Work Text:
A drizzle turns into a downpour; a downpour turns into a storm; a storm turns into a tempest. They don’t notice it—not really, not until the power flickers out.
Trucy is the first to react. She gasps, eyes shining in a pair of headlights as they pass by. The sound is barely out of her mouth when she leaps to her feet, head whipping around to face Apollo: “Candles? Tell me you have candles.”
“Yes, I have candles,” Apollo sighs, taking it in stride. Klavier is still blinking—adjusting to both the light and the commotion. “They’re on the bookshelf.”
“Seems a little unsafe,” Trucy drawls as she pivots to find them.
“I don't light them there,” Apollo huffs. “I have some common sense, you know.”
Trucy makes some vague sound of acknowledgement—not affirmation, not really—as she kneels by Apollo's bookshelf, popping the candles open one by one, taking a deep inhale of each. Evidently one satisfies her, because she whirls back around, and—
“Matches are in the kitchen drawer,” Apollo tells her wryly. Trucy traipses right over—then there’s that telltale scratch of a matchbox—and—
“Voila,” Trucy chimes, candlelight flickering over her face. She’s smiling. Keeps smiling even as she settles back in her chair, depositing the candle on the coffee table.
“So,” she continues, stretching out the word, when there’s a beat of silence. She’s grinning ear-to-ear, now, chin resting in her hands. “We gotta make the most of this, right? Right?”
“What?” Apollo glances sidelong at her.
“Oh, come on, Polly,” Trucy whines. “Where’s your common sense now, huh?”
Apollo elbows Klavier in the side. In a stage-whisper, she asks, “Do you have any idea what she's talking about?”
Maybe. Though if Klavier knows Trucy from a stranger on the street—“Ach, have you never known the magic of a girl’s night?”
“Bingo!” Trucy chimes. “I mean, we were kind of having one already, but isn’t it so much cooler when the power’s out, and—”
“It is,” Klavier agrees.
At the same time, Apollo quirks an eyebrow, and says, “Is it?”
Trucy huffs. Klavier rises to her defense, of course: “There’s no accounting for taste, is there?”
Apollo’s mouth twists into a frown—she’s holding back a laugh. “Okay, I’ll bite. What are we doing for this, uh, girl’s night?”
“Well,” Trucy drawls, pressing a finger to her chin in thought, “in the movies, they always braid each other’s hair, gossip, that kind of thing!”
“That sounds kind of trashy,” Apollo mutters, but that laugh escapes, now. It quivers through her voice. She sounds happy.
Klavier waves her hand dismissively. “We all have our vices, nein?”
“Some more than others.”
“Apollo,” Trucy gasps in faux-offense, pressing her hand to her chest. “Well, if you’re going to act like that, I don’t think I want to braid your hair!”
“I don't think there’s enough to braid in the first place.”
“It’s the spirit of it,” Trucy sniffs. Then, all sing-song: “Klavier, c’mere!”
A smile tugs at Klavier’s lips. She stands up from the couch, shooting a haughty look at Apollo, and sits between Trucy’s feet. Apollo watches Klavier with her own smile—a tiny thing, no scorn to it. Klavier meets her eyes, matching it.
Trucy makes a thoughtful noise as she runs her fingers through Klavier’s hair. She divides it into three sections, roughly equal. Klavier finds herself leaning back into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. There’s a visceral comfort to it—especially when Trucy starts humming something soft and sweet under her breath.
“This is some hot gossip,” Apollo quips. Klavier opens her eyes just enough to see Apollo leaning back against the couch. There’s an ease to her form, too, that Klavier rarely sees.
“Are you offering?” Klavier returns.
“I think she is,” Trucy chimes.
Apollo sputters. Klavier’s eyes slide shut again as Trucy evens out the sections of her hair. “Well, uh—”
“You've gotta have something, Polly, God.” Klavier can hear the eyeroll in Trucy’s voice.
“It’s hard when you’re put on the spot!” Apollo hisses. “Well, what about—what about the intern that applied to the Agency?”
“Really? That’s the best you can do?” Trucy sniffs. She’s starting to work Klavier’s hair into a braid, now—one over the other over the other. Not too tight—a little too loose, maybe. It’s nice.
Klavier doesn’t feel the need to speak.
“It’s what I have,” Apollo mutters.
“It’s literally just a work update,” Trucy retorts. “That we all already knew, by the way. Give us something juicier, will you?”
“Um.” A second of silence, then two, then three. “Well, you know that clerk that’s always giving us trouble?” Trucy makes a vaguely affirmative noise. “I haven’t seen him in a while. I thought he might just be on vacation, but when I checked the contact list the other day, his email wasn’t there.”
“You think he got fired?” Trucy’s voice is hushed—fraught with barely contained glee.
“I mean,” Apollo starts, a touch defensive, “I haven’t seen anything either way, but it’s not like he could do his job—”
“Totally got fired,” Trucy interrupts sagely. “About time.”
“Trucy,” Apollo mutters—a warning.
“What color hair tie do you want?” Trucy asks Klavier instead, completely ignoring Apollo. Oh—she’s done already.
“Mmm. What do you have?”
“Anything your heart desires,” Trucy sing-songs.
“Might I trouble you for purple, then?”
“No trouble at all,” Trucy returns, gently standing and stepping to the side. She disappears into the entryway—probably to rummage around in her handbag.
“You look happy,” Apollo murmurs, voice barely a breath. A touch stilted—like she’s afraid to acknowledge it. Like it may slip away if she does.
Klavier blinks her eyes open. Twirls the end of the braid around her finger. The candlelight flickers about Apollo’s face like she might be a mirage. She’s beautiful.
Klavier hums in agreement. Nothing more needs to be said, not really.