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I’m not afraid of you, when you’re angry, Zuala and whispered once, like a secret, her breath soft as kisses along Yasha’s neck. I’m never afraid of you. I’m only sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry you’re sad.
It has been a long time since she’s allowed her rage to be a live thing inside her, but it’s always Zuala’s voice she hears when she gives herself over to it, still. Rage is something that transcends anger. Her friend’s blood is on her hands and it’s her fault and she’s not angry. Anger is far too simple a word.
Caleb’s already exhausted body welcomes the blade, the breath leaving his lungs with the force of a supernatural scream. He falls. She catches him. She’s wanted to hug him all day, and she can now. She pulls him to her and tucks his head against her shoulder, so he doesn’t have to look.
Later, she’ll look down and find him watching her through half lidded eyes. “Got you,” she whispers to him. She wipes the blood off his lips, his cheek, tucks his hair behind his ears. She doesn’t tell him he’s going to be alright. They both know that will never be true, no matter how much either of them try.
It’s Caleb who finds her in the disjointed aftermath of their homecoming. He stands on his toes to lean close to her ear, elbow jostling lightly against her ribs, “a word?”
She’s surprised he’s managed to extract himself from his partner’s frantic grip, but Essek is with Yeza, and talking to Veth. She has no idea what they could possibly be talking about. Essek does not strike her as the kind of person who is at all comfortable around babies or the aftermath of traumatic birth. But she’s been wrong before. Maybe he’s secretly a great doula.
Caleb leads her out onto the balcony. He always goes to the same spot here, the far left corner, his back to the world, his eye on the door, the sea breeze kissing his cheeks. Jester had told Yasha once that there was where he’d stood, smoke still curling from his fingers, when they’d fled to Nicodranas after the Sanitorium heist: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, thank you, I’m sorry.
He turns to her now, and she can see an apology in the crease of his eyebrows, the stuttering breath of his inhale. She says, before he can speak, “Do you know what Jester said? When we were in there, looking for you?”
The eyebrow crease becomes confusion, concern. “What did she say?”
“You reminded her of Molly.”
Whatever he had thought she was going to say, he clearly hadn’t been expecting that. He barks out a sort of strangled laugh and presses his palms to his eyes. “And you?” He asks through his fingers.
Oh. Her throat aches. She swallows. The feeling just gets sharper. She stands next to him so they don’t have to make eye contact. She can feel him trembling. “You don’t remind me of Molly,” she manages to say.
“Ah,” he sighs, and she can’t see his face but she can picture the slash of his down-turned mouth. “That’s why I’m glad it was you, in the end. I don’t think the others could have stomached it.”
Oh, she could hate him for that. She finds she doesn’t. “My wife could kill you,” she says. It’s sort of a joke. It’s not really a joke.
She catches the quick flash of his smile out of the corner of her eye, fragile and fond. “I was counting on it.” He turns slightly, head tilting up to catch her eye. His eyes are bloodshot blue. “I’m glad, though,” he says quietly. “That it was you. Do you know what I’m saying, Yasha?”
She thinks she does. They’ve always understood each other, her and Caleb. They’ve always understand the twisted, often beautiful, mostly hideous violence of each other. “I think so,” she says. And then, because she just wants to be sure, and she wants to hear him say it, “you know that it wasn’t you? That it wasn’t your fault?”
He gives her a long look, and doesn’t insult her with a response. Instead he says, “would you keep an eye on Essek for me? I’m worried about him.”
“You know he doesn’t really listen to me.”
“He should.”
“I think he’s a little afraid of me.”
He laughs, worn and sweet and awful and she laughs too. When Caleb feels joy, he brings everyone else into it with him.
When they return inside, Essek has moved away from Yeza and is sitting with Jester, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He hands one to Caleb. “Veth is asking for you.”
Caleb grimaces. “Okay.” He throws a quick glance toward Yasha. She shrugs. She can’t really help him with this part.
“She’ll forgive you,” Jester says quietly. “You know she will, Caleb.”
“That’s part of the problem,” he says. He tosses the hot chocolate back like a shot of alcohol. Jester gasps. Essek grimaces. Yasha just watches Caleb burn himself and thinks of Bren hiding under a table, of Caleb’s body in her arms. She doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.
“Hey,” Beau says to her when they’re settling down for sleep. “Are you okay?”
She hadn’t asked earlier, even though Yasha could see the question in her eyes every time they looked at each other. Beau knows better than to bring these things up around the others, which is part of why Yasha loves her.
“I am,” Yasha says. The rage has simmered down into sadness now. But she's safe. And her friends are safe. And that's really all that matters.
“Babe.”
“I’m really not lying. I am. Are you?” She presses a thumb to Beau’s downward lips, and then a kiss.
“I mean, I’m still fucking pissed.”
“Not what I asked.”
Beau traces the shape of Yasha’s jaw, her lips, the length of her throat. Her fingers are warm, familiar, safe. “It’s Caleb. We’ve known who he was for years. He told me first.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
“It’ll always hurt,” Beau says. “That’s okay.”
Yasha holds her hands over Beau’s stomach, tracing the scars left by her own blade. Beau shivers. “It’s okay,” Yasha whispers, like a secret. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, like a promise.