of my sight. I wish I could; perhaps then I could start to allow some of this monumental debt to wane. As it is, I will be in your service until— forever. Or as long as I can keep you in my clutches.”
Gideon had no response to this but to gather Harrow’s tiny frame into her arms. Harrow pressed her face into Gideon’s shoulder, and sobbed a bit. Gideon tried to put together the pieces of what she had just said.
Gently, with one hand on the back of her head, Gideon lifted Harrow to look her in the face. Slowly, she said, “Harrow, I love you. I am in love with you. I have been for I don’t know how long.” Harrow hiccupped miserably, but Gideon continued, “I love that you’re scary. I love that you wear three shirts at once and have a closet that looks like a fire hazard. And I think you love that. And I think, I think you love me too.” Harrow sort of wailed, or groaned, or made an otherwise indistinguishable noise.
“I do, of course I love you, of course I do, but—”
“What but? No but!”
“But you were my subservient, my victim, I aided and abetted your endless suffering—”
“Right, okay, and now we split rent on this shitty apartment. Harrow, the sins of our past are for working through in therapy we will one day be able to afford. The sins of our future are a privilege we can enjoy together. It’s not that I’m forgiving you, and it’s not that you owe me some debt. It’s that there’s no one fucking else that I want close to me either. Just you and me. Tomb to tomb, sweetheart.”
They kissed indelicately and without skill, neither of them having done it before. After a moment, they separated, foreheads pressed together, Harrow still heaving little sobs.
Gideon’s hands rested in Harrow’s hair and on her waist, comfortable. “You know, I like being scary too. I don’t want random dudes telling me shit about my form on weights. Why do you think I wear those aviators all the time?” Harrow shook out a laugh. “Maybe for Halloween we can dress as pretty princesses. I think that would really freak Cam and Pal out.”
Harrow wrapped herself around Gideon and pressed her face again into her clavicle. “Over my dead body will I wear anything pink.”