Chapter Text
Once, Zoya ventured into the lion's den, on nothing but faith and a nearly forgotten promise to herself. It couldn't be all ugly, if it could create someone like Chief. She had found something to believe in—not the good, not the bad—but the shared joy of being alive. The voices of future I couldn't imagine. And here it is, already happening. And it's such a rush, adrenaline singing in her veins.
What Chief's done to Syndicate is beautiful. Brutal twisting of politicians' arms in Eastside and bringing Paradeisos out of its little playground.
What she does to Zoya, standing there in the dim moonlight, is diabolical. The door closes behind her. Chief lets her keys dangle lifelessly from her fingers, and doesn't turn on the light switch. So careful of the inconsequential damage to Zoya's eyes, the coddling made less insulting with... care.
Tonight isn't the first time Zoya's been a wolf in sheepskin slippers, slipping into her apartment.
It reminds her of Earl's trailer car. Tight fit. He would tell her to not go within a hundred meters of the steering wheel, not that it could move, overgrown with weeds.
Carelessly sprawled in an armchair, Zoya toasts Chief with a lowball glass, because she's liable to break anything with a neck.
"Working yourself to the bone again? No wonder Horo delivers milk whenever she's back in the Bureau."
No banter. Chief barely acknowledges her. Zoya watches her strip with the modesty of a soldier, meaning none. Must be fresh from the frontlines.
Cliffside of a shoulder juts out from a tank top, slightly askew, which she couldn't be bothered to adjust. Her belt is freed from its loops in a forceful yank. Zoya can almost feel it, imaginary sandburn on her face, as if caught in a storm.
Setting her drink down, she continues watching.
That wholly ridiculous woman compresses her pants in a compact square, then frisbees it into a laundry hamper. Expecting Chief to follow a pattern would be an exercise in futility.
Clearly, the living room was designed to be deadly efficient. Clean yet chaotic upon closer scrutiny.
If Eastside's celebrity chasers knew the MBCC nightly routine, they'd be disappointed that DisCity's dashing hero is just another dull overtime worker. Wearing robin-egg's blue boyshorts. Hmm, now that's an idea. Instead of worrying her head off, the work wife could lay in Chief's lap while Zoya does the work. Would do Nightingale a whole lotta good.
As if considering the thought, Chief turns towards her in the darkness. Colorless irises deepen to gunmetal around the edges.
"Zoya." Her voice is flat. Carrying the kind of exhaustion that can't be slept off, the kind that clung to muscles and crept into marrow. "You came here all this way. Come to bed."
So that's how it's gonna be. Zoya rises from the armchair, easy as anything. She doesn't need directions to Chief's room. The duvet is a violet similar to the Legion's banners. Not bad. Unable to hide her amusement, she leisurely lies down, slippers still on. It's not what a lover should do.
If something happened to Chief, she doesn't know what she would do... but what they could do, that's within her control.
"Even the keeper needs someone to keep her company." Zoya pats the other side. "As much as I cherish our midnight chats, why not change things up a little? I came here all this way."
A sigh of discontent. Chief shears the sheepskin, soles dropped to the ground. Swings a leg over Zoya's hips, settling herself. Slowly unclasps Zoya's necklace, dragging it across skin, not even expending energy to lift the chain.
Her claws are left alone. The reminder that every part of her is a weapon, the barrier between her and the breakable world.
She used to forget her own strength. Sometimes, she still does. How much is metal and how much is mutation is unknown. Without her claws, Zoya might tear the covers like tissue paper. She can almost hear it happening.
"Chief?"
There's a rustling sound.
A snake-tongued ribbon abandoned on the drawer ajar.
"Choose." Chief gives her a gilded map with both hands, as professional as a Yagyu business card, and assorted chocolates facing up.
"Last time I checked, it wasn't Valentine's Day." Their time zones flow differently, so maybe Zoya missed it.
The unfolded paper is glossy. Good quality that was rarely seen in Syndicate, which used to be bragging rights for street kids rummaging through trash to sell scraps. At the rate Drifter Camp's expanding, they'll have more choices in life in mere years. Months, even.
"There's two of each flavor," Chief clarifies, though that doesn't explain why there's a chocolate box on the bed.
Despite herself, Zoya is sort of impressed by her stealth.
"Choose which one you want. I'll eat the other one off your abs."
...You civil officials sure know how to play.
She did ask for change, so that's that. Fair's fair. How could she fight the shackles, when Chief is in this feeble state?
"Espresso."
Obligingly, Chief's thumb pushes open Zoya's lips, passing the chocolate. "It's dark. I'll probably miss your mouth if I don't mark where it is." Her reasoning is practical, yet her touch couldn't be mistaken as anything other than possessive.
It takes pretty much all of Zoya's willpower to not grab Chief by the back of her neck, carefully laid plans be damned.
What Chief does with that mouth can't be real, what the fuck. Though she had proposed a 50-50 split, she doesn't seem especially keen on sharing her sweets.
"Don't fall asleep," a breath between the belligerent onslaught of kisses. "Don't you dare do that to me again." By that, Zoya means the near-death experiences. Sacrifices. The inability to treasure her irreplaceable, infuriating self.
Being restricted to Black Rings, she has heard a fraction of it, but enough to know that Chief hasn't changed where it matters.
For the better or the worst.
"I couldn't even if I wanted to." Punctuated by a final peck to the lips, as Chief finds her way down.
"You—"
She scrapes teeth against Zoya's neck, navigating the nebula scars, as if she could scoop up the stars and swallow them whole.
"Your health is shit and you know it."
"Hey, rations and chocolates is a respectable dinner. I have you as dessert, don't I?"
A stupid line. That smoky voice has no business sounding that good. To even the score, Zoya slides the strap of her tank top further down, narrowing the range of her movements.
Chief simply shrugs out of it. Indifferent, but starting to feel dopamine shivers from the chocolate—
Or it could be Zoya having that effect on her.
"Yes, you do."