Chapter Text
Goldcliff is a city best know for its towering buildings, the picturesque panoramic view from the edge and the Goldcliff Trust, a giganteum monument to the city's wealth and the heart of the financial district. But Goldcliff also has a darker side.
In a city lauded for its beauty and splendor and only a few blocks away from the Trust itself you will find one of many "residential areas" overrun with poverty. In spitting distance of the fancy mansions and villas foreign billionaires love to build here are residential blocks with no or poor access to clean water and electricity. I ask you: Is this fair? This divide between rich and poor, the top 1% versus the rest of the town.
Many people agree with me when I say that no, no it is not. And while our police force and government remain corrupt, someone is finally doing something about it. A spectre is haunting Goldcliffe, the spectre of justice and
Hurley frowns and scans that last paragraph again. That's... probably plagiarism. With a sigh, she hits the backspace button.
When the page is blank again, she rests her head on her palm and just watches the cursor blink. Her procrastination is interrupted by the sound of the apartment unlocking and Sloane calling out, "I'm home!"
"Did you buy Hotpockets?" Hurley calls, quickly shutting her laptop and getting up from her bed. She steps out of her room, firmly closing the door behind her.
"Did you do the dishes?" Sloane's reply is coming from their tiny kitchen, which means the question is entirely rhetorical.
Hurley rubs the back of the neck sheepishly when she joins Sloane next to the sink and catches sight of the leaning tower of plates, cups and glasses. "Knew there was something I forgot..."
Her roommate raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "In that case, I forgot to buy Hotpockets."
When she catches sight of the devastated look on Hurley's face she has to muffle laughter before turning away to finish unpacking the groceries.
Hurley waits until her stupid blush is gone to say: "Did you really not buy any? I swear I'm going to do the dishes in the next hour or so. A day at the most."
"Addict," Sloane mutters, but the reaches into the bag and pulls out a packet obligingly. "I got some Pop-Tarts too."
"You're an angel," Hurley says fervently, reaching for the box of delicious pizza-y goodness. "What did I do to deserve you?"
"You pay 50% of the rent and make your mom's secret lasagna recipe twice a month," Sloane replies matter-of-factly. "It's entirely a business arrangement."
"That's cold," Hurley complains. She leans in to inspect the Pop-Tarts. Strawberry. Nice.
"Speaking of dinner," Sloane says, stowing a jug of apple juice in the fridge, "I'm going out tonight. Don't wait up."
"Fine." Hurley yawns. Then she catches sight of the clock. "Shit. It's 7 pm already?!"
"The sweet sweet sound of a college student procrastinating before a deadline," Sloane remarks.
Hurley just grumbles in reply. She doesn't say It's not for school because then Sloane might ask questions and she really doesn't want to have to admit she's writing a guest article for the local newspaper about Goldcliff's very own Superhero, because that might lead to some questions about why she's the one writing it. At least with the anonymity of an online chat room there's no risk of her IRL friends ever finding out just how much time she spends fangirling about the Raven.
Not to mention being the founder of The Raven Zone, a newsportal for sightings of the vigilante.
"See you tomorrow," Sloane says, retreating into her bedroom with a bottle of water and an apple. Hurley hears the quiet click of the door locking behind her.
While she waits for the toaster to finish warming her Pop-Tarts, Hurley contemplates life, the universe, and the enigma that is Sloane.
Sloane is, on the whole, a great roommate. She cleans up her own messes and helps with the general chores. She hasn't been late paying the rent money even once and is pretty chill when it comes to shared groceries.
The toaster pops and she grabs her snack and a plate and heads back into her bedroom.
The thing is, though, that Hurley doesn't know if Sloane is her friend. They get along pretty well and they've been living together for almost a year now but they don't really know much about each other.
When Hurley isn't drowning in essays and homework - which isn't very often - she notices that Sloane really isn't around much. It sort of feels like she's working three jobs at once, all with odd hours and the occasional night shift, which would at least explain how she's so casual about grocery money.
Hurley bites into her Pop-Tart, ignoring the inevitable crumbs on her blanket.
She's not much better, she supposes, since Sloane has no idea about her hobby either. When she opens her laptop, the empty word document blinks accusingly at her. Shit.
Frowning, she tries to gather her thoughts. The thing about the Raven, really, is that she's super mysterious. She has an all-black outfit and a badass codename and mask and she could be anyone. (Well, not Hurley, because there's a significant height difference there.) They don't even really know why the Raven does what she does - although Hurley hopes it's some moral sense of justice - just that she appeared about a year ago, feathered mask already in place. She became sort-of-famous for robbing the Goldcliff Trust entirely without injuring a single employee and (anonymously) redistributing part of the wealth to low income families.
Thoughtfully, Hurley opens up her browser and does a quick Google Image search. A number of pictures pop up right away. Most are blurry and low quality, but there's a few decent press shots and Hurley's personal favorite: the selfie the Raven took on a mugger's new iPhone after she caught and restrained him. (That one went viral.)
Maybe she just needs to get inspired.
Eleven hours, three pop tarts, a dozen Hotpockets, a battle of wills with her printer, a quick nap and so much freaking cellotape later, Hurley has a decent rough draft saved to her computer and a huge new collage hanging over her desk. Pride of place is, of course, The Selfie (it deserves the capitalisation), but also various news articles, tweets and pictures of the Raven. There's even a reprint of the wanted poster the police issued a few months back.
It looks pretty cool. Hurley's glad she spent her night on it instead of, you know, getting some sleep.
... Not really. She feels pretty dead.
So when Sloane stops in front of her door on her way to the bathroom and knocks, she can only sort of groan in response.
There's a short silence. "... Hurley? It's a Saturday. Why are you awake before noon?"
"What time is it?" She grumbles.
"6 AM." Hurley groans again. She manfully pretends she can't hear Sloane snicker at her through the closed door. Asshole.
Her roommate redeems herself almost immediately by offering, "I'll get you some coffee."
Hurley ponders what's worse: feeling like a brain dead zombie or the inevitable caffeine crash in a few hours. Meh. That sounds like a problem for Future Hurley.
Sloane knocks on the door again a few minutes later. Hurley should really get up and answer that.
She remains slumped over her desk face down.
After a moment of hesitation, she can hear Sloane press down on the handle and then she opens the door. She's carrying a tray with a giant mug and a sugar dispenser on it and narrows in on the desk she's slumped over immediately. "You look like you just fought a direwolf and lost. Badly."
Hurley yawns. "Is that a Game of Thrones reference?"
"Maybe." Sloane sets the tea set down on the free space next to her elbow and then glances up. Hurley freezes, suddenly far more awake.
"Huh," is all Sloane says, but when Hurley peeks at her she can see that Sloane is staring at the collage, both eyebrows raised.
"I can explain," Hurley says, and she's still tired enough it feels like her tongue is tripping on the words, "it's for... uh. A project? For school."
"I see," Sloane says, in an I'm-totally-judging-you-right-now tone of voice.
Hurley lets her forehead thud against the desk. "Stupid," she mumbles, "who can come up with a good excuse at 6 in the morning anyway?"
Sloane is still staring at the collage. "I like the heart stickers."
"I ran out of cellotape," she lies.
"Uhuh. So, the Raven, huh?"
"This is not a conversation I want to have while sleep deprived," Hurley says, taking a deep chug of her coffee. It's far too hot. She grimaces. "This is not a conversation I want to have at all."
Sloane smirks as she says, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you're a devout fan."
"Great." Hurley glares at the stupid collage. Why did she even make it in the first place? Oh. Right.
"Wait," she says. "Since you're in the know now anyway, mind proofreading something for me?"
"Sure."
Hurley spends the next minutes alternating between almost falling asleep and burning her mouth on coffee as Sloane reads her essay in silence. When she's done, she sets the laptop back onto the bed next to her and crossed her legs. "Well," she says, at length, "I don't know what you were going for, but that reads like a love letter."
"Don't be ridiculous," Hurley responds, but she can already feel a blush starting up. Dammit.
Sloane looks delighted. Hurley foresees some serious teasing in the future. "Anything else?"
Sloane shrugs. "You might want to cut those two paragraphs where you ramble about how cool her outfit is. Also, there were a ton of spelling errors. Don't you have spellcheck on this?"
"I turned it off because all the red was hurting my eyes," Hurley admits.
"Amazing." Sloane gets up and stretches. "I'm going to take my morning shower. If you're staying awake, maybe give the dishes a shot."
Hurley gives her an absent thumbs up, already engrossed in her laptop.
Probably to spite her, Sloane is incredibly cheerful for the rest of the day. Hurley's bitterness is only waylaid by the cups of coffee Sloane keeps bringing her. It's only prolonging the inevitable, but Hurley really doesn't want to deal with a caffeine crash. It's like a hangover minus all the fun the night before. All Hurley has to show for it is this stupid collage... and the article on the Raven she submitted anonymously around noon.
She drags herself out of bed at 6 AM the next day to find Sloane already in the kitchen, sitting on top of the kitchen counter and steadily demolishing a bowl of cornflakes.
"Good morning," Sloane mumbles, and turns her face away to yawn.
Last night's date must have gone well, Hurley thinks, since there's a bruise that looks a lot like a hickey on the side of Sloane's neck. She looks like she's been up all night (hint hint).
Well, it's not really any of her business. Hurley fills a bowl with cereal and absently reaches for the orange juice. When she looks up as she's pouring it, Sloane is shaking her head at her. "Disgusting," her roommate says, but it's mostly fond. Hurley does the adult thing and sticks her tongue out at her.
After breakfast, Hurley goes for a quick jog, then has a shower and returns to the kitchen for her traditional second breakfast. Sloane is still in the kitchen, which is unusual, but Hurley just nods in greeting and starts assembling her reward smoothie.
She checks her phone as she's sipping and almost drops her glass. The Raven Zone is flooded with messages and comments and- oh my god. It's- It's another selfie.
Right there, uploaded on an anonymous twitter account, is a picture of the Raven, mask firmly in place but outfit adorned with some seriously expensive looking jewelry. Hurley can't believe this. Who- who stops for a selfie in the middle of a jewel heist?
"You look like you're having a stroke," Sloane says, positively gleeful.
"More like a gay crisis," Hurley responds absently, eyes still glued to her phone screen. Her roommate chokes on her drink and starts coughing.
A quickly aborted Heimlich maneuver leaves both of them bright red and avoiding eye contact. It's awkward until Sloane laughs self-consciously. "What a great way to start a Monday."
"You're probably being sarcastic," Hurley says, phone in hand and changing her background to the new selfie absently, "but this is probably the best start to my week I could have asked for."
She gets the impression Sloane is laughing at her, but she has no idea why.
The rest of her week, unfortunately, does not go so swimmingly. College kicks her ass in retribution for her doing absolutely zero (0) of the coursework or prep over the weekend. She spends all her free time buried in medical diagrams and memorizing entire textbooks. Sloane is busy too, and they barely see each other all week.
On a rare evening they're not overloaded with work and actually both present and in the same room together, Hurley finishes the last box of Hotpockets with a dramatic sigh and says to Sloane, "How ironic is it going to be if learning to save lives is gonna kill me?"
"Pretty ironic," Sloane allows. She's cradling a cup of coffee and staring down into it like it's holding all the answers in the universe. She blinks herself out of the trance a second later, though, and adds: "You're training to become a paramedic, right?"
"Yeah." She eyes Sloane carefully. "You're not going to tell me I'm an idealistic moron and wasting my time?"
"I think it sounds useful." Sloane frowns. "Who are you quoting?"
Hurley hops onto the kitchen counter and kicks her feet idly. "My mom. She was rooting for me to be a homemaker, like her. That's why she taught me how to make her special lasagna - to quote her, it was so I could catch me a husband and boy she's really barking up the wrong tree there - and why she's always been vaguely disapproving of me doing... anything me, basically." She stares down at the floor moodily.
"That sounds rough, buddy," Sloane offers after a moment of silence.
"God you're bad at that," Hurley says, but she's smiling now. "Comforting people is not your shtick, huh?"
"Excuse you. I'm very good at using a stick on people."
Hurley can't stop the grin widening on her face. "I see puns aren't your forte either."
"Actually I-"
"You can make a fart joke but just know: I intentionally set it up for you."
Sloane huffs a little, running a hand through her ponytail absently. "Where's the fun in that, then?"
Hurley laughs. At the beginning of their acquaintance, she had no idea what an awesome sense of humor was lurking behind that stoic face. She's glad she got the chance to get to know Sloane.
She waits until her blush is gone to get more serious and say: "Everyone has something they're good at, right? I just, I'd like it if mine was helping people. Making the world a better place, even just a little."
Sloane looks at her like she's never seen her before. Like Hurley is an entirely different species and she's the scientist lucky enough to have discovered her. Or like Hurley's a hamster that suddenly started quoting Shakespeare. Either way, the way those dark eyes are locked onto her is intense. She fidgets.
Sloane breaks the spell by glancing at the clock and saying, "It's getting late. I'm heading to bed."
"Good night!" Hurley calls after her.
With the closeness they shared just moments before, the soft click of Sloane looking the door behind her is jarring.
That was... kind of weird. Hurley tries to puzzle out why, exactly, every interaction with Sloane is either as easy as breathing or breathtakingly intense. She gives up on it before too long and heads back to her desk. She can tell when she's procrastinating, after all.
Things calm down a bit after that. Hurley actually has time now to be a Mod on TRZ and catches up on as much fangirling as she can. It's sort of freeing, really, that Sloane knows now. She can finally wear her fanmade the Raven t-shirt around the house (Sloane's incredulous looks can easily be ignored).
She also makes a giant lasagna to make up for the lack of cooking recently. The two of them eat lasagna for breakfast, lunch and dinner for two days straight afterwards but it's so damn good neither of them complains.
"Hurley," Sloane says, after pretty much inhaling the contents of her plate, "you have got to tell me the secret ingredient."
Hurley shakes her head. "It's a family recipe."
"Please. If you ever move out I'm going to go through withdrawal."
"Then bribe me into staying," Hurley says, a smug look on her face even as she cuts up the last few pieces.
"You're addicted to Hotpockets, which I'm buying for you," Sloane points out. "That's one hell of a bargaining chip."
Hurley waves that thought away with a dismissive hand. "I can buy my own."
"And yet you never do." Sloane raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Besides, you're pretty much broke, aren't you?"
"Ugh. Fine. But curse you for bringing my finances into this." She leans in and whispers: "You want to know what the secret ingredient is?"
"Why are we whispering?" Sloane whispers back.
"It seems appropriate," Hurley replies. "The secret ingredients is... pistachios."
Sloane scrutinizes her for a second. "I have a nut allergy."
"You won't be wanting bofa these, then," Hurley shoots right back.
Sloane can't stop her startled laughter. "You're messing with me," she observes.
"You, too. Don't think I don't know what happens to all the cashews I buy. You thief."
"Guilty as charged," Sloane says, with a small private smile on her face.
Hurley has to jerk herself out of staring. "Anyway," she says, clearing her throat, "Dinner. We were having dinner. And we, uh, finished that. But then we were talking about dinner so, uh, let's... do the dishes?"
Sloane is watching her closely. She nods after a moment. When she looks over to the kitchen sink she grimaces. For someone who likes being relatively tidy, Sloane definitely doesn't enjoy the act of cleaning.
Hurley's about to volunteer when Sloane offers: "I'll dry if you clean?"
Surprised, Hurley blinks. "Oh. Yeah, that sounds alright."
They work together in - well, not harmony. But definitely fun chaos. The dishes are done by the end of it, anyway, so it probably doesn't really matter they started a splashing war halfway through.
Hurley's about to retreat into her room with a yawn when Sloane puts her hand on her shoulder to stop her. "If your mom calls this week," Sloane says, "say Hi from me."
"Sure?" Hurley says, confused. Sloane just smiles at her.