Work Text:
Penacony was quiet.
Or at least, quieter than it had been when the sky cracked and dreams unraveled. Now, the streets shimmered with the lazy flicker of holographic billboards, their edges dimmed, like the whole world was trying to nap.
In the corner of a reclaimed boulevard—wedged between a shuttered arcade and an overgrown park—stood a coffee shop.
It wasn’t listed on any map. There was no name on the windows, just a faint outline of a cup drawn in finger-smudged dust. Someone had painted the door a shade of matte red, the kind of color that looked like it remembered warmth.
Stelle pushed it open with the weight of a silent question, and behind her, Firefly followed.
———
Inside, it smelled like bitter roast and burned dreams.
“Guess they still serve mech pilots around here,” Firefly muttered, setting down the cracked helmet of her SAM armor next to the booth. She pulled off her gloves slowly, fingers curling, like she wasn’t used to being this bare.
She looked every inch the soldier she’d been made to be—tall, with silvery-blonde hair cascading past her shoulders in soft waves that faded into teal at the ends. Her skin was pale and flawless in a way that suggested reconstruction, cut subtly by the seams of sleek mechanical integration. Her eyes, a blend of ocean blue and sunset pink, flicked around the café like she expected it to vanish if she blinked too long.
Stelle slid into the seat across from her. She wore her jacket half-zipped over a loose black tee, her black skirt tugged slightly sideways, the pale blue garter on her thigh still visible like an afterthought. Her silvery-gray hair was messy from the wind, and she had a casual kind of confidence that never looked like effort. She tilted her head, watching Firefly’s hands more than her eyes.
"You okay?" she finally asked.
Firefly shrugged, then shook her head. “I keep expecting alarms. Orders. Screaming. Instead, I’m in a coffee shop with you.”
A beat.
“Not that I’m complaining,” she added quickly, voice softer now. “It’s just… weird.”
The barista, a slow-moving automaton patched together with affection and too many outdated parts, slid two cups their way. Black for Firefly. Vanilla with foam for Stelle.
Stelle took a sip. Then leaned forward.
“It doesn’t have to make sense. We don’t have to be soldiers right now.”
———
They sat in silence for a while, fingers occasionally brushing against the ceramic rims of their cups.
The window beside them fogged gently from the heat, diffusing the glow of passing neon. The world beyond felt half-frozen in a dreamstate. Firefly stared out at it, her reflection a faint outline beside Stelle’s. “I used to think I’d only ever have metal around me. In me. The SAM unit was everything. Weight, fire, control.” She turned her hand palm-up. “But when it breaks, when you're outside of it... everything feels so raw.”
Stelle nodded, gaze not leaving her hand. “Is that why you keep fixing it?”
Firefly blinked. “Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t know who I am without it.”
There was no judgment in Stelle’s face. Only a stillness—like she was giving space for Firefly to breathe. Slowly, deliberately, she reached across the table and laced their fingers together.
“I like you raw,” Stelle said quietly.
Firefly choked on her coffee.
“I mean—” Stelle’s ears flushed pink, and she fumbled with her cup. “I mean, I like... you. When you’re not hiding behind armor.”
A pause. Then Firefly laughed—soft, unguarded, not the rough sarcasm she wore like armor. She didn’t pull her hand away.
“You’re so weird,” she murmured. “But you’re brave. You touch the broken parts like they don’t scare you.”
“Because they don’t,” Stelle replied.
———
Later, Firefly led her through a narrow hallway behind the coffee shop, their footsteps echoing quietly against metal and moss. They reached an old garage door—rusted, covered in ivy, almost forgotten.
Firefly touched a panel hidden beneath the leaves. The door groaned as it slid open, revealing a dim space soaked in dust and quiet hums of machinery. At the center sat the SAM unit—her mech—slouched like a giant sleeping with one eye half-open. The plating was scarred. Its joints exposed. Power cables curled like veins across the floor, twitching now and then, alive but restrained.
“I’ve been fixing her,” Firefly said softly, stepping inside. “One piece at a time. Not because I have to anymore, I think. Just... because I still need to understand her.”
Stelle followed her gaze. “Do you miss it? Being in there?”
Firefly ran a hand along the mech’s side. “Sometimes. It made sense in there. No room for second-guessing. No space to feel anything I didn’t want to.”
“And now?” Stelle asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Now it’s harder. Everything’s... louder. And softer. All at once.” She looked over her shoulder. “You’re part of that.”
Stelle stepped closer, standing beside her. The scent of oil and metal mixed with the faint traces of vanilla from the coffee shop still clinging to her clothes.
“You’re different out here,” Stelle said. “But not broken.”
“I used to think softness meant weakness,” Firefly admitted. “But lately… I’ve been wondering if maybe it’s another kind of strength.”
There was a long pause. No engines. No alarms. Just two girls standing beside a sleeping weapon that no longer defined them.
Stelle reached out, fingertips brushing Firefly’s hand where it rested against cold steel.
“Do you still feel like you belong in there?”
Firefly looked down at their touching hands. Her fingers curled gently around Stelle’s.
“No,” she said. “I think I’m starting to belong somewhere else.”
———
Later, they found a patch of grass behind the coffee shop and laid there, heads tilted toward the stars—digital or not, no one was sure anymore. The grass hummed with artificial warmth beneath them, like the planet was trying to remember what nature felt like.
“I didn’t think I’d live long enough to fall in love,” Firefly said suddenly, voice barely more than a breath.
Stelle turned her head, cheek brushing the fabric of Firefly’s sleeve. “You think you are?”
Firefly didn’t answer immediately. Just curled her pinky around Stelle’s.
“...I think I’m learning how.”
A silence followed—gentler this time. Not filled with tension, but something lighter, like possibility.
Stelle turned fully, propping herself up on one elbow. “Hey.”
Firefly glanced over. “Yeah?”
Stelle hesitated—then reached up, brushing a lock of silvery-teal hair away from Firefly’s cheek. Her fingers lingered there, against the curve of her jaw. “I don’t want to rush you. But I really want to kiss you right now.”
Firefly blinked once. Twice. Her breath caught—and then she smiled. Not wide, not dazzling—just real.
“Then don’t rush,” she whispered. “Just do.”
So Stelle leaned in. Slowly. Carefully.
Their lips met like the rest of them had—softly, without force. It wasn’t perfect. A little off-angle. A little nervous. But Firefly’s hand came up to rest at the back of Stelle’s neck, anchoring her, and the kiss deepened just a little.
When they finally parted, foreheads touching, Firefly exhaled like she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
“I think I’m definitely learning how,” she murmured.
Stelle smiled.
“Me too.”