Chapter Text
Harrowhark was finally doing pretty well for herself. She had a flatmate who tolerated her, and was ready to take estrogen (after God knew how long of a waiting list). She was able to dress exactly how she pleased. Not to mention, she’d started taking an antipsychotic, and her senior thesis into sainthood was well underway.
It felt… good. Comfortable.
Although classes weren’t beginning for another week, Harrowhark was already feverishly preparing. Palamedes was always willing to squabble over Latin while he cooked dinner, or quiz her on philosophers over a medical soap Cam had put on. The money from her late parents’ estate was (barely) enough for her to live comfortably. It was well enough that even Harrow, prickly and defensive since the womb, was finding herself in happiness instead of anhedonia.
She was always pleasantly surprised when Dr. Gaius, her thesis advisor, seemed to take an interest in her. Harrow would be lying if she wasn’t receiving preferential treatment over the Tridentarius twins, but it felt nice to be someone’s first choice. Still, it was odd to receive any communication before the semester officially began.
The email from him read:
‘Harrow,
Good afternoon! I hope summer has treated you well. If you are still living around campus, I would love to invite you to an informal meeting with my daughter (long story…), who just transferred in as a senior. Kiriona is a bit of a social butterfly, but I thought you two would appreciate having someone in your respective corners. She will be in Classics seminars next semester, and having another trans woman in academia to speak to might be good for you both. Let me know when/ if you would like to come by my office.
Be well!
Professor Gaius’
The thought of meeting his daughter was a bit too interesting to resist. As usual, before she could waffle over it or make a draft, Harrow responded with her first thought.
‘Dr. Gaius,
I will be there Tuesday at 10 am. Thank you for reaching out.
-H’
———
“Oh, 10 AM is so early!” Gideon grumbled to John, kicking at the asphalt. He had shaken her out of bed at 9, when she usually slept until noon for her beauty sleep, thank you very much. “Why couldn’t you shoot back and tell her to do something later?”
John shook his head good-naturedly, turning to his newfound daughter with a shrug. “To be quite honest, it’s difficult to say no to her. If Harrowhark is going to do something, she sets her own terms. Very clearly, I might add.”
Gideon groaned again, punting a rock lazily — at quite an impressive distance. Her rugby instincts were still sharp. At this point, they were too close to the Humanities building to turn back. She supposed she could have fibbed and told him she’d take her motorcycle, but without a drop of coffee in her veins, the usual clever spark in her was gone.
“Please, just try to get along with her. I worry that she doesn’t have many people she cares about, and you girls have something in common. You don’t have to be friends, but do me this one favor.”
“Fine. Fine, John. I’ll give it the old college try.” Gideon crossed her arms, glaring down at the wooden steps they climbed up to reach the ornate building doors. The unruly ginger curl on her forehead flicked over the bridge of her crooked nose, so different, yet so similar to John’s own.
Next to her, John stiffened. Although he knew they were building trust, it ached that she never called him ‘dad’ — unless she was joking. He had missed too much of her life to make up for it now, but he was desperately trying to start.
When she glanced over to him, shoulders drooped, Gideon immediately regretted what she said. Pushing her hair back, she sighed, “…I’m sorry. I need caffeine, and desperately. Can I have some tea in your office?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, thank God.” They smiled, briefly, the same dimple mirrored in one another’s cheek.
———
Harrow walked briskly into the decrepit campus building, the backs of her Doc Martens digging into her heels. They would probably be bleeding through her tights by the end of the day — Camilla was right as usual, and she hated telling Camilla she was right. She hadn’t broken them in enough. Her pain tolerance was wickedly high, so it wasn’t the pain that bothered her. She was mostly annoyed that another perfectly good pair of fishnets would be unwearable.
Her heavy skirt swished around her ankles as she paced up the steps, marble yet worn with use. Those at Caanan University argued that the old buildings had ‘charm’. To Harrow, they smelt like a lawsuit waiting to happen.
All of the niche humanities were on the third floor, kept to themselves in a corner of the building. Dr. John Gaius was an expert on Theology. Dr. Mercymorn Cristabel and Dr. Augustine Albert taught Classics and Philosophy respectively.
Among the small student body, word was spreading round that the Anthropology position was to be filled soon.
Ever since she had walked in on all three of them pressed close to each other in a kiss, very nearly removing each other’s clothes, Harrow quickly gathered why that position remained vacant.
Embarrassingly enough, Harrow was nearly panting when she climbed the last step to the office. She constantly pushed herself too hard. Her physique was always sickly, especially as a child, but her recent bouts of insomnia proved it was a lasting problem. Most of all, Harrow hoped her eyeliner hadn’t smudged. She fished out her water bottle from her bag — crocheted, by Palamedes. The man was absolutely going to give himself carpal tunnel someday.
Still, she was pleased to find that she was five minutes early, on the dot. Harrowhark was never late. After a decade and some change of morning prayers, she still found herself waking at 6 AM to recite scripture, although the words were empty on her heretical lips. It was a strange comfort. A reminder of a home long gone. Before giving a firm knock (as she had remembered to do every time since The Throuple Debacle), she toyed with the rosary that sat at her sternum.
There was a quiet shuffle behind the door, followed by a mumble from a low, feminine voice, and Harrow was greeted all at once by the sight of a very attractive stranger.
She was tall, at least half a foot taller than her, and broad, with biceps that could give any professional athlete a run for their money. Her skin was golden brown, sunkissed with a dappling of freckles. It was difficult not to ogle at her — the crop top she wore left little to the imagination. The glint in her golden eyes felt strangely familiar. Her ginger curls spilled out around her chin, and Harrow was devastated that she thought a mullet looked charming.
Gideon, simultaneously, felt she had met her exact type.
The girl across from her looked owlish, with large, round eyes, and irises so dark they nearly obscured the pupil. Despite the weather, she was in all black, covered from head to toe. Her head was shaved, but the hair was still long enough to stick up around her ears and the nape of her neck. Not to mention, her eyeliner was geometrically precise. Gideon felt the smallest twinge of embarrassment for herself, thinking about the stacks of pulp magazines stashed in her bedroom that featured girls exactly like her.
After a moment of terse silence, Gideon leaned against the doorframe, staring down at her father’s favorite student. She drawled, with a crooked smile on her lips, “Have we met before? You look so familiar, it’s spooky.”
Harrow blinked. She blinked again, nonplussed. She would be lying if her voice didn’t make her heart skip a beat, stuttering in her chest like a caged bird.
“…That was not a pick-up line,” Gideon muttered. Her entire face went beet red, and Harrow noticed that the flush extended to her ears — again, frustratingly charming.
Despite the endearing girl in front of her, Harrow had to get to the bottom of where they’d met. If it was before her transition, things could get ugly, and fast. She murmured, “No, I agree. There’s something quite uncanny about you.”
“You can come in, you know,” John said, startling them both. Harrow actually yelped, something she wouldn’t even do under extreme duress. It was her turn to blush, clapping a hand over her mouth, as her thin eyebrows shot to her hairline.
Gideon chuckled, and it sounded like chimes twinkling in the wind.
“Yeah, I was just making some tea. I’m so jet lagged from flying back, it’s absolutely killing me.” She shifted out of the doorway, giving Harrow the room to step inside Dr. Gaius’ office.
She had always enjoyed the atmosphere, although it was desperately in need of a good clean. The bookcases were filled to dangerous levels — Coronabeth and Ianthe had a bet for how long it would take for the wooden boards to give way. The armchairs had seen better days, but made for a wonderful spot for Harrow to curl up and type feverishly into her laptop. Everything was varying shades of green, even the electric kettle that hummed by the windowsill.
Gideon poured herself some water and dropped a tea bag into her mug (both also green), sighing in relief the moment the liquid hit her tongue. Not a drop of honey or even a granule of sugar. Harrow was genuinely impressed. She was a black coffee drinker, mostly out of spite more than anything else, but that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it. Straight green tea was not for the weak.
“Jet lagged? Are you from overseas?” Harrow asked, needle-sharp. Perhaps they had never met at all and the pickup line was just that. Desperately, she hoped so.
Gideon furrowed her eyebrows at the tone, hitting her eardrums in a way she could swear she had heard before. She recovered quickly, taking another sip of her tea before chirping back, “Oh! No, grew up around here. I had a rugby scholarship in England. A full-ride. When I came out, though… Lost it. They obviously wouldn’t let me on the girls’ team, so.”
As the sentence drew on, her face had slowly wilted, taking the crooked smirk from her mouth and replacing it with something hollow. Gideon stared morosely into her teacup. She was honest to a fault, and eager to make friends, which usually ended up biting her in the ass. Even through her tangle of ADHD-filled trains of thought, she knew that was too much information to share.
Next to Gideon in his usual armchair, John cleared his throat. “Can we do formal introductions before grilling my daughter, please?”
Harrow had the decency to look embarrassed. Whenever there was a loose thread, she just had to tug at it, to unravel whatever it was tied to — she had always been too curious for her own good.
“Thank you. Even if it's just a custom for custom’s sake.” John still looked at her with a knowing twinkle in his eye. It was a line from her thesis, something they had discussed at length. She remembered how he had underlined it in her first draft, three times for good measure: ‘For what makes a saint a saint? Tradition for tradition’s sake.’
John stood, only a hair’s breadth shorter than Gideon, and smiled with his hands spread wide, “Harrowhark, I would like you to meet my daughter, Kiriona. Kiriona, this is my senior thesis student, Harrowhark.”
His daughter raised a slitted eyebrow and rolled her eyes, “Have you been telling others about me with that name? Pops, I told you. Gideon is fine.”
As soon as the name left her lips, Harrow felt her whole body tense. All of her blood ran cold. Her wide eyes, as big as saucers, narrowed quickly as her brow twisted downward.
Gideon watched as a deep scowl formed on her face, one that only Harrow could make; ugly and vengeful. Immediately, both of them recognized their childhood whipping-girl. The faces they had bruised their own knuckles against, the bodies they had dragged through the mud.
“Nonagesimus.”
“Nav,” Harrow snarled.
Gideon smacked a calloused hand over her eyes, dragging it down her face as she grumbled, “You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.”