NOTHING’S FAIR IN LOVE & WAR

He mirrored her smirk onto his own features, an amused chuckle slipping from him that broke his usual rigid demeanor. Already, her opening line had captured his attention.

"Butcher it, huh." Repeating her words with a nod of his head as he took a long drag of the cigarette. "Been awhile." Since he'd spoken the language consistently, that was. "Think I got my point across, though?" A brow raised with the question.

"Could be all the above," he started, his words laced in a teasing tone to match her own. "But you got me there—Pushkin fanatic. Believe it or not. Don't get me started, we'll be here all night." Not in the slightest, but he'd run with it.

cleo  tipped  her  cigarette  toward  him  like  it  was  a  toast,  eyes  narrowing  just  slightly  in  amusement.

“you  got  your  point  across,”  she  said,  voice  low  and  dry.  “but  if  we’re  grading  on  fluency,  you’re  sitting  at  a  strong  B  minus.  generous  curve.”

she  took  another  drag,  the  smoke  curling  slow  as  her  gaze  lingered  on  him  a  second  too  long.  not  appraising—just…  curious.

“you  don’t  exactly  scream  tortured  poet.”

a  beat.  then  the  barest  smirk  curled  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  again,  the  kind  that  was  more  challenge  than  charm.

“but  i’ve  been  wrong  before.”

she  flicked  ash  off  the  edge  of  her  cigarette,  posture  loose  now,  comfortable  in  a  way  that  didn’t  happen  often—not  with  strangers,  not  outside  of  places  like  this.

“so  what  is  it  then?”  she  asked,  head  tilting  slightly.  “multilingual  habit?  or  just  a  thing  you  do  to  throw  people  off?”

Yeah, that would go over well.

"As for the lack of texts --" he gave the blonde a sidelong glance, eyes flickering over her tense form, " -- didn't realize this was fucking middle school. What, you really miss me that much?" Apparently he was looking for a slap this time around. A sigh escaping his lips then, he turned fully to face her.

"C'mon, don't act all pouty 'cause I got a little busy. You're a doctor, ain't you? You should know all about that."

cleo  let  out  a  soft  snort,  cigarette  tucked  between  her  lips  as  she  angled  her  chin  toward  him,  eyes  narrowed  just  enough  to  say  you  really  want  to  try  me  right  now?

she  took  her  time  with  the  next  drag—slow  inhale,  slower  exhale.  then  finally:

“you’re  not  switzerland.”

a  beat.

“you’re  the  guy  who  shows  up  late  to  the  war,  forgets  why  he’s  fighting,  and  still  wants  credit  for  the  win.”

she  said  it  flatly,  no  heat  in  her  voice—just  that  trademark  cleo  cool,  the  kind  that  made  it  worse  because  she  wasn’t  yelling.  wasn’t  flustered.  just  tired.  and  unamused.

“and  trust  me,”  she  added,  flicking  ash  off  the  end  of  her  cigarette,  “i  don’t  miss  people  who  vanish  like  bad habits.  i  just  don’t  like  being  treated  like  one.”

she  let  that  settle  before  finally  turning  to  look  at  him,  blue  eyes  sharp,  unreadable.

“but  sure,  call  it  middle  school.  lean  into  the  whole  emotionally  stunted  manchild  thing.  it’s  a  good  look.”

another  pause.  then,  with  a  smirk  that  didn’t  quite  reach  her  eyes:

“you  done  being  busy,  or  should  i  pencil  in  your  next  disappearing  act?”

because  she  wasn’t  pouting.

The blonde figure standing outside was one Cel instantly recognized as someone who always seemed to pull at her curiosity. Maybe it was the edge she carried, or something in her eyes that Cel could almost place mirrored her own. Call it curiosity, or hell, as rare as it was for Celestina, call it admiration.

She could have just kept walking, but instead, she paused, tilting her head to meet the gaze of the surgeon. It was her voice, dry humor woven into every word, that made Celestina take a step closer, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Just dropping something off for my brother." Her shoulder lifted and fell in a slight shrug with the mention, as her hands had already busied themselves to retrieve a cigarette from her purse to slip between her lips. "But I will say - I can do two things at once." Smoke and haunt the place, that was—her attempt at a joke back. "Got a light handy?"

It was upon stepping closer to the woman that her green eyes drifted to the red stained collar. "Rough night?"

cleo   didn’t   move   at   first—just   shifted   her   weight   slightly   against   the   brick   wall,   one   heel   of   her   boot   digging   into   the   concrete,   cigarette   still   lit   and   resting   between   two   fingers   like   an   extension   of   her   mood.

“aren’t   you   full   of   surprises.”  cleo   passed   her   lighter   over   wordlessly,   the   flick   of  flame   quick,   practiced.   she   watched   celestina   light   her   cigarette,   blue   eyes   flicking   briefly   to   the   gloss  of   red   at   her   own   collar   as   the   question   came.

“kid   bled   out   before   the   third   unit   could   even   get   in.   wonderboy   panicked.   cut   the   wrong   way.”

no   dramatics.   just   fact.   cleo   didn’t   dress   up   the   dead.

she   took   a   slow   drag,   eyes   lifting   to   meet   celestina’s   again,   something   unreadable   behind   them.

“you   get   used   to   the   mess.   eventually.”

a   beat.

“doesn’t   mean   it   stops   sticking   to   you.”

she   tapped   ash   off   the   end   of   her   cigarette,   gaze   settling   on   her   now   that   they   were   at   arm’s   reach.

“you   always   make   late-night   drop-offs   in   heels?”

At her jab about the Scorpio moon, he gave a mock-offended grunt. “I’ll have you know I’ve dated enough unstable women to be fluent in astrology by osmosis.” Then he paused. “...I don’t know what that means either, but it sounded convincing, right?”

Her Jesus Christ earned a lopsided grin—there for half a second before fading like smoke. He didn’t answer the flirt comment right away. Just flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and muttered, “Didn’t say I was trying to flirt. Just said you seemed like someone who’d threaten a man with tarot cards.”

But then she offered dinner, and that got a lift of his brow. “Deal. But I’m picking the place. And if there’s one horoscope anywhere on the menu, I’m walking out.” In Utah, the idea of horoscopes on menus would be out of this fucking world, but here in Los Angeles, well...He had a date at a restaurant that asked your horoscope in the reservation to base your specialized menu off of. So it wasn't far fetched.

Then her tone shifted—softened just enough to cut through the smoke—and his shoulders stilled. He didn’t look at her at first. Just stared straight ahead. “…Been worse.” It was quiet. Honest. The kind of answer that didn’t need embellishing.

He took another drag, let the silence sit for a second before adding, “What about you? Other than the...obvious." he motioned to her lazily with her hand, quickly dispersing the moment of tired, soft camaraderie for something altogether more dry, just like the man behind the words.

cleo  didn’t  answer  right  away—not  because  she  didn’t  have  one,  but  because  there  was  something  about  that been  worse  that  hit  too  close  to  home.  the  kind  of  honesty  she  wasn’t  used  to  getting  outside  of  trauma  bays  and  toe  tags.

she  let  the  silence  stretch,  just  long  enough  to  feel  real,  before  finally  muttering  around  the  cigarette  between  her  lips:

“yeah.”

a  slow  exhale,  smoke  curling  up  into  the  dark.

“been  worse  too.”

another  beat,  and  just  like  him,  she  shifted  it  right  back—snapping  the  edge  into  place  with  practiced  ease.

“and  for  the  record,  i  don’t  threaten  people  with  tarot cards.”  she  tilted  her  head  his  way,  eyes  flicking  over  him  with  dry  amusement.  “i  threaten  people  with  surgical  tools  and  a  working  knowledge  of  where  the  spleen  is.”

she  took  a  final  drag,  then  let  the  cigarette  drop,  crushing  it  under  her  boot  with  a  quick  grind  of  her  heel.

“you  get  points  for  the  dinner  offer,  though.  assuming you  pick  somewhere  that  doesn’t  give  me  kale  in  the  shape  of  a  personality  quiz.”

her  tone  lightened  with  it,  just  barely—but  it  was  there. cleo  didn’t  hand  out  softness  often,  and  when  she  did,  it  came  laced  in  sarcasm  and  smoke.

“we  can  call  it  a  professional  debrief.  two  emotionally  repressed  healthcare  workers  walk  into  a  restaurant…  sounds  like  the  beginning  of  a  very  tragic  punchline.”

she  glanced  at  him  then,  the  faintest  tug  of  something like  a  grin  pulling  at  her  mouth.  tired,  dry,  but  real.

cleo’s  mouth  twitched,  almost  a  smile.  almost.

“i  think  he  was  hoping  i’d  thank  him  for  the  compliment  and  sit  on  his  lap.”

a  beat.

“unfortunately  for  him,  i’ve  got  better  aim  than  patience.”

she  took  a  long  sip  of  her  drink,  settling  deeper  into  the  booth  like  her  bones  were  just  now  remembering  they  could  relax.  barely.

“today  was…  quieter.  which  means  either  i’m  finally  getting  a  break  or  the  city’s  about  to  go  to  shit  again.”

a  pause.  then,  softer—just  barely:

“but  yeah.  better  than  yesterday.”

cleo  let  her  eyes  meet  dee’s  across  the  table.

“thanks  for  showing  up.”

she  looked  away  like  it  was  nothing.

“again.”

because  she  might  not  be  sentimental,  but  cleo  didn’t  miss  things.  especially  not  when  someone  made  time  for  her  in  a  life  where  most  people  never  stuck  around.

Still, she always turned up for Cleo, appreciating the little time her friend had and so whenever she was free, she liked to put the effort in there. Especially when she could always feel that she needed it.

"That's okay, you know sometimes this is the best part of my week." she admits, knowing that no doubt sounded terrible, but she didn't want Cleo to think it was a chore for her, because it wasn't.

"If being bored with the usual is trying to bat my three cats off of my curtains, then yeah, definitely bored." she joked, knowing that sounded completely crazy but so were the little needle claw holes she had covering her blackouts. She couldn't be mad, however.

She lifted her glass, "Here's hoping this is you finally getting that break." she spins back in relation to Cleo's day, though she knew it was far too optimistic for her line of work and so, "For another ten hours, won't push it too much."

cleo  let  out  a  soft  huff  of  a  laugh,  that  rare  one  she  didn’t  let  just  anyone  hear—low,  brief,  the  kind  that  said  you  got  me.  she  swirled  her  glass  a  little  before  taking  another  sip,  eyes  flicking  sideways  toward  dee  with  that  flicker  of  appreciation  she  rarely  bothered  putting  into  words.

“he  didn’t  just  turn—he  damn  near  sprinted.  guess  bedside  threats  aren’t  in  the  flirting  handbook.”

she  leaned  back  in  the  booth,  a  little  more  relaxed  now,  the  edge  in  her  shoulders  softening  with  the  slow burn  of  whiskey  and  the  comfort  of  company  she  didn’t  have  to  explain  herself  to.

“and  hey—don’t  say  that  like  it’s  depressing,”  she  added,  glancing  over  again,  this  time  with  something  a  little  warmer  behind  the  sarcasm.  “you  showing  up?  best  part  of  mine  too.”

she  said  it  casually,  like  it  didn’t  mean  anything,  but  she  didn’t  say  things  she  didn’t  mean.  cleo  didn’t  have  time  for  sentiment—but  she  had  time  for  dee.  and  that said  more  than  enough.

“three  cats  and  blackout  curtains?”  she  gave  her  a  mock  look  of  judgment.  “jesus,  dee.  next  you’re  gonna tell  me  they  have  their  own  room.”

she  raised  her  glass  in  turn,  clinking  it  gently  against  dee’s  with  a  small,  crooked  smile.

where:  sip  happens

the  bar  was  dim,  the  kind  of  place  that  didn’t  ask  questions  and  didn’t  care  about  the  blood  on  your  collar.  cleo  slid  into  her  usual  spot  at  the  far  end,  back to  the  wall,  view  of  the  door.

one  whiskey  in,  and  the  tight  coil  in  her  chest  still  hadn’t  loosened.

her  scrubs  were  swapped  for  black  jeans  and  a  leather  jacket,  but  the  exhaustion  clung  to  her  like  smoke.  a  cigarette  burned  in  the  ashtray  beside  her,  lipstick-stained  glass  in  front  of  her,  untouched  but  necessary.

she’d  stitched  up  two  gang  members,  held  a  kid’s  heart  in  her  hands  for  twenty  minutes,  and  told  a  mother  her  son  didn’t  make  it—all  before  midnight.

sip  happens  was  the  only  place  she  let  herself  fall  apart,  and  even  then,  only  in  the  quietest  ways.  a  drink.  a  drag.  a  silence  no  one  dared  to  interrupt.

so  when  someone  slid  into  the  space  beside  her,  she  didn’t  look.  didn’t  move.  just  lifted  her  glass  and  even  then,  only  in  the  quietest  ways.  a  drink.  a  drag.  a  silence  no  one  dared  to  interrupt.

Which all things considered was a rarity.

As he caught the bartender's gaze - one who had asked if Nico wanted his usual, his attention soon after shifted towards Cleo as she spoke, "Never interested unless you're being paid, huh, doc?" there was a joke hidden underneath somewhere, a response that had Nico therefore asking for the blonde's glass to be filled when she was done.

"Shit day?" he asked, it was better than telling her she looked like shit, after all.

cleo  didn’t  turn  to  look  at  him  right  away—just  raised  her  glass  as  the  bartender  refilled  it,  a  silent  thanks  that  came  with  zero  eye  contact.

“i  like  to  keep  my  standards  high,”  she  said,  tone  dry  as  sandpaper.  “so  yeah,  if  there’s  no  paycheck  or  pulse  on  the  line,  i’m  usually  not  interested.”

the  sip  that  followed  was  long  and  slow,  a  quiet  pause  that  stretched  just  long  enough  to  let  him  think  she  might  not  say  anything  else.

but  then,  with  a  glance  his  way—sharp  and  sideways,  the  corner  of  her  mouth  lifting  just  enough—

“and  yeah,  shit  day.”  another  sip.  a  shrug.  “they  usually  are.”

then  she  tilted  her  head  toward  him,  brow  raised  ever  so  slightly.

cleo  didn’t  look  at  him  right  away.  just  leaned  her  shoulder  harder  into  the  brick  wall,  eyes  on  the  dark  stretch  of  street  in  front  of  them.  the  cigarette  burned  low  between  her  fingers,  ash  clinging  to  the  edge  like  it  knew  better  than  to  fall.

“kid  was  already  circling  the  drain  when  he  came  in.  wonderboy  just  gave  him  a  shove.”

her  voice  was  flat.  not  cruel—just  tired.  the  kind  of  tired  that  settled  in  your  bones  and  made  itself  at  home.

she  finally  glanced  over,  a  half-smirk  tugging  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth.

“i  had  a  granola  bar  twelve  hours  ago,  so  i’m  basically  thriving.”

another  drag.  slow  inhale.  long  exhale.

“don’t  worry,  though.  i’m  supplementing  with  rage  and  a  personality  disorder.”

she  flicked  ash  toward  the  pavement,  then  turned  her  head  to  look  at  him  fully.  blue  eyes  sharp,  even  under  the  weight  of  everything  else.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I should’ve stayed in the Navy. At least there the incompetence had a dress code.” He shifted his weight against the wall, shoulder brushing brick as he angled slightly toward her, watching as she flicked the ash.

“Twelve hours ago? That’s basically gourmet around here,” he said dryly, glancing at the untouched vending machine glowing like a sad little beacon through the ER doors. “Although rage and a personality disorder are hell of a pairing. Let me guess—Scorpio moon?” He had no clue what that meant, but he had heard his sister say it at some point.

"Damn, Petrov, if you want me to take you out to dinner so bad, all you had to do was ask." Gone was the solemness that had been present only a moment ago, now replaced with a cocky grin and an attempt at levity. It was the only way to stay sane, the only way to keep the 15 year old boys in trauma bay 3 from going home with you. Although, they always did anyways.

cleo  huffed  out  a  laugh,  low  and  dry,  smoke  curling  from  her  lips  as  she  gave  him  a  look—half  amused,  half  exasperated.

“you?  in  the  navy?  now  that’s  a  mental  image.  all  shaved  head  and  bad  attitude—bet  you  were  a  nightmare  for  your  CO.”

she  tilted  her  head  toward  him,  arching  a  brow  at  the  scorpio  moon  comment,  eyes  glinting  with  that  dry,  unimpressed  humor  she  wielded  so  well.  “you  have  no  idea  what  that  means,  do  you?”

but  then  he  hit  her  with  that  grin,  and  cleo  rolled  her  eyes  so  hard  it  was  a  miracle  she  didn’t  sprain  something.  “jesus  christ.”

“this  your  idea  of  flirting,  hatch?”  she  asked  flatly,  smoke  curling  from  her  lips  again.  “because  i  gotta  tell you,  the  trauma  bay  pickup  lines  aren’t  working.”  a  beat,  then  a  wry  little  grin,  crooked  and  slow.  “but  i’ll  let  you  buy  me  dinner  if  you  stop  trying  to  guess  my birth  chart.”

"No, no, no. Do I look like I sing? Because I don't, I'm just here to drink." Parker insisted as he tried to get his jacket off, eager to sit down and have a glass of something expensive until he stopped feeling so tense. "I want to relax and singing? Not my version of that. I thought about hitting up the spa for a massage, but my regular masseuse was stating to give me looks and I've been humming the spa music." Which didn't mean he wanted to sing, just that he needed to find his zen somewhere else and chances were that his complaining would soon drive the other person away and grant him some peace. "Hey, you ever heard of ASMR?"

cleo  didn’t  even  bother  looking  up  at  first—just  tipped  her  glass  against  her  lips  and  let  the  silence  stretch  out  for  a  second,  as  if  deciding  whether  she  was  in  the  mood  to  entertain  whatever  energy  this  was.

“you  talk  a  lot  for  someone  who  claims  they  want  peace,”  she  said  finally,  side-eye  sharp  and  bone-dry  as  she  glanced  his  way.

she  took  another  sip,  then  leaned  back  a  little,  shoulder  brushing  the  worn  leather  of  the  booth  like  it  was  the  only  thing  keeping  her  upright.

“you’re  lucky  i’m  too  tired  to  move,  otherwise  i’d’ve  already  ditched  you  and  your  spa  playlist.”  a  beat,  then  she  raised  a  brow,  finally  letting  a  smirk  tug  at  her  mouth.  “and  yeah,  i’ve  heard  of  asmr.  didn’t  know whining  counted.” she  tossed  the  rest  of  her  drink  back  and  rested  the  empty  glass  on  the  table  with  a  soft  clink.

where:  silverlake  general,  hospital  breakroom

the  fluorescent  lights  buzzed  faintly  overhead,  humming  in  sync  with  the  headache  behind  cleo’s  eyes.  her  scrubs  were  wrinkled,  stained  somewhere  near  the  hip  with  something  she  didn’t  care  enough  to  identify,  and  her  high  bun  was  starting  to  give  up  the  fight.  but  she  was  upright.  mostly.

she  dropped  into  the  plastic  chair  across  from  taylor  like  she’d  just  run  a  damn  marathon.  which,  honestly,  wasn’t  that  far  off.

“if  i  have  to  sew  one  more  drunk  asshole  back  together,  i’m  gonna  start  charging  out  of  pocket.  no  insurance,  no  problem—just  hand  me  your  wallet  and  we’ll  call  it  even.”

cleo  leaned  back,  cracking  open  a  lukewarm  energy  drink  like  it  was  a  bottle  of  champagne.  her  eyes  flicked  over  to  taylor,  catching  just  enough  of  the  familiar  look  in  her  face  to  ease  the  edge  in  her  own.

“you  get  hit  with  the  friday  night  curse  too,  or  am  i  the  only  one  who  pulled  trauma  roulette  tonight?”

She let out a snort into her water bottle, eyes rolling as Cleo mention the drunk assholes, that Taylor was all too familiar with. “Yeah,” she muttered, leaning back to rest her head against the cabinets, “had a guy earlier who tried to jump a parkin' garage ramp on a Segway.”

She paused with her lips twitching slightly. “Didn’t make it. Broke his pride... and his femur.”

She took another sip, the water washing down the granola bar she just finished. Taylor glanced over at the blonde. "Nah, you win tonight. That chest tube earlier? Looked like you were pulled straight out of a slasher flick." She paused for a beat. "Honestly, you should charge extra. Call it an emotional damage fee."

cleo  let  out  a  low  laugh,  pinching  the  bridge  of  her  nose  like  just  the  memory  of  it  was  enough  to  trigger  a  headache.

“god,  the  chest  tube,”  she  muttered,  voice  hoarse  with exhaustion.  “i  think  i’ve  seen  less  blood  at  a  crime  scene.  guy  flinched  halfway  through  and  i  nearly  stabbed  myself.”

she  leaned  back  against  the  counter  beside  taylor,  one  arm  folded,  the  other  still  loosely  holding  her  coffee  like  it  was  the  only  thing  keeping  her  heart  beating. “segway  stunt  gone  wrong,  though?  that’s  next-level.”  she  glanced  over,  eyes  narrowing  with  a  dry  smile.  “and  they  say  we’re  the  crazy  ones.”

a  beat.

“emotional  damage  fee’s  not  a  bad  idea,  actually.”  she looked  at  taylor  now,  eyes  gleaming  just  a  little  despite how  done  she  was.  “or  a  ‘held  your  guts  in  with  my  bare  hands’  surcharge.  minimum  ten  percent  tip.”

then,  quieter—teasing,  but  not  unkind:

where:  sip  happens

the  bar  was  dim,  the  kind  of  place  that  didn’t  ask  questions  and  didn’t  care  about  the  blood  on  your  collar.  cleo  slid  into  her  usual  spot  at  the  far  end,  back to  the  wall,  view  of  the  door.

one  whiskey  in,  and  the  tight  coil  in  her  chest  still  hadn’t  loosened.

her  scrubs  were  swapped  for  black  jeans  and  a  leather  jacket,  but  the  exhaustion  clung  to  her  like  smoke.  a  cigarette  burned  in  the  ashtray  beside  her,  lipstick-stained  glass  in  front  of  her,  untouched  but  necessary.

she’d  stitched  up  two  gang  members,  held  a  kid’s  heart  in  her  hands  for  twenty  minutes,  and  told  a  mother  her  son  didn’t  make  it—all  before  midnight.

sip  happens  was  the  only  place  she  let  herself  fall  apart,  and  even  then,  only  in  the  quietest  ways.  a  drink.  a  drag.  a  silence  no  one  dared  to  interrupt.

so  when  someone  slid  into  the  space  beside  her,  she  didn’t  look.  didn’t  move.  just  lifted  her  glass.

mick was back at the bar, same spot, same view of the room, eyes scanning without ever seeming to move. it had become part of his routine these past few days, what he half seriously referred to as market research. the bar was a smart pick, tucked just far enough off the main drag to draw in the kind of patrons who didn’t want to be seen, yet always managed to bring stories worth hearing. if you had the patience to listen past the barked laughter and the scrape of pool cues, you’d find that people had a way of letting secrets slip between sips.

he saw her the moment she walked in, leather and a sharp edge. the blonde made her way to the bar, and he waited until she was close before sliding his empty glass under the counter, claiming the seat beside her. his focus was on the bartender, a silent signal for a fresh pour “what happened to small talk and foreplay?” he finally replied before knocking the whiskey back, savoring the slow burn down his throat.

“your bike’s ready” he said, eyes still front “first time with your car? that was on me. i had a point to prove” and he had - mick’s favors were never without motive, and his pride didn’t take kindly to being underestimated “cash only. personal reasons”

cleo  didn’t  flinch  when  he  slid  in  next  to  her.  didn’t  turn  to  look  either—just  took  a  slow  sip  of  her  drink  and  let  him  talk.

“wasn’t  in  the  mood  for  foreplay.”

a  beat.

“figured  you’d  appreciate  the  honesty.”

she  exhaled  through  her  nose,  just  short  of  a  laugh,  but  it  didn’t  quite  reach  her  mouth.  the  mention  of  her bike  had  her  fingers  tapping  the  edge  of  her  glass—habit,  not  nerves.

“so  it  was  a  stunt,”  she  muttered,  blue  eyes  cutting  toward  him  now,  sharp  and  unreadable.  “thought  so.  you’ve  got  that  smug  ‘teach  her  a  lesson’  thing  down  to  an  art.”

another  sip.  she  didn’t  seem  mad,  exactly.  more  like  amused  and  annoyed  in  equal  parts.  but  not  surprised.

“next  time  you  want  to  prove  a  point,  just  piss  on  the  tire  like  a  normal  alpha  male.”

the  silence  after  lingered  a  second  too  long,  and  then  she  added,  tone  cooler  now—calculated:

“cash’s  not  a  problem.”

because  of  course  it  wasn’t.  she  didn’t  do  debt.  didn’t  do  favors.  and  definitely  didn’t  let  men  think  they  had  something  hanging  over  her.

she  finally  turned  her  full  attention  to  him,  meeting  that  weight  of  his  stare  head-on.

where:  sip  happens

the  bar  was  half-empty,  lights  dimmed  low,  and  the  hum  of  an  old  jukebox  filled  the  space  in  place  of  conversation.  cleo  had  her  boots  kicked  up  on  the  stool  across  from  her,  half  a  whiskey  in  one  hand  and  a  cigarette  slowly  burning  in  the  other.

she  didn’t  talk  much  when  she  first  walked  in.  just  nodded  at  the  bartender,  claimed  her  usual  spot,  and  said  “the  usual.”  they  knew  what  that  meant.

by  the  time  dee  slid  into  the  booth  across  from  her,  cleo  had  already  worked  through  most  of  her  drink.

“you’re  late,”  she  said  without  looking  up,  tone  dry  but not  unkind.  “missed  the  guy  who  told  me  i  looked  like  i  ‘carry  a  lot  of  emotional  baggage,  but  in  a  hot  way.’”

a  beat.  the  faintest  flicker  of  a  smirk  tugged  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth.

“i  told  him  i  carry  a  scalpel,  too.  he  left  real  fast.”

Sipping her wine before placing it down on the table before her she soon leaned back, a chuckle escaping softly as she shook her head - more at the scalpel of it all, the rest? Well that was just cringey.

"You think that was supposed to impress you?" she rolled her eyes in amusement, "Can't say I'm surprised." at the lack of any taste these days, it wasn't even disappointing because who was actually placing men on pedestals?

"How was your day? Hoping better than yesterday?" she asked, her gaze staying on Cleo's as she reached for her glass.

cleo’s  mouth  twitched,  almost  a  smile.  almost.

“i  think  he  was  hoping  i’d  thank  him  for  the  compliment  and  sit  on  his  lap.”

a  beat.

“unfortunately  for  him,  i’ve  got  better  aim  than  patience.”

she  took  a  long  sip  of  her  drink,  settling  deeper  into  the  booth  like  her  bones  were  just  now  remembering  they  could  relax.  barely.

“today  was…  quieter.  which  means  either  i’m  finally  getting  a  break  or  the  city’s  about  to  go  to  shit  again.”

a  pause.  then,  softer—just  barely:

“but  yeah.  better  than  yesterday.”

cleo  let  her  eyes  meet  dee’s  across  the  table.

“thanks  for  showing  up.”

she  looked  away  like  it  was  nothing.

“again.”

because  she  might  not  be  sentimental,  but  cleo  didn’t  miss  things.  especially  not  when  someone  made  time  for  her  in  a  life  where  most  people  never  stuck  around.

Standing outside the bar, Aslan's attention seemed to be captured entirely by the phone call that was taking far longer than necessary, he deemed. Though he was acutely aware of the presence of the woman several feet away. It wasn't the first time he had crossed paths with her here, though they never spoke. He simply knew she kept to herself—always tucked away in a quiet corner, a creature of habit, perhaps.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, his gaze drifting briefly over his shoulder to catch her eye for a fleeting moment. Without a word, he took it upon himself to put some distance between them, though not out of any particular reason other than to finish his call. The conversation had taken a familiar turn—Russian, rolling smoothly off his tongue for the European associate he was speaking to. "Ne opazdyvay," he muttered as he'd began to return to his previous position, lowering the phone to tuck into his suit jacket.

she  hadn’t  planned  on  talking  to  him.  same  as  every  other  time  they’d  ended  up  outside  the  bar  at  the  same  hour,  same  side-eye  distance,  same  mutual  silence.

but  then  he  opened  his  mouth.  and  russian  rolled  off  his  tongue  like  it  belonged  there.

cleo’s  brow  ticked,  just  barely.

“you  know,  most  people  try  english  first.”

she  flicked  ash  off  the  end  of  her  cigarette,  leaning  one  shoulder  back  against  the  brick  wall,  eyes  still  on  him  now  that  he’d  turned.

“but  i  gotta  say,  it’s  nice  hearing  someone  else  curse  in  my  language  for  once.”

a  slow  drag.  she  exhaled  smoke  like  punctuation  before adding,

“you  butcher  it  a  little,  though.”

a  beat.

“it’s  kind  of  charming.”

her  voice  was  calm,  even—like  she  hadn’t  just  gone  from  silently  ignoring  him  to  calling  him  out  in  the  space  of  thirty  seconds.  but  that  was  cleo.  if  she  noticed  something,  she  said  it.  especially  if  it  made  things  more  interesting.

“so  what’s  your  excuse?  russian  ex?  shady  business  deal?  secret  obsession  with  pushkin?”