Chapter Text
Imogen trudges down the tunnel toward the healer’s quadrant, pack slung on her back. Exhaustion weighs down her shoulders the same as it has for three weeks, longer if she’s honest.
“You could’ve slept more last night if you hadn’t insisted on flying back here with that letter,” Glane interrupts her thoughts.
“It’s obviously important or it wouldn’t have been sent to Triefelz instead of here.”
“I think you’re just upset the message didn’t come by usual method.” Glane says it in the same mirthful voice she uses every time the topic of “that handsome Tyrrish boy” arises.
“Shut up, Glane.”
“What are you going to tell her about the address?” she asks with a purr.
“The truth. Now shut up, for real. She’s coming and I need to focus to deal with fucking Barlowe,” Imogen snaps, and Glane growls in acquiescence.
“Hey,” Violet greets lightly.
“This came to Triefelz last night,” Imogen returns with a nod and stifled yawn, handing Violet the letter. Imogen’s impatience for her to open it goes unnoticed as Violet, with a scribe’s acumen, inspects the delivery before responding.
“I don’t think this is meant for me.” Violet’s eyebrows rise in her direction, and Imogen sees the shorter woman biting the inside of her cheek. “Especially coming from Garrick.”
Imogen rolls her eyes, and prepares herself for the weight of the door leading into the tunnel proper. “Right, because Garrick writes to me.”
***
Later, after a grueling day of wielding in cramped spaces, letting Sorrengail’s tenacity surprise her yet again, and catching up on classes she missed in Triefelz, Imogen stares at the ceiling from her bed. “The Twitch.” That’s what her mom used to call it. Her face softens in the dark, and she reaches out for comfort in the only way she allows herself.
“I’m too tired to sleep, Mom. I got the Twitch. Wish you were here to make me some warm milk, or Katrina could talk me down to sleep.”
She speaks to the emptiness of her room, and warmth spreads into the secret place in her soul where memories go to heal. It’s where she keeps her childhood home, and where she finds the grounding she needs to wield her dragon’s power. It’s the softest part of her, a cave wide enough to hold far more than she lets in, buried beneath her recklessness and the brutality she’s allowed to carve her over the last handful of years.
“Today was rough,” she continues. “Violet was exhausting as usual. The girl can’t stop picking fights she won’t win.” Her sneer belies the tenderness she feels thinking about her not-friend and the way the petite second year continues to grow on her despite her best efforts. If Imogen forgets herself, she’ll have another Quinn on her hands. The thought of caring about Violet and opening enough space in her heart for yet another friend causes a sharp pain behind her ribs. Not to mention the fact that she’s better off staying away from the girl for Xaden’s sake if nothing else. If Violet died …
Imogen swallows convulsively at the thought. “Classes were fine as usual. I know if you were here you’d tell me to pick a better adjective, but they all seem incredibly trivial when I think about what’s really happening out there. Fine is really the best word I can muster.” Imagining her mother’s answering expression, exasperated and fond, relaxes her further into her mattress. Then reality returns.
The front line.
Garrick.
She turns abruptly on her side, pulling the covers with her like a shield and clutching them to her chest. Images of the broad-shouldered man she’s known her whole life tangle in her thoughts, and she squeezes her eyelids tighter to force their retreat. She’s an idiot.
She can’t think about him right now, and she certainly can’t bring him up in a conversation with her dead mother. Talking about him out loud, her feelings about him, even to the darkness, tempts fate, a fate that would see her crumble.
She reaches out across her bond to Glane to distract herself, but calm tendrils of pumpkin orange drift lazily across the distance as the only reply. Wrapping herself even more tightly in her blankets, Imogen scowls at the darkness.
Fucking. Glane. Always around when she shouldn’t be, and then asleep when Imogen actually needs her. The dragon’s joke today about the usual method of message delivery had almost caused Imogen to blush in front of Sorrengail. She shudders at the thought of Violet’s response, and remembers Violet not so subtly bringing up Garrick during their run. Gods forbid she suffer the guilt of reminding her once again that they’re not friends.
Still, she supposes thinking about the usual methods now is safe. The myriad ways Garrick annoys her seem a better line of thought than anything he might be experiencing beyond the wards.
***
About six months prior …
“Hiya, Im!”
Imogen startles and slams the door behind her as she enters her room.
“The fuck?!” She flags the unwanted visitor in an instant. The smug bastard sits at her desk, one leg crossed over his knee at the ankle, meaning she has an unobstructed view of his well-formed thighs. He holds a piece of her classwork in one hand as he wiggles his fingers at her with the other. “You scared the shit out of me, Tavis.”
Garrick’s grin intensifies as he points to the parchment in his other hand. “You calculated G-Force wrong on number three. You forgot to account for the ascent.”
Imogen storms across the space to grasp the paper from his hands before roughly placing it back on her desk. Garrick counters the movement by rising from the chair, all long limbs and muscle, intentionally brushing the space just above her ass, causing her to shiver, as he steps away from her. She recovers and leans against the desk, legs out broadly in front of her, reclaiming her space.
“What?” she asks with force, waving a hand at the whole of him.
“A little testy, no? If you’re worried about unwanted guests in your room, you should work on fixing your wards.” He smirks, folding his arms, and the strength in his stance, the way she sees the individual muscles in his arms through his shirt, makes the temperature in the room rise. His physique should be against the codex.
Desperately seeking a reprieve, she swivels her head toward her door, pretending to inspect the invisible wards before lifting one corner of her mouth to mirror his. “Prior to this point every guest has been invited.”
Garrick’s expression falters momentarily, and Imogen relaxes, appreciating her targeted strike. “Besides,” she continues, “Xaden said he reinforced them before he left.”
Garrick recovers. “Who says he didn’t?”
“What? And he just conveniently forgot to remove the biggest pest from my welcome list?”
Garrick winks at her—winks! “I needed a soft place to land.”
Irritation makes its way into her tone, and she wishes it caused the sudden uptick in her pulse too. “Why are you here, Garrick?”
He slips into what Imogen privately calls his Lieutenant stance.
“Violet has leave this weekend to visit Xaden in Samara. We need you and Bodhi to work with the others before then to pull together a package for a drop. Xaden and I will take care of it once it gets to us.”
Imogen nods in understanding, standing taller as she assumes her own role of “subordinate receiving orders.”
“Got it,” she confirms.
“There’s more,” he continues. “Xaden is almost certain they’re going to check Violet, but they won’t check Tairn.”
Imogen’s eyes narrow into a vicious challenge. “It’d be fun to watch them try.”
The answering curl of Garrick’s lips tells her he agrees. “Right. So, tell Bodhi to hang with Violet. As her section leader, he can act as someone in her chain of command when Varrish and his goons come calling, but, Imogen?”
She motions him to continue.
“Violet can’t know.”
“She’s gonna be pissed.”
“Not our problem,” he says mischievously. “Besides, she’s still working on her shields, which makes her lying skills unpredictable.”
“Whereas my lying skills are honed to perfection,” Imogen boasts.
That gods damned dangerous dimple pops at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve certainly had enough practice lying to yourself.”
The Lieutenant is gone. In his place stands the same boy from Aretia, with curls any woman would want to run her fingers through, and an arrogant charm that causes lesser women’s steps to falter. Her next breath fights its way down her windpipe.
He refuses to break their stare, the slight raising of his eyebrows daring her and inviting her to step to the mat, and a flush threatens to rise above the collar of her flight jacket. As the air stills around them, she tries her best to crawl farther away from him, her arms tensing on the desk behind her. There’s nowhere to run, and a slow trickle of something that might be fear makes its way down her spine. He immediately assesses her posture. His understanding shows in the almost imperceptible furrow of his brow and the way he shifts his weight from one side to the other.
“Well.” He breaks the silence. “I should head back. I have overnight patrol starting in less than an hour.”
She rises quickly to see him leave, reaching for social niceties. Over the last few months, their typical detente made its way back between them, and she won’t lose the peace because he struck unwittingly. “How are patrols?” she asks. “How’s Samara, I mean.”
Garrick moves his hands to his waist. “Same thing. Different location.”
She reaches for familiar territory. “So you’re screwing your way through the riot, while occasionally coming up for enough air to intimidate a flyer or two?”
He leans into her space. “Sure, but it’s not the same without my usual sparring partner.”
She shoves him between his pectorals, placing more space between them again. “Please. That tall broody slab of muscle you call a best friend is right there with you.”
“I was talking about my best girl.” He strikes out with a fist to tag her upper arm.
“I’ve never gone down easy on the mat,” she challenges.
“That’s exactly how I like it.”
The words burn a path through her, sparking a fire in her core, and her traitorous cheeks color against her will.
He clocks her response because of course he does. He always does. She prepares herself for his next advance, but the gloating she expects never comes. Rocking back on his heels like he did at fifteen, he charms her with his inability to stay still. Then his voice softens.
“I still think about our first fight at Basgiath,” he confesses. “Your Threshing Day.”
She remembers too – the careful way he picked up her discarded leaf, his declaration about other women, and the accusation she threw at him about their time before the quadrant. Her whole body tenses. He can’t bring that up again.
“I made myself a promise after what you said.” He looks away, running a hand through his riotous curls. “And I know my promises might not mean much to you, but I honor them.”
She holds her breath, knowing he has more to say, and praying to whatever gods might listen to stop him from forcing her reply.
“I promise you, Imogen. I’ll always find a way to be with you.”
With that, he takes a single step and vanishes from the room. She’s still reaching for him when she realizes the room is empty, but something stirs inside her yawning cave.
***
Present day.
The son of a bitch didn’t even give her an opportunity to respond. Not that she would have—not then, and not now either—but her resistance to him is fading. She worries about the day she lacks the strength to save him from herself.
Inhaling deeply through her nose, she holds the breath, and releases it through her mouth, just like her grandmother taught her as a child. The Twitch vanishes as she settles in to sleep, a warm tendril of pumpkin orange wrapping around her mind. Memories of more recent visits with Garrick bring a small smile to her face as she drifts into her dreams.