Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It’s hard not to be curious. It’s so natural for her, flipping each page of her thoughts to the next mysterious thing that will hold her mind. She wants to sink her fingers into it. To understand it, to know. 

Ina finds her concerning. 

“You’re not bad.” Ina reassures good naturedly, as if worried such a thing would offend her. She’s smiling meekly. “I just think we look at magic differently.”

“Oh really?” Shiori asks. She glances at the book floating by Ina’s head. Ina, right now, doesn’t look like the holder of an Ancient being. She’s got her hoodie on and her hood up, curled up comfortably in her chair with a drawing tablet tucked between her knees and her chest. There’s a tiny purple pillow cushioning her back. It feels domestic and kind. 

Shiori continues, “How would you describe magic?”

“Long.” Ina says. “Kinda stretchy? It feels like if I stretch my hand it’ll just keep going. Without something to touch, like walls or something, I think how much there is… that’s a lot. For me, I guess.”

Shiori can’t help but smile. It feels knifelike over her face, “I’m not a huge fan of walls around me.”

Ina’s flaps twitch under her hood, “I imagine so, yeah. Does it… feel bad for you?”

Shiori glances up at the ceiling. It’s purple, softer violet that fades down to navy blue along the walls. It feels like twilight in the night sky. Hand painted by Ina herself. Purple runes dance along the corners, etched there in ink. The glow is bright. Comforting. 

“It feels like a piece of paper to me.” Shiori explains. “It’s kind of slimy, like old books that have been left out too long. I can feel how old some ley lines are. The newer ones kind of smell like laundry detergent.”

Ina laughs at that, “Okay, we have wildly different opinions on that.”

“What’s it smell like to you?”

“Freshly baked cookies.”

That makes Shiori laugh, delighted by the absurdity of that, “Have you ever cursed someone and it smells like that?”

“I don’t curse people.” Ina huffs. “I can make cookies in an oven like a normal person.”

“Aw c’mon, let's summon cookies together, bestie.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna taste good.”

They grin at each other. Ina asks, “Do you think it just feels old because you’re pretty old?”

“Wow, after my age now? What’s next, my complexion?”

“Oh, my bad.” Ina says, without sounding very sorry. 

Shiori closes her eyes. She feels happy, laying on Ina’s bed and here, here. Deep in the earth beneath them, not close- not far- but it’s there. There’s Ancient monsters in this world. She knows too much about it to feel like everyday is the next day and not, maybe, her last.

“I don’t feel old.” Shiori says. “I feel full. Does that make sense?”

“When you know so much you’re not hungry?” Ina asks. 

“I’m always hungry. I’m thinking about chicken fries right now, actually.” Shiori snorts at her own jokes, continuing, “I’m hungry, but I’m full, so it feels like a constant tummy ache all over my body.”

Ina smiles over at her, “Do you need someone to rub your tummy?”

“Oh my.” Shiori drawls. It can’t stay heavy around Ina, not when she feels giddy and alive. “Well, if you’re offering…”

“You’re too far away.” Ina laments. She’s pointedly grabbing her pen and going back to drawing. “Guess you’ll just have to suffer.”

“She’s a cruel mistress.” Shiori says. 

“Priestess.” Ina says. 

“Woman.” Shiori says. 

Ina flicks her pen at her. Shiori catches it with her teeth, fails, and ends up getting hit in the forehead. Ina laughs brightly, rolling her chair over to fetch her pen. Shiori holds it away from her teasingly. 

“Give me what you owe me.” Shiori sings. 

Ina jabs her in the ribs. Shiori squeaks. Ina’s mischief has her fumbling, dropping the pen to the floor. Ina doesn’t mind it. She’s more focused on messing Shiori’s hair up irreparably with head pats. 

“Tummy ache, tummy ache,” Ina sings, “Go away.”

“My tummy is not in my head.” Shiori protests.

“I’m sure your brain is plenty hungry too.”

“Fair.” 

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Elizabeth thinks if her job were easy, she wouldn’t be haunted by people who have no business being in her personal space. She’s on a job. Justice doesn’t make its money easily and aside from tracking down the members of Advent, she must stretch her usefulness to other avenues. Raora draws commissions. Cecilia cleans, sometimes. Gigi is Gigi. 

Thus, she accepts the kind of jobs that have her in a red dress, a glamorous gemstone mask over her eyes to hide very little of her appearance. She’d gone the extra mile to blend in to this part. Her hair is tied into a side bun, curled down over her shoulder from it in a way she definitely didn’t spend an hour doing. Nor an extra hour on makeup. Nor another hour picking a fitting dress for this. It’s a serious job and she’s just acting the part. 

The demon hovering beside her doesn’t understand what a masquerade is or hadn’t put nearly as much effort into it. She’s wearing her customary black and her ‘mask’ is just a pair of sunglasses that make her look horribly hungover. 

“If you’re here to make a fool of me-” Elizabeth begins hotly. 

Nerissa, for all the world, is having the time of her life examining her wine glass, “Well, I come all the way out here to give you some company and this is how you thank me?”

“If I was not currently on the job, I’d be hunting you.”

“That’s why I’m here, darling.” Nerissa drawls. “It’s like a free pass. Is that fruit punch?”

“Don’t drink that.” Elizabeth says, instinct practically taking over her mouth before her brain. She stops and then adds lamely, “Actually, go ahead, why not? Have the punch.”

Nerissa tilts her head. Elizabeth can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but the feeling of being scrutinized is unmistakable, “There’s something wrong with the fruit punch bowl, isn’t there?”

“No.” Elizabeth says. 

“Alright, I can play a guessing game.” Nerissa says. “Did someone pee in it?”

“Why is that your first guess?”

Nerissa hums dismissively, “No, it’s definitely poisoned isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Why else would you be here?”

Elizabeth scoffs. The demon is invading her personal space again, draping an arm around her shoulder like they’re good friends. Elizabeth stays incredibly still. She’s professional. 

Nerissa leans her chin on her shoulder, catlike, her sunglasses dropping low to show the red of her eyes, “Heya.”

“Kindly, remove your hand.” Elizabeth says. 

“There’s music, there’s dancing, there’s poison in the air.” Nerissa sings. “Hey, there’s dancing! We should dance.”

Elizabeth laughs at that. Absurd! “No, no, I don’t think I will.”

“C’mon. I’ll drink the punch if you dance with me.”

“What a tempting offer.” Elizabeth drawls. “Perhaps you can drink the punch and I’ll stand a safe distance over here while you expire.”

Nerissa gasps under her breath, her lips tilting upwards, “So it is poisoned.” 

“Hand.” Elizabeth says pointedly. “Off.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nerissa exhales. She takes her arm away with a lonesome stretch. “Ah. If I go and request your favorite song, will you dance?”

“You don’t know my favorite song.” 

“I’ll request every song in the world until I get it right.” Nerissa claims. “The night is young. I’ve got time.”

“That’s your time, not mine.”

“It could be our time.” Nerissa wiggles her shoulder suggestively. It looks silly instead of flirty. Elizabeth cracks a dry smile. Nerissa takes it as a victory, preening. “Yes, I know exactly what to request. Wait right here.”

“Right.” Elizabeth says. She watches the demon’s journey across the ballroom. She fades in and out of the shadow of the crowd, a natural specter. Elizabeth loses her twice before spotting her where the band is, leaning forward onto the stage to grab the singer's attention. There’s a great deal of confusion over their faces. Nerissa isn’t drunk, but she certainly looks like it. 

The band backs away. Nerissa leaves, but she doesn’t look downtrodden. Elizabeth finds out why when she hears I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want- 

Elizabeth laughs, muffling the sound behind her head. It doesn’t escape her demon, who swoops to her side with a mischievous smile. 

“This is not my favorite.” Elizabeth says, unable to hide her smile. 

“No.” Nerissa agrees, satisfied. “But I do like it when you laugh, so that's enough for me.”

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Amelia has a natural habit of picking up hobbies. Sometimes, they’re one day hobbies. Other times, it’s one week hobbies. Some stick around for a long time. Moss collecting is at its peak. She made an entire documentary on sounds monkeys make just to put off doing a cold case she was unenthusiastic about. Life grabs her at the throat and throws her like a ragdoll into the next thing she wants to do. 

And sometimes, Gura joins her on these weird hobbies, trotting by her side with a wry smirk. What’s on the agenda today, Watson?

“Bird watching.” Amelia says. She’s got a picture book laid out on her desk of all the local birds. “I wanna see a black-crowned heron.”

“Why?” Gura asks owlishly. 

“Look.” Amelia holds up a picture. “Isn’t it cute?”

It’s a black and white bird that hunches over, its wide beady eyes making it look like it’s constantly being hunted. Gura smirks as she takes the picture, “It kind of looks deranged.”

Amelia scoffs, “It’s cute!”

“Would you go shark watching if you could?”

“Like, on a boat?” 

“Yeah, with me.” 

Amelia doesn’t miss the opportunity for a joke. It’s way too obvious of a joke though, so she says, “Nah, I’ve smelled enough fish in my life. I’m good.”

Gura sputters. Even hours later, when they’re knee deep into forest brush wearing comical camouflage hats, she’s still offended over it. 

“I don’t smell.” Gura whispers, picking leaves off a stick while Amelia tries to figure out why a camera was invented. She’s turning it upside and forward again but it’s always blurry. “I smell like a lady.”

“Ladies can be stinky.” Amelia says back, just as quietly. “Can you use that shark nose to sniff out some birds?”

“Is that all I’m good for?”

“Every king needs a court jester.” Amelia says solemnly. 

Gura swats her with her stick. Overhead, there’s rustling, and Amelia takes a picture of a bunch of leaves. She gets nothing worthwhile in the shot but the top of Gura’s head smeared on the bottom of it. 

Gura says, “Aw yeah, sick bird, Watson. I hope it's alive.”

“Fuck you.” Amelia grins, adjusting the settings. “Ugh, this thing isn’t working at all.”

“Did it come with a manual?”

“Yeah, I forgot about it.”

Gura snorts. Amelia shoves her shoulder, which ends up with her receiving retaliation in the form of a tail slap to the ass. She yelps. Up above, the frantic fluttering of wings as birds take off from the trees. Gura makes a dive for the camera, aiming it up as fast as she can to take a picture. It ends up knocking into Amelia’s forehead and getting a scary close up of her eye. 

Amelia reviews this later while picking leaves out of her. Gura leans her cheek against her shoulder, her tail lazily swinging back and forth. The log they’re sitting on is uncomfortably damp. There’s leaves fluttering down around them. Amelia thinks these are the worst photos in history. 

Gura says, “We’re gonna be famous.”

“I don’t think so.” Amelia can’t help but laugh. “Ew, my eye looks so gross.”

“I like that one, can I keep it?”

“No, you don’t get my nasty close up.”

“Boo.” Gura reaches over to push the button to scroll back through them. She laughs at the one where it only got the top of her head. “Can we send that one to the group chat?”

Amelia grins, “What should we caption it?”

“Just say ‘man eater’. That’s all.” 

“Okay.” Amelia lies. She’s captioning it shorty fell down a well and Gura shrieks, shoving her. Amelia is laughing too hard to defend herself. The camera ends up toppling out of her grip and breaking into separate pieces down on the forest floor.

It’s a one day hobby. The pictures are framed on her wall. 

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Cecilia would be far more comfortable if her brain- technically, her soul- wasn’t attached to the odds and ends of a doll. She thinks she gets jealous at times, but it's a momentary jealousy that only happens in specific moments. 

This is one such moment. 

“Now, I dunno how to describe a pinch.” Raora says. She’s on her knees, a big leathery book laid out haphazardly over Cecilia’s hips. Cecilia is prone and immobile due to the wire hooked into the back of her neck. Like a kitten that’s been grabbed by the scruff, she’s completely unresponsive, at least in motor function. She’s been able to frown this whole time and she will continue to do so.

“What do you mean?” Cecilia asks. “What pinch?”

“Yeah, I dunno.” Raora says. “It says ‘slight pinch’ but can you even feel being pinched? Feel this.” She tries to pinch Cecilia’s skin, but she’s a doll and has none. She ends up flicking her fingers against her arm for a good minute before asking, “Feel that?”

“No.” Cecilia says flatly. 

“I guess you’re busted.” Raora hums, as if Cecilia wasn’t a doll at all and should be able to feel being pinched. She starts to laugh, “We’re in a real pinch, right Cecilia?”

“If there’s a button that says ‘death’ can you press it for me?” Cecilia asks. 

“No, I won't.” Raora says back, a million times more cheerful than how Cecilia feels. “Okay, well, it says if your elbow continues to feel stiff you need to oil it.”

“Ew, I am not- No. No, we aren’t doing that.” Cecilia huffs. “I’m just going to do it the old fashioned way and replace the joint. Again. ”

“You’re kinda old fashioned.” 

“Yes, I’m an ancient doll, I’ve been alive too long.” Cecilia grumbles. “When- When you get to my age, you’ll really start to feel it.”

Raora says, “No, I hope I die before you.”

Cecilia sputters a laugh, “You don’t have to hope, that’s definitely going to happen. I’m going to outlive all of Justice.” 

“Will you remember us?” Raora asks. It’s gentle-sweet in a way that doesn’t feel serious. Cecilia doesn’t feel like taking it seriously, but it pangs in her chest. She doesn’t want to mention how much she doesn’t remember. A doll's life is long, but her memories are not. 

“As long as I can.” Cecilia says. It’s the best answer she can give. 

“Okay, good, so when I get old and I forget everyone, you gotta remind me.” Raora says. She’s perfectly content with this as she starts to unclasp the joint on Cecilia’s arm. It requires thin tools, very gentle work with a hook and a needle. Only God Eyes can do that, as Raora blinks alive the brilliant blue of her eyes. She works without even blinking. 

Cecilia mutters, “If we all die in a terrible accident then it’ll never come to that.”

Raora giggles, “If you’re gonna assassinate us all, can you do it on my birthday? It’ll be extra special.”

“Sure. You’ll never see it coming. I’ll do it in the ballroom with the candlestick.”

“Oh, I know that reference.” Raora says absently. She’s winding on a new joint, through the nerve wires of Cecilia’s arm. Cecilia feels it faintly, tingles that crawl up to her brain and make her shudder. Raora smiles, a hint of mischief, as she pokes at one of the wires. It feels ticklish. 

Cecilia huffs, “Stop that.”

“Ceci, you should get a tattoo.”

“I can’t get a tattoo. I don’t have skin.” 

“I can paint it on you.” Raora says. She seems happy with this prospect, her tail snapping back and forth behind her with lazy excitement. “Oh, I can put it on your shoulder, or the back of your neck, those ones are always super cute and demure.”

“Demure.” Cecilia echoes flatly. “Am I demure to you?”

Raora looks at her, the twirling white and blue of the God Eyes feeling rapturous. Cecilia wonders what she sees when she can look through and underneath. Is my soul pretty to you, Raora? 

“Mm.” Raora hums. “It’ll be cute.”

“That doesn’t answer me.” 

“Don’t you wanna be cute?”

Cecilia laughs faintly, “Sure. Draw me a tattoo.” 

Raora looks satisfied with that as she finally puts together Cecilia’s arm. She adjusts it with clinical eyes, testing how each finger on her hand reacts to the stretch and bend of her arm. Once finished, she reaches around Cecilia’s neck to unplug her. A wave of sensation floods Cecilia. She breathes, slumping against the floor. Her elbow feels better, at least. 

“Done!” Raora chirps. “Okay, now you do me.”

“What?” Cecilia sputters. The absurd question makes Raora laugh. She can’t help but smile as well as she reaches over with her newly repaired hand and pokes her. Silly cat. 

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To Kronii, time is a waterwheel. A slow moving, creaking machination of wood that grinds away inside her skull. It’s dripping with old news, overflowing with memories and time. Everything about it makes her tired. A spinning wheel might make more sense, but a spinning wheel turns fast and makes new stories. The water wheel remains the same, it moves slowly, and it carries with it the heaviness of each tear she’s ever shed. 

That’s a little dramatic. After all, she gets to see Sana again.

“It’s nice to meet you!” Space has her hands clasped behind her back, twintails falling over her bare shoulders. She’s smiling as her hair moves, always boundless and without gravity. “Kronini.”

Kronii scoffs, always the part of the post-war tyrant, always in her role. This is how time is meant to go, as it always does, and she says, “It’s nice to meet you too, Sana.”

The script is rehearsed, but bent in some areas. Everytime they walk side by side, Sana prances, a ballerina on her toes. Her hands are never still enough, not for Kronii to take and hold. It would take months before Sana would slow down enough for the idea to be entertained. For it to brush her sense, just her knuckles, and feel the hairs on her arms stand up- touch. 

Sana leaves stardust where she walks, motes of pink and blue that shimmer in the air. Kronii swats them away from her face, the barest of smiles hidden in the curl of a smirk. Sana giggles at her. Finds her cute. Calls her cute. 

“Kronini is beautiful today.” Sana chirps. 

“Am I not beautiful everyday?” Kronii asks, examining her nails. 

“Some days, you need a shower.” Sana says. She dances out of range before Kronii can retaliate. Her laughter echoes around inside Kroniis head, a record player that runs an endless loop. 

When Sana is big, their conversations take place in her palm. Kronii crosses her arms, stands tall, and yet still feels the presence and might of Space itself as Sana lowers herself down to eye level with her. She’s smiling, barely hidden by her palm, and Kronii swats at her nose when she tries to go in for a cheeky kiss. 

“Enough.” Kronii complains, face warm. “Sana, how many times do I have to fix the Earth from exploding before you remember your limiter?”

“But it gets you to come fix it!” Sana chirps. “I love it when you visit.”

“That’s cheap.” Kronii says dryly. “And apocalyptic. What if I didn't reset it, hm?”

“You always will.” Sana says knowingly. She’s too right, putting her thumb down on an old worm nail. Kronii thinks not just about the Earth, but of an endless cycle she will willingly endure. She sighs. Her shoulders droop. 

“Find a more practical way to get my attention.” She demands. 

“Should I write you a love letter?” Sana asks, fawn-eyed. “Oh, maybe I’ll leave out milk and cookies.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“You’re right. I should get a cardboard cutout of you and start talking to her instead. I bet she wants to be smooched all day long.”

Kronii sputters hotly, “Hey! Don’t do that!”

Sana laughs, a bright thing that feels like supernovas in her ears, enchanting and intoxicating all at once. She closes her eyes. Relishes the tiny moments, in every sense of the meaning. Sana’s hand holds her lovingly. She does the same, returning the favor, as she winds time back with her finger. From the very end, to the gentlest beginning. 

From the death of the stars, back to their birth. 

“Oh.” Sana blinks at her, freckles of light across her cheeks eclipsed by the smile she gives Kronii. “Hi! It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” Kronii returns smoothly, practiced in grace. Strong before grief and weak for it as she holds out a hand this time, business-like in front of trembling emotions. “Sana.”

Sana takes her hand, beaming, and says, “Wow, your hand is really cold.” 

“Thanks.” Kronii says flatly, unable to wholly keep out the fondness of a friendship forged a thousand times over. 

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It doesn’t matter how far into the future it gets. Amelia always finds ways to surprise her. Years have passed since Myth, since an adventure began and ended with a detective’s case. There’s a grave with Amelia Watson's name on it, and many more of their friends too. 

Yet here she is, sliding into Kiara’s booth at her favorite cafe with an impish grin. 

“Gluten Tag.” Amelia greets. 

Kiara is smiling so wide already that she’s laughing, “Guten Morgen, where the hell did you come from?”

“It was movie night.” Amelia says, because they both know Kiara isn’t referring to a place. It’s always time. “All of Myth, Kronii, Mumei, and Gigi.” 

Kiara huffs. She can’t recall that at all. Granted, it’s a long gone memory, but the sheer energy radiating off Amelia makes her want to remember it. It makes her jealous, “What movie was it?”

“Calli was forcing Sandler movies on us.” 

“Oh god.” Kiara says. “Okay, maybe I’m glad I don’t remember.”

“You slept the whole night.” Amelia wiggles her eyebrows. It explains the colossal bed head she’s sporting as well. She’d only just thrown on her coat and was here in the future for a spell. 

Now, the next game, as Kiara folds her arms onto the table with a thoughtful frown, “Alright, miss detective, what’s so important you gotta pop up here?”

“Here?” Amelia parrots innocently. “Why not? I can visit you, right?”

“Mm.” Kiara hums, suspicious. “Usually, it’s my birthday or a holiday. This is a random day of the week.” 

“And maybe in the future you tell me you had a lonely day at your cafe.” Amelia pops her lips, all kinds of cheekiness that Kiara adores. “C’mon! What’d you order? Actually, what do they even serve here?”

“A knuckle sandwich.” Kiara says darkly, but she’s smiling as she slides a menu across the table. “Look. You might not like it though. Bad for your fragile tummy.”

“It could be four thousand years and bread is still poisonous.” Amelia laments. She’s scrutinizing the food selection, her lips tilting  upwards at the names. The future twists the languages around them, bends the way words are used. Kiara imagines it’s an entirely foreign world to the detective. Or maybe she’s right at home in the mystery of it. 

“Will you visit me again tomorrow?” Kiara asks.

“I always have time.” Amelia replies loftily, flipping a menu page. “I mean. I’ll definitely remember.”

“This probably explains that lonely day at the cafe.” Kiara muses. 

“No.” Amelia complains. She’s slouching miserably at the thought of her own failure. “Kiaraaaa.”

Kiara laughs, adopting a grim tone to her voice, “You can’t change these events from happening, it was always meant to happen.”

“That’s too sad.” Amelia leans back in her seat. She’s yawning, uninterested in the menu as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes. “Let’s just hang out on your birthday like usual. I’ll make you something special.”

“It won’t ever be as special as you.” Kiara replies. 

Amelia smiles faintly. Kiara can survive these moments. She’ll survive every moment. She’s had time to grieve and mourn lost friends, but Amelia never quite lets her stop living through it. The visits are nice. She wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. They bring pain with them, a shadow that falls over her mind, that bares its fangs into her heart. 

She hasn’t cried in years. She’s accepted Amelia as her personal ghost, someone she can reach across the table for and find a hand to hold. Amelia wiggles their fingers together, smiling fondly at her, like she’s known Kiara everyday all these years and beyond. 

“You owe me a back massage.” Kiara decides on a whim. 

Amelia laughs, “I’ve never given one of those before. Do you think I’ll be good at it?”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“Ah, you just want me to touch your back.”

“And? So?” Kiara scoffs, smiling as she snatches the menu back, “Give me that. I’m going to order something, do you want anything?”

“Tea can’t be too different nowadays, right?” Amelia asks. 

Kiara has the great pleasure of watching Amelia Watson stick her tongue out after trying new age tea, her expression crinkled with disgust. She buys a to go cup on her way back to the past, with a promise to torture the others with it when she got back. 

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Cecilia isn’t the only one made out of material. 

Gigi thinks there’s plastic and bones in her sternum, porcelain glass inlaid into her skin. She can feel and touch, but there’s times she feels and touches too much. It feels like dust is falling over her and turning her gray. The burnout of a sugar high. The fall of a leap of faith. 

Cecilia crouches beside her in these moments- when did I get so small?- and offers her hands, “You overdid it, Gigi.”

Gigi… doesn’t feel anything for that. No curiosity, no concern, and she finds herself staring flatly at Cecilia’s hands for a long time. It takes her a while to realize Cecilia’s offering them to her. She has the motor control to put her hand in hers, to watch the joints of her fingers bend and enclose over Gigi’s tiny doll-like hand. 

“It’s okay.” Cecilia sighs. She’s lifting Gigi up from around her waist, sweeping up the stairs of the Justice hideout. She’s meticulous. Practiced. Gigi has fallen apart before, she knows, but the feeling is so far away. “Liz would be better at this than me…”

She takes her to Cecilia’s room, vibrant green and white coloring over her vision. She sets Gigi down at the table before making her way over to  a kitchenette. It hugs underneath the stairs that lead up to a second floor, a library fit to Cecilia’s liking. So much of it is grabbing Gigi's attention. The touch of Cecilia in the curtains on the windows and the rug underfoot. She can hear Cecilia as she grumbles to herself, annoyed with making tea, familiar. Gigi watches her. She's not sure what to naturally say or do. 

“Alright, here we are.” Cecilia returns and puts down two teacups. She makes a show of demurely pouring the kettle over into each one, lips lifted upwards in satisfaction, “See, Gigi? I can make Justice tea.”

“You never do.” Gigi replies, instinctively, and it doesn’t sound like her. Flat, small, a wind chime of a voice. Yet the words themself, she feels them, the cover of a book that had closed on her. 

Cecilia looks pleased despite the lackluster reply, “Well, aren’t you lucky. Go on. Drink it. You better drink it, I didn’t go through all that effort for nothing.”

Gigi has to hold it with both of her hands to sip at it. Her chair is being jostled and she realizes it’s her own legs, kicking back and forth. She feels it like a spark in her chest. The taste. Wait, Ceci’s definitely made me tea before. 

“Good?” Cecilia asks. “Do you like it?”

“Tea is not based.” Gigi says. 

Cecilia’s gaze falls flat, “Yeah, you’re coming back to yourself. Okay, Gigi, what should I drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Bitter and revolting.”

“ You’re bitter and revolting.”

Cecilia scoffs, which should be angry, but her gaze is softening on Gigi. It takes a moment for Gigi to realize she’s able to hold the tea with one hand. She’s too into her tirade now, fired up and excited over conversation.

“This literally tastes like a fruit cake, I can feel the sugar behind my eyes.”

Cecilia rolls her eyes, “I did not put that much in.”

“It’s like you’re trying to awaken a sleeper agent.” Gigi waves her hand back and forth. “Trying to seduce me with good food and warm memories! Nay! I was not drawn into it.”

“Gigi.” Cecilia is amused as she swats Gigi’s tail from making a jab at her ribs, “You’re already back to normal.”

“Yeah, I did that.” Gigi says. 

“No, I did. You’re welcome.”

“Why thank you, Cecilia.” She pauses to collect herself, to let the banter simmer down until she can say just a little quieter, meaningfully, “Sorry about that.”

Cecilia closes her eyes, sipping her tea, unbothered, “It’s no problem. You’re not so bad when you’re quiet.”

“Hey.” Gigi says. She can’t help but laugh even at her own expense, “Hey! I’m gonna tell Liz.”

“She’d agree with me.”

“This house hates me. I’m going to go up a mountain and become a monk.”

“That, too, will make you quieter, so go ahead.”

Gigi sticks her tongue out. Cecilia looks at her through her eyelashes, eyes warm, and she knows that Cecilia had been worried. It makes her tail wag as she picks up the teacup to sip at it more, even if it’s not her favorite. 

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Chapter Text

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Kronii’s off days involve a couch and a thirteen hour nap. Being the Time Warden is difficult by nature, not by choice. She knows what leaving mistakes to her work can do- endless time loops, anomalies, and fractured realities. A mess to clean up and a hassle to deal with. It happens rarely, or sometimes, all damn day. 

She’s nursing a headache when she feels hands card through her hair. She jumps, surprised, and hears Raora giggle. 

“It’s okay, I’m testing something.” Raora says. She’s hanging over the armrest to pet her hands through Kronii’s hair. 

“What?” Kronii rubs her face tiredly. “Why? Why are you touching me?”

“Are you feeling pressure?” Raora asks, ignoring her completely. 

“Uh, like, from gravity?”

“No, she doesn't feel the pressure.” Raora notes under her breath. “Okay, how’s this?” 

Raora nails- claws, Kronii realizes- gently scratch through her hair and along her scalp. The careful point of a dangerous claw, careful, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Kronii goes, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Raora parrots. She sounds happy. “I think that worked.” 

“This is nice.” Kronii announces. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. I’m playing as a doctor.”

“Playing?”

A giggle. Kronii’s eyes are falling closed, enjoying the massage. It’s much better than a headache. She leans her head back fully, tilting her chin up. She opens her eyes at the second giggle. Raora is looking down at her, ears on her head twitching with flustered excitement. 

“Am I a good doctor?” Raora asks. 

“Oh, excellent, I didn’t even have to move.” Kronii drawls.

“Okay, good, that’ll be five thousand dollars.”

“You had to get too real.”

Raora grins, fangs over teeth, “Were you feeling really sick?”

Kronii exhales, “Just a headache.”

“Did you take medicine?”

“Not yet. I didn't feel like getting up.”

“Ahhh. That’s why.” Raora massages her hands around Kronii’s ears. Kronii thinks she’s going to sink into the couch from how jelly limbed she’s becoming. She’d initially laid here to wallow for a bit, but now it felt just nice enough to sleep on. 

Raora’s fingers pause. Kronii complains, barely able to move her lips, “Don’t.”

“What?” Raora laughs. “Are you talking to me?”

“Who said you could stop?”

“Oh, okay, yeah.” Raora’s giggling is quiet, cute, as she rakes her claws along Kronii’s scalp. “Do you know why you got a headache?”

“Work.”

“You know, I’m a big cat.” Raora says. “I can fix this.”

Kronii snorts, “What does that have to do with-”

Kronii jolts. Raora is sliding over the side of the couch, panther-like and sly, wrapping her arms around Kronii’s stomach and nestling her chin into the junction of her neck. Her tail is curling, back and forth, over Kronii’s legs. She’s a warm weight, trapping Kronii against the couch. Kronii sighs, relaxing. 

“Don’t scare me like that.” Kronii complains. 

“Nah, I’m a cat.” Raora replies. 

Kronii rolls her eyes. Fondly, she’s scratching behind fluffy pink ears. Raora hums happily. It almost sounds like purring. It’s a gentle sound that lulls Kronii to sleep. 

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