Work Text:
So. Well. Gideon has to keep reminding herself that everything is over, mostly, and the last time she saw Ianthe, ever, was three nights ago, when she (metaphorically and mentally) slammed a cell door over her grinning cat-eyed face. Then she punted all thoughts of the younger Tridentarius from her mind forever. Good times.
And also - God? John? Dad? Gideon has never been big on titles, or God, and the only fantasy she had about having parents was the long-held dream of some prince or House leader showing up at the Ninth and saying, Gideon Nav, it appears we share a last name, and then Gideon would laugh nefariously in Harrow’s face for the rest of eternity. John (Dad) was kind of thrown at her, a bit, and the realization that she didn’t totally care about him as much as she might have used to was something of a blow. Like finding out she's in terrible, disgustingly one-sided love with someone who has all the sex appeal of a recently reanimated corpse wasn't bad enough. At least she has a balanced set, right? Evil mom who didn’t want her and evil dad who kind of, sort of, did?
Harrow says not to think of it like that. Better yet, don’t think of it at all, she says, which is notably her default. (See: lobotomy.) CamPal - Gideon is still having trouble thinking of them as a single entity, or better yet as Paul - seem to think this is an awful course of action and reprimanded Harrowhark for her terrible advice. Harrow replied she’s terrible at nothing. Gideon had to back up their point and face Harrow’s wrath.
But.
Even though they've pretty much fallen on the sword for each other more than a few times, things are not...on the warmest of terms. She's like 99% sure they're long past the "enemies" stage, pretty much skipped the in-between, but that begs the question of what comes after. Gideon does not want to think about that part.
There has also been some light conversing. That one conversation mentioned above, quite possibly the only conversation they've had in days. It’s been weird for a while, and Gideon isn’t totally sure what to do about it.
The easy part was acknowledgement; she sat down with Paul (?) for a little bit and they told her, in layman’s terms, that if she didn’t fess up anytime soon they would do it for her, which is in its own way the worst of threats. Gideon had to say Don’t you dare and offer a few threats of her own. She’s honestly a little scared of whatever…person? thing? god? that they’ve managed to turn themselves into, but she’s not complaining because it makes Harrowhark do a double take every time they walk into a room. And that’s actually the funniest part about it.
Anyway, she knows she’s acknowledged it, but the question is: does the Reverend Daughter, most formidable Lyctor, Keeper of the Tomb, former Right Hand of God…like her back?
Well, that’s the only problem, because she has no idea. They have solidly Not talked about it - or, well, about anything at all, for that matter, because Harrow’s response is the classic Conceal, don’t feel and Gideon has no thoughts on trying to initiate. Harrow, come to my bedroom so we can have a long talk about our feelings on each other. Harrow, I know even in the event of my death you literally wrecked your brain to forget I existed, so I have to ask…do you still hate me? So fucking ick. She would rather swallow a finger bone.
There are some obvious things, like the fact that not talking definitely means something, period, but being the first to say that would definitely mean losing. Losing what? It’s ambiguous, maybe to everyone except for the two of them. The best part is that there is no outward competition, but the unspoken agreement was always clear between the two of them - and it’s never been clearer now. At least, if she’s reading the signals correctly, which is honestly not always a given when concerning Harrow - Gideon will not be the one to crack first. No matter how much she wants to. (Spoiler: she cracks, like, two days later.)
No one told her the worst part about acknowledgement is having to act on it. Normally, Gideon is never a stranger to proactiveness. She planned her escape from the Ninth like, a million times. In both scenarios, though, the problem is still the same; her one obstacle is Harrowhark Nonagesimus. Again. Yeah, the first eighty-eight times were cute, especially that part when Harrowhark loaded her into a church pew while her cavalier predecessor got blown up a hundred feet away from the space station. But now it's just getting sort of annoying.
Or is she Harrow’s obstacle this time? Who knows? They haven’t said shit to each other about it. It’s unclear.
Pyrrha told her to just kiss and make up. Gideon chose to ignore her, like she usually does.
In retrospect, it wasn’t even bad advice, Gideon is just wound up and pissed off, which is usually her default when all things Harrowhark. But like. This time’s different, she’s pretty sure. Why can’t their relationship just be some kind of semblance of normal? Not that she would ever want to get rid of the memory of Harrow pushing her down the stairs at a fresh eight years old. No, and it’s pretty much irreplaceable at this point. Gideon wouldn’t have it any other way.
When she confesses all this to Paul in a fit of lapse that she regrets almost immediately after, they’re unsympathetic. “These things take time,” is the given suggestion, which is at once so much worse than Pyrrha’s idea that Gideon’s brain just floats away from the conversation. “Try your hand at small gestures. Gardening. Making soup.”
She does end up asking Harrow to help her on the latter, after Pyrrha emboldens her with a story of bones bursting out of her host’s stomach over a bowlfull of Harrow’s fucking arm marrow - which is either insanely metal or completely disgusting, and at the same time so comprehensively Nonagesimus of her it makes Gideon’s heart ache, which is just ew - but any of Paul’s romantic notions get thrown out of the window, because all that happens is she gets judged. Harrowhark lurks in the doorway, pointedly looking only at the lumps of vegetables she’s trying to cut into smaller pieces, and routinely gives extremely helpful consultations such as “More salt” or “You’re not even trying to drive me insane here, Griddle.” Like, fuck you, Ninth.
In the end, she manages to make soup, and when she gifts it to Harrow the other girl wastes no time in horking it up and handing it over to the trash can. Gideon considers it a win that she got her to try it at all.
She does not attempt gardening, but she does find Harrow a flower. The reception she receives is less chilly than expected, and she comes back later to find the flower awkwardly affixed into a pot of dirt. Guess no one ever taught her how to keep things alive. That someone is probably going to have to be Gideon, someday.
Still, all these saccharine baby moments are making her head hurt, and literally no progress is being made other than the occasional insult. It’s basically like old times, hovering around each other as the civilest versions of themselves back at Canaan House, and that’s the biggest problem.
“You’ve never been together like this before,” says Pyrrha sagely. It’s unclear how she became a part of their little group in the first place, judging how Cam and Pal combined aren’t much of a social force. “Canaan House was the first time you learned how to work together, and now that everything is…over…it’s different, isn’t it? Last time you were forced into your situation. You formed a relationship out of necessity, and it ended in…eh, you know.” She gestures vaguely. “Shall we say badly? I guess it depends on your definition.”
“In layman’s terms?” says Gideon.
“You got married in Vegas,” says Pyrrha. “You skipped every date. You and Harrow swiped right and went straight to third base.”
“Okay,” says Gideon, “now that’s an image I would like to unsee.”
Pyrrha ignores her cue to say, Is it? “Gideon. You literally fell on your sword for her. How long did it take for you to stop hating her?” Not long, because I never really did, is the correct answer here, but Gideon is a little bit petty and she really did go through a solid period where she wanted to paint Harrowhark’s guts across a wall. She replies honestly, “Something of a while.”
“True,” Pyrrha says, “and then right after your sacrifice,” (“I literally jumped her bones,” with the tone of one who’s been waiting to make that joke all her life) “Harrowhark did the equivalent of exorcising you from her memory so you wouldn’t get eaten. She gave up her lifelong dream for the sliver of possibility that you might exist again. She let Ianthe Tridentarius take a metaphorical axe to her brain, for you. I mean, Jesus, Gideon. How much clearer does it have to get?”
“You know, I had actually just forgotten about Ianthe,” Gideon says. “You really had to remind me?”
“You’re a lost cause, Nav,” Pyrrha says, and Gideon might be imagining things, but there’s a hint of fondness in her voice. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. Honestly, I think you’re pretty much entering a minefield here.” Gideon wants to say You would know, but that would require thinking about the context. “Harrowhark is a…unique soul.” Putting it nicely, damn. “I mean, all I can say is that you know her a lot better than the rest of us do, and - well, coming from one cav to another, they’re never going to say a thing.” She pauses, probably lost in the good old memories of her weird necro-adjacent affair, then snaps back and leans in. Coming out of her mouth, the most terrifying words Gideon’s ever been serviced to: “You’re going to need to go to her.”
Gideon wallows in this for a few days. Harrow is not around again, either noticeably avoiding her or locked away in a corner somewhere. It’s most likely the latter. She leaves plates of food around the house in places she thinks Harrow might frequent, like the one hole in the wall where all the mice have babies (just kidding but not really) on the off chance her necro might actually have it in her to digest something. She still does not see Harrowhark, although the food occasionally disappears and reappears dumped in the sink, which could be mistaken for progress or the option that was not the corner somewhere.
But hey. Pyrrha’s usually never wrong, no matter how much she doesn’t want it to be true. Besides, Gideon is getting somewhat resentful of this whole silent treatment, so she steels her nerves and goes on a search.
Harrow is not in the corner, or even the hole in the wall. She’s also not in the kitchen (although that was already an impossibility) casting sideways glances at Paul (how to fuck up your Lyctorhood 101, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus) or that one room with all the old creepy books in it. Gideon even dares to ask Pyrrha for advice. Pyrrha gets annoyed and tells Gideon to figure out her own damn love life, she’s done enough already. Pyrrha kicks Gideon out of her room.
After Gideon’s swept every inch of the house, she considers the possibilities. Harrow is not indoors. The answer should be obvious, but the only problem is that the outdoors seems just as improbable as the kitchen.
She did check the kitchen, though, so.
__
Her hunch actually pays off. Well, it’s less of a hunch and more of a lack of options, but for better or for worse Gideon finds Harrowhark around the back, staring at the wilting bushes growing over the corner. One is full of the very same flower that she picked off earlier. If Gideon looks hard enough, she would swear she can see the hole where the flower had been.
Harrow speaks first, without turning around. “Nav.”
“Non - you know what, never mind,” says Gideon. “Haven’t you ever heard of what happens to vampires when they go into the sun?”
“Your sense of humor never fails to amaze me,” Harrow says dully. She’s silent for a minute. When she speaks again, all she sounds is weary. “What do you want, Griddle?”
Gideon has to rail against the natural instinct to scream For you to choke on a dick that’s been hammered firmly into her since childhood. Mercifully, her mouth moves of its own accord, no instincts required. “I was just…looking for you. I mean, you weren’t inside. So.” She forces the next words out in a rush: “And I know, well. There are some things that we’ve been avoiding. And I think we need to…talk.” Okay, there it is. She said it. Gross. Yuck. Harrow, you better be so worth it.
Harrow’s still not looking at her, eyes trained firmly upwards. She’s staring with what appears to be rapt attention at a spider slowly creeping up the wall. “You want us to talk.”
These one-sentence answers are starting to get on her nerves. “Yes, Harrowhark, I want you to say something real to me, because it doesn’t look like I’m getting anything out of you anytime soon.” Gideon exhales. “I thought we were done with this,” she says, more quietly. They “talked” about Harrow’s at-home brain surgery, just like they “talked” about their relationship. The future. Whatever. The words slip out, unbidden. “You can’t just block me out again.”
Harrow twists her gaze away from the wall, and Gideon’s really seeing her for the first time in days, finally. She’s still getting used to the Harrow without a skull painted over the raw bones of her face, even though they both agreed that the Priestess Crushed Beneath Rock was a less-than-reassuring approach to basically their whole initiative. Harrowhark looks fuller without it, somehow, and Gideon’s not opposed to the look. Her eyes are the same shade of Ninth House black they've always been, but Gideon looks and remembers - the brief moment when she looked in the mirror, and saw they were yellow.
“I’m not trying to - Griddle,” Harrowhark says, sounding pained. “That had nothing to do with me and you. You know this.”
Gideon raises her eyebrow because Harrow knows the trap she’s set for herself, she’s walking in and making her bed. “And this doesn’t either, then?”
Usually she has a lot more to say. For the first eighteen years of their endless orbit, Gideon always had some comment to strike back, no matter how awfully Harrow cut into her time after time. She learned to speak her mind so nobody else could say it for her. She bit back at Harrow, a constant thorn in the side of the Reverend Daughter, taking pride in the fact that no one could rile up her stoic facade quite like Gideon could. She planned out her escape, of her future far away from the dusty relics of the Ninth - and most of all the dead-eyed nun that either wanted to eat her heart or run it through a blender. Now Gideon is having similar thoughts, except this time whenever she looks ahead, all she sees is Harrow. All she knows is Harrow. For the first time, she doesn’t have anything more to say, and so she says nothing.
Harrowhark closes her eyes. She seems to be trying very, very hard not to say something she’ll regret, which is a particular expression of hers that Gideon is very well-versed in. “I see. You want to talk. What is it that you want to say?” This seems to be rhetorical, because she isn’t waiting for Gideon to answer. Harrow finally turns around all the way, and Gideon notices she’s shaking. Her words jumble out in a ragged blur, not the usual measured language Harrow usually relies on to hammer a vicious point across - no, this is just an awful ramble, not unlike what Gideon herself gets up to. Harrow sounds tired, and desperate, and she’s talking in a sudden blur in a way that she’s never done before.
“We can talk about the fact that I dragged you away from your only chance at escape to be my sacrifice in a rigged competition. We can talk about how the man I idolized all my life was the father of the girl whose life I fucked over. We can talk about how you chose to - to die so I could attain Lyctorhood, until I got selfish and messed it up. We can talk about how I forgot you. I needed to forget you so I wouldn’t have to forget you. Well, imagine my surprise when you woke up and thought that I erased you from my memory because of how much I - hated you.” Harrow is trembling openly now and Gideon’s thinking it’s because she’s never seen her say that much in a row, ever. Actually, Gideon’s not thinking at all. “I thought all I needed were my ambitions until you helped me to achieve them and I realized it wasn’t enough. You thought I wanted to be her. All I ever wanted was you.”
Well.
It’s very silent following this…proclamation, probably because Gideon is having some trouble breathing. The two of them usually solve their fights by having more fights, which is why talking is usually never involved. She’s starting to realize that even though she suggested this idea she almost wishes she never did, just to spare Harrow from the sheer exertion it probably took her to spit out a whole monologue.
Gideon inhales and prepares herself, because apparently she can’t help herself from making a bad situation worse. The trap has long backfired onto her instead. “So then. In that case….Uh, what exactly are you saying?”
Harrow’s eyes thin into her usual glare, packing half the bite. “Griddle, I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are.” She closes the gap between them and goes on her toes. Gideon floods with sunlight as their mouths meet.
__
“Okay, but that didn’t really answer my question,” Gideon says after they’ve broken apart. The two of them are on the ground, having slid down the wall, and are now sitting there in the dirt. There’s a bush digging uncomfortably into her side and she’s pretty sure she saw a bug crawl up her elbow. Harrowhark is leaning into her, not saying anything, folded up like a kitchen towel. Gideon has never been happier.
“Shut up,” Harrow says, but there’s no heat behind it. All she does is burrow further into the crook of Gideon’s arm.
Gideon sits up straighter. “Um, no, you don’t get to cuddle your way out of this one - ”
“- I’m not cuddling - ”
“- because you’re shit at giving straight answers.”
“Fine,” snaps Harrow, “of course this is about me and you, fucking Nav, of course you want to give me grief about something as idiotic as this - ”
Gideon raises her eyebrow and cups her ear in an exaggerated gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?”
She’s been on the receiving end of Harrow’s infamous stare-downs too many times to count, but never before has the perpetrator looked as irritated as she does now. In the way only Gideon can make her look. “I thought I had already clarified that I quite literally want everything in my life to do with you.”
“Not really,” says Gideon, “it was a little unclear,” and Harrow swats her.
There’s a seemingly pensive silence for a minute after that, where Harrow suddenly uncurls from her position and moves to a more dignified spot directly next to Gideon. The loss of warmth leaves her momentarily empty, but the feeling is quickly extinguished when Harrow says thoughtfully, “No, you’re…you’re right.” (EXCUSE ME, Gideon says with glee, CAN I GET THAT IN WRITING.) “I would say. Talking. Is beneficial.” She looks up through that eerie black gaze. “Say what you would like to say, and I will try to answer in a way that is…sufficient.”
“Well, aren’t you a regular therapist,” Gideon says, with a little bit of delight. Okay, maybe a lot. “I’m right? We should talk? Are you feeling okay, or maybe like you need some light psychoanalysis?”
“The only psychoanalysis that will be occurring is that if you continue with this ridiculous line of questioning, I will rearrange your hippocampus,” Harrow says, but she’s smiling (sort of) and she looks slightly less territorial than usual. As much as is possible for her on an average day, anyway. “I know I have been more than circumspect towards you in the past. But you came to me, and I cannot refuse you. So, in your words, there are things we’ve been avoiding, and I think we need to talk.”
“Right, but we should kiss again first, just for posterity,” Gideon suggests, even though she really does want to have this conversation. Did that really even just happen? How was she not aware of the fact that Harrowhark Nonagesimus may actually be in the smallest possession of game? And also, can it happen again?
Harrow levels her with a look. “Don’t make me regret this, Griddle.”
“Okay, sike,” Gideon says. “Let’s get the ball rolling. Ianthe. Lyctorhood. Why?”
Good job, Nav, way to kill the vibe. Next to her, Harrowhark stiffens. She looks away and says sharply, “You made a decision I couldn’t live with. I decided to take it into my own hands to fix it. This was the only way I knew.”
Gideon knows that she should make some kind of joke or something, assuage the bitter tone in Harrow’s voice, but there’s still a part of her that’s mad and wants to show it. Kiriona was the way she was because of all this, pent-up, no other outlet other than antagonizing the lurking blonde simpering at the heels of her dad. Gideon is determined to be Gideon again. She says, “That was my choice to make, Harrow. I didn’t…do it just to prove a point, or win a game, or whatever. I did it so you would survive, and it worked. That’s all I wanted out of it. Not for you to sequester me into a hole in your memory, for months, while you did everything you could to forget I existed!”
Harrow flinches, but she’s resolute. “And it worked, didn’t it?” She flicks her gaze back when Gideon starts to swell indignantly. “Look, Griddle, let me make it simple for you. I was selfish and I could not live without you.” She stutters, weirdly enough, drops her voice and admits, “But most of all I could not bear the thought that you could.”
“You’re kind of saying the opposite of what I’m trying to say, but oka - ”
Harrow shoves her, or at least tries to, not taking into account the fact that she probably weighs less than Gideon’s left bicep. “Just take it and let me speak, Griddle.”
Gideon chooses to ignore this command as soon as it’s given. “Hey, Nonagesimus, you know I couldn’t live without you either. Literally. Given I existed as a blip in your consciousness for almost half a year.”
Harrowhark scowls, but her eyes soften. “Do you understand why I did it?”
Gideon sighs and drops the attitude. Ordinarily impossible, but the girl currently menacing her with a one-sided staring contest has definitely got her beat in that department. It's hot. “I mean, to an extent, yes, as much as I can understand any of the creepy necromancing stuff you already do. It sort of makes sense in my head, if I don’t think about it too much.” Pause. Maybe this talking thing is easier than she expected. “But, I mean, there’s still a part of me that’s like…well, she basically dumped you.”
“An analogy using common lingo, no less,” Harrow says, almost endearingly. She slants an eye sideways at Gideon’s expression. “I’m simply providing a source of amusement. As you are so fond of doing at inopportune moments. In any case, I hope this conversation has mostly convinced you that the opposite is entirely true.”
Gideon is torn between being flattered that Harrow basically said she's funny and concerned that this is Harrow’s idea of humor. “...Yeah.” Nope, this is awful. She has to stop this immediately. Her brain is pretty much already short-circuiting from all the Feelings being thrown around and a better joke is needed like, pronto. She blurts, “So what I'm hearing is you don’t hate me, then?” All right, no, not quite what she had in mind.
Harrow’s brows draw tight and she gives her the familiar exasperated I can’t believe I’m associated with someone like you, Griddle face. Ah, perfect. Rebalanced on familiar territory, Gideon pulls out her best piss-Harrow-off tone of voice. For fun, of course. “Okay, why don't we rewind. You wanna tell me what all this was about?”
She knows Harrow wants to say it, she’s just enjoying the battle of wills occurring in the other girl’s head between her promise to answer Gideon and the risk of repeating herself for a lesser mind. “For you,” Harrow grinds out, in the tone of someone attending their own funeral. “If I forgot you, then you couldn’t be forgotten. I thought this was supposed to be a multi-topic conversation.”
“You said that already, babe,” Gideon says with a smirk, because she’s not letting Harrow off the hook so easily. From the way a flush creeps up her neck at babe, she’s hitting her mark. “Might want to try again. Maybe with an answer that sounds less like you’ve been practicing it.”
She can practically see the gears stuttering against each other in her head. “You just want to hear me say it again!”
“And what’s so bad about that?”
Harrowhark decides to take that moment to kiss her again, like an absolute poser, literally just to prove her point. And honestly, you know what, Gideon will take her wins where she can get them.
But they talk. They do talk. Harrow is just as scared as Gideon is, maybe even more, even if she won't quite admit it. Gideon is still coming to terms with the realization that she's in love with her kindergarten bully. There are some things that they don't say, like (Kiriona Gaia), but not every problem can be solved all at once. Gideon is, just this one time, content to take things slow.
By the end of it, Gideon feels like she’s exhausted her word quota for the day and Harrowhark looks as though she feels the same, times two. This might actually be the first big conversation the two have been able to get through without lunging at each other. Again, small victories.
Once they’ve run out of the bigger things they want to say, the sun is sinking below the horizon and flooding the sky in shades of orange. Gideon makes a point to name every single color for Harrowhark, since she has serious doubts the other girl has ever seen anything other than monochrome blacks and grays. Harrow proves her point when she asks what the difference between pink and red is, and then immediately switches up with the reveal that she’s been punking Gideon this whole time. The whole joke ends with her cracking a rare, triumphant smile and declaring, “See, I do understand humor,” and Gideon going “No, definitely not, my little funny bone, even Paul is better at that than you are.”
Harrow gets the joke. She thinks it’s superfluous and "unimpressively suboptimal." Gideon laughs until her ribs hurt.
She’s missed them, in a weird way she can’t really explain; only that Harrow was her only constant for so long, and having her back by her side just feels right. Like a light switch flicking on, or a puzzle piece slotting neatly into place. It’s pretty much just the way the universe is. The planets spin overhead, and Gideon and Harrow are together again.
It’s just how it should be.