Chapter Text
Caitlyn first notices her on a Monday morning, being escorted to Judge Marcus's courtroom. The woman with striking pink hair—shaved close on one side, falling messily across sharp features on the other—has a tattoo under her left eye that catches the fluorescent lights along with her handcuffs. Not Caitlyn's case—she’d remember if it was—but it’s hard not to notice someone who smirks at every bailiff like they’re sharing an inside joke, except she's the one who knows what's supposed to be funny. Her build, a coiled strength evident even in standard-issue restraints, suggests she's more familiar with back-alley brawls than courtroom protocol.
Tuesday afternoon, the same scene repeats itself. This time, the woman is arguing with Claggor, the newest bailiff. Despite his imposing frame—stocky and solid as the courthouse walls themselves—he towers over the defendant with surprising gentleness. Their body language is oddly familiar for an officer and a defendant, but Piltover’s courthouse runs on its own peculiar rhythms. Caitlyn hurries past, already late for a deposition.
Wednesday brings thunderstorms and a third sighting. The supposed troublemaker with vivid hair is in Judge Marcus's chambers, while Jayce stands near the door in his Hextech Forensics uniform, looking more amused than concerned. He's probably there to give his assessment of the property damage from her case—his division handles anything involving Hextech infrastructure. Through the partially open door, Caitlyn catches fragments of the conversation: “—community service arrangement.” Judge Marcus’s voice carries that particular tone he reserves for cases he finds personally interesting. “Don’t make me regret this flexibility.”
Caitlyn makes a mental note to ask Jayce about it later, but the forgery case is eating all her time.
Their fourth encounter happens in the elevator on Thursday. Caitlyn clutches her case files closer as the woman—Vi, she'd heard the bailiffs call her—steps in. No cuffs this time. Instead, she's wearing maintenance coveralls with “Community Service” stamped across the back and holding a half-eaten blueberry muffin from Flora’s diner across the street.
“Going up?” Vi asks, despite the already-lit button for the third floor. Her voice is gentler than Caitlyn expected, with that distinct undercurrent of Zaun that no amount of time topside seems to erase.
“Yes.” Caitlyn shifts her files to one arm, suddenly aware of how many she’s carrying. “Third floor.”
“Figured.” Vi takes another bite of muffin, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re always heading to Courtroom 3B around this time.”
Caitlyn blinks. She hadn’t realized she was that predictable—or that anyone was paying attention.
The elevator crawls upward, ancient gears grinding. Vi breaks the silence: “Tough case?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve got that look. Plus,” Vi gestures with what’s left of her muffin, “you’re carrying twice the usual stack of files.”
Before Caitlyn can respond, the doors creak open. Vi steps out first, offering a casual salute with her free hand. “Good luck, Prosecutor Kiramman.”
Friday morning, Caitlyn's rushing down the third-floor corridor, fifteen minutes late for a hearing. Her heels click rapidly against the marble floor until—
“Careful, floor’s wet, Prosecutor!”
She stops short, narrowly avoiding a freshly mopped section. Vi’s there, leaning on her mop with that same infuriating smirk. Caitlyn hadn’t realized Vi knew who she was until yesterday, though apparently, she knows far more than that.
“There’s a dry path along the wall,” Vi adds, pointing with the mop handle. “Wouldn’t want Piltover’s finest taking a tumble before the big case.”
Caitlyn edges along the indicated path, puzzled. “How did you—”
“Overheard some clerks talking about the Hextech forgery hearing.” Vi shrugs, resuming her mopping. “Word travels fast around here.”
“Apparently so.” Caitlyn reaches the dry section of floor, then pauses. “Thank you.”
“All part of the service, Prosecutor.” Vi’s smirk softens into something that might almost be a genuine smile. “Though you might want to hurry. Judge Marcus hates tardiness even more than he hates my attitude.”
Caitlyn hurries on, her mind already shifting to the hearing ahead. But something about the encounter lingers—perhaps the way Vi had said “Prosecutor,” like it was both a title and a private joke. Or maybe it’s just the growing suspicion that her carefully ordered courthouse routine is about to become considerably more complicated.
Behind her, Vi’s whistling echoes off the marble walls like it belongs there.
"So," Jayce's voice carries across the empty courtroom later that afternoon, "I see you've met our newest community service recruit."
Caitlyn looks up from her case notes to find him perched on the prosecution table, his Hextech Forensics badge catching the light. He's switched his lab coat for a more courtroom-appropriate jacket, but there's still a smudge of analytical powder on his sleeve. "Don't you have evidence to process?"
"I am processing it. Mentally. While checking if our junior prosecutor has any insights on our mutual person of interest." He drops into the chair beside her, propping his feet up on the table. "Though from what I saw this morning, you seemed more flustered than investigative."
"Feet off the table, Talis." She swats at his boots with a file. It's an old routine, comfortable as her mother's tea set. "And I wasn't flustered. I was late."
"Cait, I've known you since you were ten and lecturing me about proper laboratory safety protocols. You're never just late." He lowers his feet but doesn't move from the chair. "Want me to run a background check on her?"
"You already have," Caitlyn says, not looking up from her notes. "Probably the moment she started her service hours."
"First day." He grins when she finally meets his eyes. "Had to run a full analysis of the Hextech components she allegedly damaged. Though I have to say, her knowledge of the infrastructure is... compelling."
"Jayce."
"What? I'm just saying, for someone with her history, she's surprisingly—"
"Don't you have somewhere to be?"
He stands, straightening his uniform with exaggerated dignity. "Fine, keep your professional distance. But when you finally want to know what was so funny in Marcus's chambers yesterday..."
He lets the sentence hang.
"Out," Caitlyn points to the door, fighting a smile.
"Save me a seat at Flora's!" He calls over his shoulder as he leaves, his laugh echoing down the corridor.
Behind her case files, Caitlyn allows herself a small grin. Trust Jayce to think about lunch during an investigation. Though perhaps, she considers as Vi's whistling drifts in from the hallway, this time he might be onto something.
The coffee at Flora’s Corner tastes like it’s been filtered through an old sock, but it’s the closest place to the courthouse, and Caitlyn Kiramman hasn’t had time to be picky since making junior prosecutor three months ago. The ancient copper brewing machine behind the counter probably dates back to Piltover’s founding, and Caitlyn’s fairly certain Flora hasn’t changed the filters since then either.
Still, there’s something comforting about the worn leather booths and the way morning light streams through windows permanently hazed by steam from the kitchen. Caitlyn’s claimed a booth nearest to the diner counter as her unofficial office, case files spread across the scratched wooden table, empty sugar packets creating a miniature crime scene around her third cup of coffee.
The bell above the door chimes—a sharp, familiar note that usually signals the morning prisoner transport stopping for breakfast. Caitlyn doesn’t bother looking up anymore; she’s learned to tune out the clinking of handcuffs and the guards’ rough jokes.
Except this morning, something makes her glance up. Maybe it’s the absence of the usual guard chatter, or maybe it’s the way Flora’s voice brightens with recognition. Either way, Caitlyn finds herself staring at her. The vigilante from last week’s hearing. Vi.
No handcuffs today, but the courthouse maintenance uniform isn’t much of an upgrade. The dull grey coveralls somehow make Vi’s pink hair even more striking, like a splash of paint against concrete. Their eyes meet briefly before Vi smirks and turns to the counter, leaving Caitlyn to wonder why her heart rate has suddenly decided to match the tempo of Flora’s ancient ceiling fan.
“The usual for you too, dear?” Flora’s voice carries across the diner with the practiced projection of someone who’s been calling out orders for decades. She’s already reaching for a mug with one hand and the pot with the other, her movements precise despite her age. “Black coffee, right?”
Vi nods, leaning against the counter with familiar ease. “And a—”
“—blueberry muffin,” Caitlyn finds herself muttering under her breath, the words escaping before she can catch them. She’d watched Vi order the exact same thing during her sentencing hearing recess three days ago. Her own hearing had been delayed, giving her an unintended glimpse of the conclusion of Vi's questioning: first the defiant figure emerging from Marcus's chambers and stomping her way down the courthouse steps, heavy feet heralding her entry into the diner, then the surprising transformation as the same woman chatted easily with Flora over fresh pastries at the counter.
Flora pauses, coffee pot suspended mid-pour. Her eyes drift from Vi to Caitlyn, then back again, something shifting in her expression. “Well,” she says softly, more to herself than either of them, “isn’t this interesting.”
She sets the pot down with deliberate care, smoothing her apron with hands that have served countless cups of coffee through countless mornings. When she speaks again, her voice carries that particular tone of someone who’s seen too much life to beat around the bush: “You know, in all my years running this place, I’ve seen every kind of couple come through those doors. The young ones, still starry-eyed. The tired ones, holding onto routine more than each other. And yes, the ones trying to figure out how to be around each other after it’s over.” She glances between them again.
"Divorce proceedings can be so hard on people, especially when they're forced to see each other every day."
Caitlyn nearly drops her case file. Vi's eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into her hairline.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," Flora continues, now pulling out a fresh blueberry muffin with motherly determination. "I've watched enough courthouse romances bloom and wither from these windows to know the signs. Same breakfast orders—" she nods at Vi's coffee, then at Caitlyn's identical cup, "—same timing each morning, though now carefully staggered. The way you both pretend not to notice each other while seeing everything." She sighs. "The tension's as thick as my morning gravy."
She slides the muffin across the counter to Vi with the air of someone dispensing both pastries and wisdom.
"Life's too short to let pride get in the way of happiness, you know. Sometimes the best way forward is to look back and remember what brought you together in the first place."
Vi chokes on her first sip of coffee, the sound drawing the attention of Steb and Loris at the counter. The court clerks—as inseparable as their matching coffee-stained mugs—pause their usual morning debate about case assignments to watch the scene unfold.
Steb, who’s spent years perfecting the art of looking busy while gathering courthouse gossip, adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses with practiced nonchalance. His methodical documentation of courthouse drama is legendary; rumor has it he keeps a color-coded spreadsheet of every relationship that’s budded or crumbled within the halls of justice.
Loris, graying mutton chops framing a concerned frown, nearly drops his coffee mug. The former Enforcer turned court clerk might have traded his shield for stacks of paperwork three years ago, but his protective instincts remain sharp. His desk's position between the courthouse entrance and the coffee machine—a post he'd chosen deliberately—lets him keep a watchful eye on everyone who passes through. The small blue bead in his braided forelock catches the morning light as he glances from Vi to Caitlyn, his golden-brown eyes carrying a weight of history that few in the courthouse know about.
Their synchronized head-swivel from Vi to Caitlyn and back again sets off every prosecutorial instinct Caitlyn has developed. She recognizes that look—the same one her witnesses get right before revealing a crucial detail.
Within hours, she knows, this scene will be dissected in hushed whispers by the water cooler, evolving from observation to speculation to "confirmed fact" faster than a case can be dismissed on a technicality.
"I really should be more careful with the hot coffee," Flora continues, patting Vi's back with concern. "Though you'd think after all this time, you'd remember it's always fresh at this hour."
She turns to Caitlyn, that knowing look still in her eyes. "Just like someone else I know who's been coming in at exactly seven thirty for the past three months."
Caitlyn's case files suddenly become intensely interesting. She's prosecuted hardened criminals, faced down Chembarons' lawyers, but somehow this gentle misunderstanding has rendered her speechless. The margins of her notes have never been more fascinating.
"You know," Flora says thoughtfully, wiping down the counter with slow, deliberate strokes, "the corner booth has much better lighting than the counter. Better for reading all those important papers." She pauses, then adds with careful casualness: "Plenty of room for two, if anyone's interested."
Vi's choking transforms into what might be a laugh or another cough. Caitlyn chances a glance up to find those striking eyes already watching her, amusement dancing in their depths.
Vi opens her mouth to correct Flora's assumption, but something stops her. Maybe it's the way Caitlyn's buried herself in case files, cheeks flushed pink. Maybe it's Flora's earnest matchmaking. Or maybe it's the simple fact that six months of community service stretches ahead of her like an endless parade of grey coveralls and floor wax—might as well make it interesting.
"Thanks, Flora." Vi's voice shifts, taking on a wistful tone that makes Caitlyn's head snap up. "But you know how it is with..." She glances at Caitlyn, letting the pause stretch meaningfully, "...work arrangements. Some things just need time."
Flora practically beams. "Of course, dear. Rome wasn't built in a day, and hearts don't mend overnight." She slides the fresh blueberry muffin even closer to Vi across the counter. "On the house. For old times' sake."
Vi accepts the muffin with an expression that starts as mock solemnity but softens into something genuine at Flora's kindness. As she turns to leave, she catches Caitlyn's wide-eyed stare.
The prosecutor's expression is a perfect mix of horror and fascination, like she's watching a Hextech experiment about to either revolutionize Piltover or blow up the lab.
Vi throws her a wink. Might as well make these six months fun for everyone, she thinks, pushing through the diner door with an extra swagger in her step. Behind her, she can hear Flora starting in on Caitlyn about the healing power of forgiveness and second chances.
The bell chimes again, and Vi's gone. Caitlyn stares at her case files, not seeing a single word on the page. Her current case involves embezzlement in the merchant's guild—nothing to do with property damage or vigilantes or infuriatingly perceptive women in grey coveralls. And yet...
"More coffee, dear?" Flora appears at Caitlyn's booth like a particularly determined fairy godmother. "You look like you could use it. Break-ups are never easy, especially when you still have to see each other every day."
Caitlyn opens her mouth to correct the misunderstanding, then closes it again. How exactly does one explain to a well-meaning diner owner that she's never been married to—or divorced from—the woman who she's never even spoken before this week? That the only thing they share is a courthouse building and, apparently, a taste in Flora's questionable coffee?
"Coffee would be lovely," she manages instead, and pretends not to notice when Flora sets down two cups instead of one. After all, she has actual cases to focus on. Real work to do. This misunderstanding will surely sort itself out long before Vi's six months are up.
Right?