The NosNet

She had been told that she was in the right place. There wasn’t any real way to know, of course; she simply had to trust the neighbors in the valley below her were telling her the truth. But she needed help, so she had to try. There was nothing else for her to do.

The farm house that Azrael found was not what one would expect a farm to look like, honestly. Farms evoked a certain image - flat, open pastures, full of cattle or horses, red barns, white fences, y’know, farms - and the area that Azrael found herself driving through certainly didn’t fit the picture she’d had in her head when she’d been told to find a place called OVERLOOKED FARMS. She was just East of Morgantown, West Virginia, a town where the foothills of the mountains gave way into the flats plains of Middle America, and the mountains that rose in the east were cut into by roads and, yes, farms. She passed a few, at first, the foothills still holding large swaths of flat land to put pastures on, and these made enough sense. She could see how one could raise something large like a cow on that kind of land. But her map said she needed to head further into the mountains, and she watched the roads in front of her snake up further and further, and she couldn’t help but question why anyone would build a farm out there.

She put the question away, however, the roads snaking her around one hill and down into a valley. It wouldn’t help her to question why anyone would build something out in the middle of fuckall nowhere if that was the reason they could help her with her problems. She wasn’t sure if the horse was a gift, yet, but it felt premature to be thinking about the state of it’s mouth, especially considering the circumstances. Her hands tightened slightly around the wheel of her truck as she took another slow turn around a snaked bend; she needed this. She could see the little holler she’d gotten in contact with originally, passing under her as she drove over a lonely little bridge, and she briefly watched it as she crossed. On the other side, a sign on a side road declared the name she was looking for - OVERLOOKED FARMS - in grayed and dirty lettering. She turned, following the winding path into, of all things, a bank of trees, taking it slowly as the road shifted to dirt and gravel almost as soon as she turned off the main road.

It seemed, from the way the road worked its way upward, that the farmhouse sat on the top of a low hill; Azrael could still see the shadow of the mountains in the distance, looming over them like wraiths against the darkness of the night, only visible by the lack of stars. The path snaked, and fences appeared, little flat steps into the mountain sectioned off with decaying fencing and barbed wire; Azrael slowed, watching a small herd of horses trot over to the edge of one pasture as she passed, curious about the new car that was driving passed their home. She couldn’t see well into the pasture from the trees, but she could see that they had large swathes of space, and they were as well protected as one could get, building pastures into the side of a mountain. It was, at least, a good sign that Az was in the right place - her contact down below her had said she was looking for a horsewoman, a cavalry rider from the old days. She wondered, briefly, if it was anyone she knew from the old days - maybe that would help her, she thought. Maybe, if they were already friends, they’d tell Azrael yes without question.

See, Azrael was in need of room, and board, and maybe a little emotional help, for a variable amount of time, and not for her, either. She didn’t know how long the stay would end up being, but she knew it would be months or possibly years rather than days, and she knew it had to be with a Kindred - anything else would be dangerous at best, and a breech of the one sacred rule most Kindred shared at worst. The issue was Azrael’s childe, Naomi Arnott; she was in pretty desperate need of some time to reflect and process and recover from her own, harrowing, ordeals, and she wasn’t going to be able to do it from the middle of a sword-fight against an infernalist. Notably, her harrowing ordeals included an escape from her home country while pursued by a vengeful ex, and an unfortunate diablrie with emotional consequences, and no small amount of blood and fighting to get there, to name a few. She’d been through a lot. But, having been through a lot, she wasn’t exactly in the best shape, and certainly in no shape to help Azrael hunt infernalists, so they needed to find somewhere that she could stay where she could take time to mend herself emotionally, mentally, and physically. Neither had escaped uninjured. Azrael had, thus, put out feelers to any Salubri that might have space, and while the one she’d found initially didn’t have any, they knew someone who did. They lived in what they’d called a holler, up in the mountains, full of other Kindred that just wanted peace and quiet away from the nonsense that was city politics, and their leader, as it were - or, at least, the land owner - had extra space. She’d been told to find the white-haired horse woman that lived at the top of the mountain and inquire there.

It felt very… fantastical. A white haired sage of wisdom living at the top of a mountain, ready to receive strangers for healing and personal growth? One that lived up a winding road that split its way between trees that seemed older than the world itself? That was a plot from a novel, not real life. But Azrael knew that real life and fiction often overlapped, and she’d met her fair share of white-haired Kindred in her time, so it wasn’t that out of left field. Not every Kindred was sired young, and not everyone kept their hair color into their later years. She tried to mentally run through everyone she’d known that had white hair, and while there were a few options, she couldn’t really place who it would be; everyone she could think of was dead, or missing, or, well. One could have been alive, and could have been living there, but to hope to see that woman again was a fickle thought Azrael didn’t want to entertain with any seriousness; it had been hundreds of years, and it was likely she was off in a different corner of the world by then. It helped with the fantastical feeling that the drive up to the farm was winding, but otherwise normal. She’d have been more nervous had there been a staircase. Or an entrance with stone lions. All she’d seen were black oak and cedar trees, tall and old and reaching but otherwise doing what trees usually did.

She did have to dodge another truck, coming down the mountain. It did not contain a white haired anyone, but it did contain what looked to be a furious redhead, and from the fact that she was driving at a speed that would be considered dangerous on those roads for even Kindred standards and she clearly didn’t see Azrael’s car as she blew past, Azrael figured it wasn’t her woman. She was probably best left to work off whatever steam she’d built up on her own terms.

The farmhouse appeared from the trees after several minutes of empty dirt road, the clearing it sat in large enough for the structure itself, a barn behind it, and what looked to be a small pasture or arena out behind them both. The house itself was old looking, two story, colonial in design, with a wrapped porch around one side and a large, single tree in the front yard, exposed beams dark and dingy with age. The driveway, once it reappeared from the tree lined section, was gravel, and Azrael heard her car tires crunch as she slowly pulled into what she was pretty sure was the parking lot. There was enough space for a few cars; clearly, hosting other people was not entirely out of pocket for the owner of the house. Likely, they boarded other people’s horses, and needed the space to park cars and turn trailers. Azrael pulled in, parked, and hopped out of the car without any pomp or flourish; she was just in jeans, a t-shirt, and a red flannel, which made her look far too normal. Luckily, the eye in the center of her forehead made her look much, much less like an average human being. She would have cared more if she hadn’t been explicitly working with other Kindred, but knowing her audience, she didn’t bother to hide herself. Sure, they were a rare breed, but Azrael didn’t live in fear of other Kindred, not even the ones that genocided her clan. She’d kill them just as happily.

Three steps up led to the porch, where furniture sat - a small wicker loveseat, a rocking chair, and a smattering of cheap plastic folding chairs - spaced to observe mostly the front yard but also partially the barn. A few horses stuck heads from windows in their stalls, curious, and Azrael paused as they did, the movement catching her eye. One horse was tall, having to duck it’s head just to get it out of the window, large and gray and irritated already, ears back and something mean to it’s dappled face. It saw Azrael, and started to throw it’s head up and down, like a nod, a greeting, or possibly a threat, whinnying loudly as it caught sight of the woman on the porch. Azrael stared in return, because something in her head… clicked. She knew that horse. She knew that irritable fuckass of a horse - she’d worked with her, back during the Crusades. She knew those teeth anywhere - they’d tried to take a chunk out of her at least once, and they’d succeeded on several of her teammates at the time. But, that meant… no, it couldn’t. Azrael couldn’t hope like that. The owner, well, she hadn’t seen the other woman in so, so long, but her face stuck fast in Azrael’s head like a specter she couldn’t shake, the lingering smell of lavender and hay in her nose. Her chest squeezed, a burst of nerves suddenly in her hands, the need to know potent and severe, to confirm that the shadow that had been haunting her finally had a source of light she could bask in, and that the woman she had worried was dead for so long was possibly behind that door.

She only got a second to think, however, as the door threw itself open a moment later. The owner, having heard the horses and the tires on the gravel, clearly wanted to address the situation, but she tossed the door open with the vitriol of someone who was starting mad and getting madder by the second. “I said we’re fucking done, you piss-ass cock-sucking—” The woman was full of vitriol and venom, spitting the words with her eyes closed like she was prepared to take a punch to the face, and then she opened her eyes, and the redhead at the door was not the redhead at the door that she’d expected, and she stopped dead. Azrael didn’t interject, also startled into silence, because… because she knew the woman in front of her. Elizabeth Byrnes. They’d worked together during the Crusades, and Azrael considered her a dear friend - even if her chest clenched hard at the sight of the woman. Even if she hadn’t had a morning where she’d not thought of the short, white haired spitfire woman she’d met hundreds of years ago, even if the other woman’s three eyes hadn’t haunted her from the second they’d met - and she was standing in front of Azrael, as alive as a Kindred could be, not dead somewhere. Relief flooded Azrael’s system without her consent - Elizabeth had survived, she’d made it that far, she’d made a home for herself, she was thriving; she hadn’t realized how terrified she’d been of the alternative until she was sure it hadn’t happened - but then she got a good chance to actually look at the woman, and the relief strangled itself on her concern. Elizabeth was, as far as she could tell, not physically well, and recently injured, to boot. She had dark blood dripping languidly from her temple, staining her hair, and bruises forming on her jaw, eye, and the visible part of her neck. The tank-top she was in was half-torn at the bottom, and her shorts were splattered with dark blood. There was no telling what other injuries lurked under the skin, or under her shirt.

“Oh shite, you’re not Tanwen.” Elizabeth breathed, realizing that she had the wrong redhead, and there was long second of silence, as she processed the face in front of her. In a voice that said she remembered Azrael just as well, if not better, than the other woman had, she spoke again, almost leaning out of the threshold as she did, “A-Azrael? You’re—it’s Az, right? From the Crusades?” She asked, and Azrael felt her throat catch as she tried to speak because… because she’d remembered, too. It wasn’t one sided. Azrael hadn’t spent the past eight hundred years thinking about someone who didn’t give two fucks about her in return.

“Aye.” Az said, and Elizabeth stepped back, quickly giving Azrael space to step inside. She took it, stepping into the little house; it was very homey, and very horse themed, the foyer featuring a set of sunflowers and some framed photos of horses in a field. “It’s been a long time, Elizabeth Byrnes.” She added, sure in the name enough to just drop it at Elizabeth’s feet. She watched the other lock, and deadbolt, the door, before the woman turned with a smile on her face that was almost delighted to be remembered. It was hard to keep serious, even with the woman’s injuries, at that smile. “I hope things have been better than your current situation makes them look.” She paused, taking in Elizabeth’s face as the other woman pushed past her and into the house.

“Oh, this? This is…” Elizabeth started, trying to dismiss the injury; however, Azrael followed her into the main room, and the protest died in Elizabeth’s throat. The main room was a mess. The larger furniture was askew, with a few chairs on their backs. A vase lay broken on the floor; the coffee table’s glass inset was cracked and shattered in a few places. Books lay open, pages crumpled, and other sundry decorations littered the walls and floor in ways that said they’d been all but launched from their home. It looked like a tornado had gone through. Elizabeth pressed her lips together in a thing line, quite the figure, standing amid the carnage with a bloody head and visible injuries, before she spoke again. “Tanwen just left. You might’ve passed her on the road.”

“Ah.” Azrael said, trying to ignore the gravity to Elizabeth’s voice as she stepped into the room. She quietly went over, righting one of the seats and brushing the back off. “I see the dating life is still as agreeable to her as it has ever been.” She said, leaning on the back of the chair and trying, desperately, to figure out a way to get the itch out of her hands. Tanwen had always been Elizabeth’s demon, for what it was worth, and Azrael had harbored the distinct desire to put the other woman’s head on a pike for long enough that putting it away was hard. If they hadn’t been dating, it would have been on sight. But at the words, Elizabeth laughed, stepping back over to the broom that sat against one wall. Clearly, she’d been cleaning.

“Oh, no, we broke up. Again.” Elizabeth said, and she gestured to the room, the scattered contents and broken pieces evidence of the fact that they split. She sighed, leaning on the broom. “It’s… complicated, but that’s… that’s Tanwen for ya.” She shook her head. “Figure you don’t have time for th’details, anyway. You’ve got the Nox, still, I imagine?” She asked, and it was curious, but sad, a distance option so far away she couldn’t have grabbed it if she’d wanted to anymore. A wistfulness for a better time she’d lost. Azrael pursed her lips, moving to right the sofa, before taking a seat on it and patting the space next to her. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“I have the Nox, yes, and I have business I want to ask you about.” Azrael started, and she watched Elizabeth’s shoulders droop, lightly, and for some reason, that hurt her. She shook her head at the disappointment, however. “But, if you have time to talk, Elizabeth, I have time to listen. It’s been over eight-hundred years; I can afford an hour.” She paused again, watching Elizabeth consider the offer, before she started to gingerly pick her way around the sofa to sit. She was distant, like she was certain she’d find herself in another mess if she didn’t keep it. “I can heal those wounds of yours while you tell me, if you would like. I know Tanwen does not know Obeah, and you shouldn’t suffer her anger for as long as it would take to heal them.” She offered. Elizabeth considered it, but it took her a long moment to make any decision; clearly, she was weighing the need to be healthy against the embarrassment of it all, and luckily, the needs prevailed and she shifted closer. Azrael’s hands were gentle, tender, as she started to heal the cuts and scrapes on Elizabeth’s arms.

“I… well, you’d be proud of me. I sort of have my own little coterie, now.” Elizabeth started, watching Azrael’s gentle fingers ghost over her arm, the cuts and bruises vanishing like she was washing away dirt. It was intimate, and it would have only been moreso had there been a running stream and less clothes. Elizabeth pressed down on the feeling it brought in her chest, keeping her body stiff to compensate. Especially when Azrael’s smile was, in fact, proud. “The neighborhood, underneath the house. Locals call it a holler. All Kindred, been here since before the state. I’m not… no one’s in charge, but I’ve been battlin’ the state long as it’s been around, so they trust me t’help keep their affairs in order, and I’ve done my best t’keep the government’s hands out of our business.” Elizabeth chuckled.

“It was one of your coterie who told me to find you.” Azrael said, and Elizabeth raised both eyebrows, like she was surprised that Azrael was even looking. “We can get to my problems shortly, but they treat you like a leader, and think highly of you.”

“They’re pretty tight-knit.” Elizabeth shrugged, trying not to pull her arm out of Azrael’s healing hands. “But… one recently got ashed. Nobody’s fault, nobody’s business. Family stuff went rotten, far as any of us understand. But it meant there’s space there, now. Holler’s got a finite cap - I can only afford so much land, or care for so many Kindred. And… admittedly, I added the cap the first time Tanwen asked t’move in. Figured if I lied, said I could only hold so many, she’d stop pressin’, which, for her credit, she did.”

“But then, when a spot opened up, she redoubled her efforts.” Azrael filled in, understanding. She shifted closer, moving up Elizabeth’s arm, and the other nodded.

“I know she doesn’t actually want t’live in the holler.” Elizabeth sighed, deeply, looking out at the mess that was her house. From the way it didn’t seem to bother her, it was clear that this wasn’t the first time - nor would it likely be the last. “She doesn’t like any of those people. She’s just got this bug up her butt that she has t’be close t’me, or I’ll stray. Always has. Threw a fit when I asked her to move north the first time, but I was tryin’ t’keep a low profile, and subtle that woman is not.” She shook her head. “Eventually, had to tell her she wasn’t movin’ in because I couldn’t trust her, and that… well, she blew up, as per usual, and I told her I was done with her shite. This… this is what she left me with.” Elizabeth shrugged. “Don’t know how long it’ll last, but…”

“The offer is open.” Azrael said, softly, her fingers trailing heat over Elizabeth’s cold, dead skin as she tenderly repaired each bruise and wound, one at a time, reverently and heartfelt. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “The Nox has grown, significantly, since you left, but there is always space. The offer to join us is always open.”

“I know.” Elizabeth said, and the way she said it almost broke Azrael’s heart, because it was the voice of a woman that knew the offer was open in theory, but that reality often beat theory out tenfold, and the reality was that she couldn’t. For some reason, she couldn’t. “I can’t leave the holler now, though. They need me, and… I’m not ready to take that leap yet, Azrael.” She said, and she was scared, so, so scared. Scared of what Tanwen would do. Scared of the results of her actions. Scared of a future that was so strange and unknown.

“I know.” Azrael replied, and she didn’t stop her hands, even as she looked sadly at the other woman’s wounds. Wounds Tanwen inflicted on purpose. “But you said I would catch you, when you did, and I wanted you to know the offer remains open. I am not trying to add any to the Nox right now, but you are an exception and always will be.” She said. Elizabeth nodded, before something occurred to her, and she shifted, all but pulling her wounds away from Azrael’s hands. They weren’t that bad, and they’d probably sit on that sofa until the sun came up if she was allowed to just continue unabated.

“Speaking of the Nox, you said you had business? I don’t want to keep you waiting. I know you have places t’be, and I have to get this all cleaned up, so.” Elizabeth said, and she was clearly dodging something uncomfortable. Azrael simply assumed there was reason enough to not want to be part of the Nox, and Elizabeth simply didn’t want to say what it was. She nodded, pulling her hands back and putting them in her lap, the healing just as dismissed as any conversation about Elizabeth’s issue.

“Elizabeth, I came here to seek your assistance. I have no place to be that isn’t here.” Azrael corrected, and while she wasn’t wrong, she wasn’t right, either. Technically, Naomi was waiting on her, but she could wait. Nothing felt more important than catching up, not right then. “But, it is prudent that we discuss this sooner rather than later. Do you remember my childe, Naomi Arnott? She was sired the evening you left.”

“I do, though barely. We didn’t socialize much, before Connell decided to leave.” Elizabeth paused, rolling her bottom lip under her teeth. “He ordered us t’go, for the record. I didn’t want t’leave, but he said we didn’t have that choice. That we didn’t mesh with the Nox, and it was best we go, and I… I couldn’t bring myself to…”

“I know, Elizabeth. I don’t blame you.” Azrael said, softly, and she meant it. She didn’t. How could she? But Elizabeth made a face at the words, like she’d said something wrong.

“…You can call me Liz, if you want.” She said, softly. “Elizabeth sounds so stuffy, coming from you. Makes me feel like a school marm.” She chuckled, but Azrael’s face of confusion and concern only made the chuckles weak.

“You asked me not to call you Liz, before you left.” Azrael explained. Elizabeth exhaled, long and low and slow. Kindred were a strange breed, with memories like elephants, but only for the unimportant shit.

“I did, but… Tanwen was the only one t’call me Liz, and now that she’s…” Elizabeth clenched her fists against her knees. “Stayin’ broken up with her, Az, it’s hard. It’s like an addiction. I get so caught up… when she’s there, callin’ me Liz, takin’ my hand, I… I can’t avoid feelin’ something for her. Thinkin’ maybe, finally, she’s changed. Figured herself out, become a better person. I’m wrong, every time, but… I can’t help but hope, y’know? And… back then, I didn’t like anyone else callin’ me Liz ‘cause it… it made me think of her, and I worried she’d try and kill you for it and that would have been a mess, let me tell you.” Elizabeth sighed. “Now, though, I… I think, comin’ from you, it might just give me enough of a fix t’stay away, this time. If… if you wouldn’t mind.” She didn’t word it as a question, just an option, but Azrael hardly hesitated before she nodded.

“Absolutely, Liz. Whatever you need, I will provide.” Azrael said, the quick change nothing for her. She’d wanted to call her Liz for ages. It was only the other woman’s direction that stayed her hand in the first place. Elizabeth seemed to brighten, slightly, at the quick change.

“Thank you, but right now, we’re tryin’ t’talk about what I can provide you.” Elizabeth said, and Azrael nodded, grateful to be put back on track.

“My childe, Naomi, has been through… quite the eventful few years, and I cannot say that she has come out of the other side of her trials entirely herself.” Azrael started, slowly. There was something calm to her voice, but it was the calm of a woman who had already sat down and sorted out everything and everyone to blame, in the exact measure, including herself. And she’d done a lot of the blaming already, too. “I worry she will not be in a right mind enough to fight infernalists, but I cannot help her heal while on the road.”

“You want me t’catch her? Give her a place t’land?” Elizabeth asked, softly. Azrael nodded.

“If I can beg that much of you, yes. It is best if she tells you her trials herself, so I do not misconstrue any of them, but… What she has been through, she needs someone to speak to. A place to be that does not ask her to be perfect in order to be safe.”

“Your bleedin’ heart is unbecoming of you, Azrael, but honestly, I love it.” Elizabeth chuckled, which was not the result Azrael had expected. The other shook her head. “There’s no need to beg. I was already gonna say yes the second you asked me a favor, but I’m grateful to know the details. I’ll put Naomi up, room and board, though she’ll have t’work while she’s here. I don’t house freeloaders.” She added. Azrael nodded, furiously, gratefully, before Elizabeth could change her mind.

“I cannot thank you enough, Liz.” She said, and there was a moment of relief between them as she did. Naomi would be safe, this she was assured of. Before, she’d hoped to find someone she could trust to help her childe, but she’d kept the idea in her head that she’s strike out once or twice before she did. Now, however, she had nothing to fear; Elizabeth was stalwart, kind, maybe a bit blunt, but she wouldn’t allow Naomi anything other than space to heal, properly. Elizabeth seemed to echo that relief, glad that she could make Azrael happy - glad the other was back, and in her life, and not a haunting echo of something that could have been, something better that she’d refused to take - and the pair lingered in that shared relief for a long, long moment. But then the moment passed, and Azrael shifted her legs like she would stand up, and then she… she didn’t. She lingered, her hands pressed to the sofa in front of them, and after a moment, Elizabeth experimentally pressed one of her hands to Azrael’s.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Elizabeth said, softly, pulling up one of Azrael’s hands and inspecting the palms. Her hands were flat, callused, so deeply part of a sword, as much as a sword was part of her, that it seemed to shape the way her hands looked, and they were covered in Elizabeth’s blood from the healing. Azrael tried not to balk at how quickly the woman excised the reason for her hesitation from her brain, especially as she hadn’t had the thought consciously, yet, but she failed, because Elizabeth was right. Something about the idea of walking out of that door made Azrael feel nervous, like she knew she’d be haunted by a loss if she did. Like she wouldn’t see Elizabeth again after this.

“I didn’t—” Azrael started, but Elizabeth cut her off.

“I know you didn’t say as much, but… I don’t want to lose you to the sands of time again, either, Az.” Elizabeth said, and it made Azrael feel vulnerable, almost uncomfortable, to have someone know her so well and be so, so right. “But I’m stayin’. Got myself a farm, a holler. Lived here since the 1860s, and I imagine I’ll live here for many years t’come.” She chuckled, and Azrael nodded, trying to fight the fact that it was relief that washed over her at the words. “Long as you keep comin’ back from whatever hells it is that you go through, Az, we’ll see each other again.”

“Then take this as a promise.” Azrael shifted, this time off of the sofa and onto one knee, the countenance of a knight kneeling in front of a princess, the reverence of a loyal servant to a king. Elizabeth, for her credit, fought the flush down from her cheeks at the vision of Azrael kneeling before her; she could not, however, fight the chuckles that occurred when Azrael grabbed the broom, which was a close enough pole that she could bear weight onto when she bowed her head. “If you will stay, I will come back to you. No infernalist, no demon, no abomination or doppelganger or errant fish person will take me, as long as I have to return to you.” She said. It was all very romantic, for what it was worth, especially as Elizabeth could tell that Azrael hadn’t exactly picked up on the romance inherent in her own words. But other matters pressed.

“Fish people?” Elizabeth asked, as Azrael pushed herself to her feet. “You fought fish people?”

“Aye. We’ll catch up over coffee.” Azrael chuckled. She did have Naomi to get back to, and the rest of the Nox. She couldn’t stay forever. But she paused, leaning down, noticing that there was still a gash across Elizabeth’s forehead, and, in a moment she, herself, didn’t understand, pressed her lips to the wound to heal it. Obeah flowed through her, no matter what, and it didn’t make sense to just slap her flat palm over Elizabeth’s head, not to mention that otherwise touching the wound was awkward and strange. That had to explain it, and it did, enough, anyway; Azrael, satisfied that the wound was healed, stepped back, giving Elizabeth a firm nod as a goodbye. “Let’s not wait another eight-hundred years, Liz.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Az.” Elizabeth said, and she didn’t move as she watched Azrael head for the door. She didn’t move as Az headed down the steps - satisfied with herself, of course, at getting Naomi room and board, with no inkling of what her presence did to the other woman nor what the other woman’s presence did to her in return - nor as the truck started and the wheels on gravel signaled her departure. It was only when the house went silent again, truly silent, that Elizabeth let out a low groan, flopping back onto the sofa with her hands on her face.

It had not been a good evening.

It had been a downright messy evening, honestly. It had started well enough; Azrael’s forces, along with Connell’s three Salubri, had been engaged in a combat to deal with an infernalist on the other side of the Crusades, like they did most evenings. It was kind of a textbook situation, at the start - the Kine were to have cleared the majority of the other Kine by the end of the day, leaving the smattering of Kindred and the Infernalist to the specialists without having to deal with the rest of the army. All they’d have to do, Azrael knew, was go in, fight the infernalist, split a few heads, and then go home. Easy.

But the Kine hadn’t been as effective as they should have been, and there was more remaining army than anticipated, which, ultimately, was fine. Was it annoying to have to spend so much time killing Kine that were between her and her target? Yes, absolutely; she had a goal, and she didn’t like things between her and her desires. But it wasn’t terrible, not with their additional numbers buffering their own defense. Connell’s people added a lot of power, especially considering at least one was cavalry and they’d finally graduated to the desert sands where a horse could make traction on the field.

And then Elizabeth and Tanwen had both vanished, right as they slipped into the battle. No horse, no cavalry, and down two swords, suddenly the tide swung back in a way Azrael didn’t like. Suddenly, instead of an easy, breezy, in and out, the Kine became a slog to churn through. And, to make matters even worse, Azrael had found one of the best Kine on their side of the field - and a woman, no less, one who fought through so many wounds to keep pushing, admirable and destined to be a great fighter - struck down by a spear. In a moment of pure decisive action, she’d sired the other, adding Naomi Arnott to their coterie and crew - but it had left them with a fresh Kindred to teach, in the middle of a pitched and frenzied war that was taking more from them than they had to spare, while half their team went gallivanting off into the night to play games or whatever the hell else they’d decided was more important than killing demon summoning Kindred from hell.

To say Azrael was a bit mad was the understatement of a century that would, in its time, get understated a lot.

The worst part of all of it, however, was not the events of the day, no. It was not having to sire someone on the battlefield, the fresh copper of her blood so tempting to simply drink. It wasn’t even the fact that they’d been down a horse. No, it was that, when she’d approached Connell, the de-facto leader of the little band of Irish extras that had shown up, he’d thrown his palms up and divested himself from the situation entirely. When it came to his people, he said, he was there to support them and there to control them when in terms of the work they did - but when it came to Tanwen and Elizabeth, who were, as far as Azrael understood, involved in such a confusing romance that nobody could really determine if they were or were not dating at that given point, he told her he’d washed his hands of the mess and wasn’t about to get involved again. If she’d wanted to get involved, he’d said, she was welcome to it, but he was keeping his hands to himself for a while yet.

It meant Azrael had come back from the battle, removed her armor, cleaned her sword, dumped her new childe on her sire, Belial, and her right hand, Rorke, and had gone in search of their wayward idiots. Someone was going to have to give them a talking to, and if Connell was too much of a chickenshit to control his own people, Azrael would simply do it instead. She did not have time for that kind of shit twice.

She’d found Elizabeth at a nearby creak, hunched over in the stream. The other woman was physically remarkable, considering the whole vampire thing; she was short, squat and stocky, meat on her bones where other Kindred ended up skinny and gaunt. She had clearly come from a household that had food, regularly, though there was also youth to her face and body that betrayed something sad about the fact that whatever she had, she’d lost. Her hair was almost white, a platinum blond that was faded and blued, leaving it almost white, and her skin was freckled where the sun had seen it before she’d died. It didn’t matter that she was naked, or washing - Azrael came in hot, storming with barely controlled rage down to the water’s edge.

“I’m going to need you to give me one good reason why you weren’t there on the battlefield, lass.” She snapped, crossing her arms as she paused at the water’s edge. Even coming in hot, she wasn’t yelling, the anger in her body just barely contained. Elizabeth turned, having been hunched over her white wolf’s head, which was suspiciously red stained, attempting to wash the blood from the pelt. She straightened, though she didn’t turn more than her head, and there was something about her face that was… immediately disarming. Azrael could ignore her breasts, which were ample without the armor, or her ass, which was firm and round, or her strong arms and thighs that could smash a skull with ease; she had a harder time ignoring the way Elizabeth shored herself up, her expression going hard in a moment, stern and steeled. “Don’t think we didn’t notice that you weren’t at the battle with the rest of us. Why? Explain yourself. We deserve that much.”

“Why d’you even care?” Elizabeth’s tone in return was bitter, biting, hard, and Azrael stepped back down to her, intending to take that attitude and shove it down her throat for her.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you?” Azrael snarled, the idea that one wouldn’t even know the consequences of their actions more of an insult than anything else she could have armed herself with; her anger narrowed itself into a fine point. “The whole battle went to shit, and people I care about almost died, that’s why! You and yours left us, Elizabeth, and we nearly lost what we came for. I had to sire a woman on the field and we almost lost the target!” And then anger swung, point first, as Azrael finally hit the peak of her anger. “What was so important that the mission came second? What’s so fucking important that you couldn’t be there for anyone else but yourself and that cunt girlfriend of yours?!”

“I didn’t want t’leave, you fuckass bitch!” Elizabeth finally rounded on Azrael, her voice high and snarling and upset, choked with tears she had clearly cried before. Rounding on her meant turning, which gave Azrael a lot more to think on - notably, the fact that Elizabeth was, for not being part of the pitched battle they went through, not well. Bruises, quick to form under dead skin, littered her arms, legs, and torso; several were in the shape of hands, especially on the upper arms, the grip that left them tight enough to leave marks. Cuts, too, abrasions and slashes and broken skin took up the space that bruises didn’t; Azrael could tell that she’d been in a fight, against someone using likely a small blade, and she certainly hadn’t won. “But fuck if anything I want matters! No, I get dragged around by that fucking cunt of a woman, pulled away from the shite that matters, and then when it’s all over, I get t’take the fuckin’ lion’s share of the blame!” Elizabeth snarled, and in a moment of rage, she tossed the wolf head into the stream. It bobbed, lightly, drifting until it stuck on a rock and lingered there. She sighed, and it was partially a snarl. “It won’t fuckin’ happen again, alright? I’ll clean up her fuckin’ mess better next time.”

“Why do you stay with her?” Azrael asked, and while it was angry and hurt, it was surprisingly soft for how angry she’d been. There was anger there, still, sure, but it wasn’t directed at Elizabeth, at least. It was directed at the subject of their conversation - Tanwen of Wales, Elizabeth’s sometimes girlfriend. She’d been the one, apparently, to decide they didn’t need to fight, and she’d taken Elizabeth with her, against her will. There was nothing about the situation which made Azrael feel like staying was a sane choice, yet, every time she’d watched them fight, they’d snap back together the next evening so hard it almost hurt to watch. Elizabeth turned away again, fists clenched, something heavy in her shoulders, and Azrael stepped forward, like she’d put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, like she’d turn her back around to face the conversation. “She’s ruining your life! No one is gonna want t’work with a flake, Liz!”

“Don’t call me Liz.” Elizabeth snarled, and Azrael let her hand land, intending to turn Elizabeth around to face her, unwilling to let the other hide. Something was there, real in the conversation between them, and Azrael wasn’t about to just let that go - but Elizabeth snapped her shoulder back, closing herself off, unwilling to face her accuser, and Azrael felt something in her snap, just a little, at the woman’s unwillingness to be helped. “And you don’t think I don’t hate her? I hate everything about her, Azrael!” Elizabeth added, hot, self-hating, almost laughing. “I wish that fuckin’ cunt would die!”

“Then tell me, Elizabeth, why the hell d’you keep goin’ back t’her?! What the fuck d’you see in her that’s is worth all of this?” Azrael returned heat with heat, throwing her hands out to gesture to the hell they were currently experiencing. Elizabeth, finally, rounded on her, fists clenched, face twisted in a full scream.

“Because she’s the only person who makes me feel something!” Elizabeth’s words ripped themselves from her throat, her hands clenched so hard her nails dug into the palms of her hands and fresh, dead, blood ran from the gaps between her fingers. She shifted a step backward, gaining distance, a fighting stance, ready to swing or run at a moment’s notice, all fight or flight. “She makes me feel again, Azrael, even if the only thing I can feel is rage!” She snarled, before pulling herself back out of the fighting stance and giving herself more distance, shrinking away from Azrael. Fighting about it, even, was too open. The reasons why she stayed were better kept as her secret shame. “Everything else… I’m just numb. I… I don’t want t’be numb all the time. I’d rather be angry than numb, and she… makes it go away.” Elizabeth let the words out, vulnerable, the proper flesh exposed under the torn skin and blood, the violence that was required to get there making Azrael almost feel… sick.

She hadn’t wanted this. She hadn’t wanted Elizabeth hurting. Something in her broke, in that moment. She couldn’t bring herself to make things worse, even at the cost of the anger in her heart. A messed up mission was nothing as compared.

“Explain it to me.” Azrael said, and she stepped toward the creek, finding a rock that was dry enough and sitting, lightly, on it. The anger in her had vanished, released like steam the moment Elizabeth’s pain took form, left to simmer on a different topic. There was a woman who clearly, clearly hurt Elizabeth, and that woman was going to answer for her crimes the moment Azreal knew what the crimes were. “I don’t understand why her, but I want to. Explain it to me.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Elizabeth said, and having been met with no resistance, her anger vanished, too, leaving her hollow and sad. Anger needed to be stoked, but Azrael’s immediate change had Elizabeth’s fire going out like she’d tossed water on the flame. She sat, though she didn’t care much about how wet she was, considering she’d been knee deep in the river already, and she let her hands droop into the water, the river running over her battered and callused palms.

“Whatever you can explain, Elizabeth, I’ll listen.” Azrael replied, and the way Elizabeth looked at her said that was the most kindness she’d been offered before, and something in Azrael hurt to have that realization. That kindness didn’t find Elizabeth like that, not in a way that mattered. The other woman sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, watching the water burble under her feet.

“My family was killed.” She started, softly, into her knees. Azrael didn’t balk - many people that became Kindred were orphans; it was easier, to be without family, but also, considering dying was part of the process of being sired, it was simply likely that her family had died, too - but she felt her heart squeeze at the words. While it was common, and not startling, it wasn’t fun to hear. “Werewolves.” She added, and Azrael nodded. “Connell had come by the house early one mornin’, asked t’stay in the barn for the day. I was head of household - Da’d lost a foot, wasn’t a good mover, and Ma, well… she’d been losin’ her mind for a while, by then - and I told him no thanks. Didn’t want strangers in my barn all day. Didn’t trust ‘m. For his credit, he left, but… the wolves that followed didn’t much care about that.” She exhaled, slowly, the grief sneaking up her shoulders like a blanket, weighing heavy on her. “Ma answered the door for them. She liked gettin’ the door, made her feel normal. I was makin’ tea. I didn’t… it was quick, I think, I didn’t see it but… I’m glad I didn’t. I heard Da scream, though, so I… grabbed the one table knife we had and stepped out of the kitchen t’see Ma in pieces on the floor, and Da’s head in this thing’s mouth. Big, wolfish, bloody. Tried t’kill me, dove at me, so I drove that knife into it’s skull.”

“Silver.” Azrael filled in the details. Elizabeth nodded.

“Killed it dead. Heard the others talkin’, after, outside. Said they were gonna burn the whole thing, since vampires were about. So, I… took everything I thought was important, let the horses out, mounted my horse and ran for it.” She gripped her knees, tight. “Didn’t matter. Caught up t’us within the half-hour. I… they tore me apart, Az. They tore me apart and I was alive for it. Said… that was what happens when you harbor the Wurm.” She paused, containing herself, the way her fingers dug into her own skin a sign of her rage and heartbreak. “Etain sired me. Heard them, barely. Said this was her mess. She knew the wolves were tracking them by smell, apparently. They’d killed the pack by the time I came to. Had to ghoul my horse to keep Ciara alive. But then I was… immortal, my parents were dead, my farm was burned, and I had nothin’ but my horse…” She shook her head, like a fly was trying to settle on her ear. “She talked t’me. Said she understood. I had every reason t’hate those wolves, but nothin’ else t’be done about it, ‘cause they were dead already. She’d felt the same, before. But she said that rage? We could use that rage. And I felt… understood.” Elizabeth sighed. “And for a time, she did. But… I can’t hold all that rage all the time, Azrael. Not the way she does. And she… she doesn’t like when I start to stray. I’m hers, now. I’m this angry little girl they found on a farm, and I can’t change from that - or I suffer the consequences when I differ.” Elizabeth sat up, gesturing to the marks on her body, the evidence of the consequences she’d discussed. Clearly, Tanwen had been the one to cause the injuries. Azrael didn’t ask how - part of her thought she couldn’t stomach it, and the rest didn’t want to find out if she would fail.

“You don’t have to stay with her.” Azrael said, instead, softly, the only advice she could think to give in that moment. Anger was useful, but she was right that holding onto such things was hard, and not worth doing. Elizabeth laughed at her words, a bitter, biting thing.

“Far as I’ve figured, we’ve been broken up for months, now, but that’s the thing, Azrael. It’s… she’s hard t’leave. She doesn’t like not gettin’ what she wants, and she… it’s easier to appease her than t’deal with all this every time she gets a little uppity.” Elizabeth said, heaving a sigh. “I’ve become her keeper as much as her girlfriend. Think Connell sees me as a way t’keep her on a leash. Flann’s never been much help, and Etain… I think she likes t’see me suffer. A punishment for saddling her with bein’ my sire.” She sighed. “I can’t leave them. ‘Sides, where would I go?”

“You’re always welcome in the Nox, Elizabeth, but I know that won’t replace the people you’re used t’runnin’ with.” Azrael said, and she shifted, reaching out with open palms. “I can’t do much t’ease the pain in your heart, and I’m sorry for it. But I can heal your wounds, if you’re amenable to it, and I can give you a place t’land if you find you want to take that leap.”

“That’s more than most people offer me, Azrael, and… while I don’t know if I’ll ever leave, I… I’m alright with bein’ healed.” Elizabeth said, and she offered an arm out, which Azrael shifted closer to. She didn’t notice that her knees were getting wet as she held Elizabeth’s arm in her hands, pouring herself into the wounds, the desire to help the woman strong enough to power the blood in her veins to heal, to repair the dead flesh into something useful again. She poured her need to help, her want to free Elizabeth from her sorrows, into the healing, and she watched as her soft skin knit itself back together, one cell at a time. She smelled of hay, of sweat and horses and soft milk and lavender. Azrael knew that, for all that she would try and put the smell out of her mind, she would never be able to. It helped when Elizabeth started speaking again. “Tanwen never learned Obeah, and I can’t heal myself, so…”

“I’m sorry.” Azrael said, and the way Elizabeth looked at her, it was the first time she’d heard it. Azrael pulled her hands back, kneeling in the stream, her fists on her knees, looking up at the woman she was slowly, slowly falling in love with looking back at her like she was, somehow, an angel herself. If Azrael had the capacity, she would have noticed how quickly Elizabeth had fallen for her in that moment, a woman who finally saw her, saw her as something more than a ball of rage and power and hatred. A woman who finally saw her for her. “I’ll speak to Connell, tell him that whether or not Tanwen does her job is his domain, even if your relationship is not. And… if, when we leave, if you would like, you are welcome to leave with us.” She offered. Elizabeth chuckled.

“Let me get through t’night, and I’ll think about it.” She said, and the chuckle was bitter, and sad, and sweet, but her wounds were better, and she pushed herself to her feet. She was, objectively, beautiful. “Thank you, Azrael. I know I’m not—”

“Don’t.” Azrael cut her off, pushing herself up to her feet as well. Her legs dripped into her boots, and she didn’t care. “As long as our coteries work together, you are my people, and I will care for you as my own. I only hope that I get the fortune to keep you in mine for many moons yet.” She said, and she stepped back, out of the creek, taller, Elizabeth staring up at her, shadowed against the full moon. “My offer will always be open. Until then, I’ll leave you to your bath.” She said, and she stepped back again, unwilling to turn until she couldn’t not, before powering up the riverbank and back into camp. Nobody asked about her wet legs, nor the serious look on her face as she headed to go do as she promised. Connell was about to get an earful.

~*~

The next evening, Azrael woke to find Connell and the rest gone. All that remained was a note, in Elizabeth’s distinct, shaking hand:

Connell decided it was best we leave, and, for now, I’ve decided to go with them. It’s hard, taking that first jump. But when I do leap, I know you’ll be there to catch me.

Until next,

She wasn’t sure what it was. She wasn’t sure if it was a smell in the air, or a feeling on her skin, or just a sense, deep in her guts, but something was coming. Something was coming, and the world was going to change - and that change was going to be the thing that killed her.

Molly de l’Argonne wasn’t entirely sure why she wasn’t dead yet, to be honest. It had been a hard, hard year - and Molly knew what a hard year felt like, because she’d lived through so many, some of which she’d lived through twice. She’d lived through the Great Depression, and she’d lived through several wars - one twice - and she’d saved the world three separate times. She’d even tried to end the world, once, not of her own designs or even her actions, and she’d been put to trial for the trouble of it, though she’d survived that just like she survived everything else. That had been a hard few years, for sure, building her empire up from scratch again, groveling to her people, kissing ass, saving face, and debasing herself until people forgave her for crimes other, stupider men had done with her hands. But that previous year, that one last year? There had been a lot of hard there, too, and Molly knew that, eventually, the cracks would sheer and she’d shatter. It was only a matter of time.

Marie was dead. It was a statement Molly wasn’t entirely sure she liked making, because it was a permanent thing, and ending of a thing, and one she wasn’t entirely sure she’d wanted. Marie was dead, off of saving the world, or at least their world, her world, and she hadn’t wanted Marie to step in and she hadn’t wanted Marie to die and she hadn’t really ever gotten what she wanted in life when it came down to it, had she? It sat, heavy, in her guts, and it meant she was sucking down her third cigarette in just as many minutes, standing on a balcony of Jess’s home in Venice, ahead of what was meant to be a fresh start, unsure what to do but smoke and hope. There was a party, that next night, ostensibly because the Giovanni loved a good party but partially because Molly’s friend, Luca, was tired of her ostracization and wanted to re-integrate her into the fold. Of course, that meant Molly had been invited, along with her entire brood - nine people, by then, which was a lot, and which were mostly staying in their own houses or hotels - leaving her alone in Jess’s place with one of the sources of her distress - Martha. Martha, the woman she loved. Martha, the woman always cursed to be in Marie’s shadow, now fully bright and lit, free from the overhang of the other woman’s presence after her death. Martha, who had pined for Molly for so many years that it had almost become a given that she would, and Martha that Molly now pined for in the same way, unrequited and unacknowledged and unknown. She was there, in the home with her, and Molly watched Jess’s car pull away from the building with the distinct knowledge that they were truly alone, then, with nothing between them.

But Marie was dead. It stuck, heavy, in Molly’s guts, because for all that she was gone, she wouldn’t leave, a ghost, haunting, unavoidable. Marie was inevitable. Marie was an institution. Marie couldn’t be killed - shouldn’t have been killed. Marie was an asshole, and a bitch, and a narcissist, and a thousand things Molly hated and a hundred things she probably loved at one point, but she was also partially Malkav, partially an Antediluvian, partially akin to a God, all but unkillable. Until she was killable. Until death had claimed her like everything else. Until she’d been sacrificed and turned into a phoenix. Until she had turned to nothing but dust and ashes on the wind, her spirit locked into the sword that Molly kept on a stand above her desk in her office. The sword that had, at one point, killed her, shed her blood to bring her into the world that she now ruled, held her ex-girlfriend’s soul in a stasis she wasn’t even sure someone could come back from.

She grimaced around the cigarette. Calling her an ex felt strange, like a bad taste, like calling her an ex acknowledge that they’d dated. She didn’t want to acknowledge that they’d dated, because that meant acknowledging that it had been bad, that Marie had been a bad girlfriend, and that Molly hadn’t gotten out when she’d needed to, that she’d been the subject of the woman’s abuse for longer than entirely necessary and she hadn’t left when she could. But it also felt right, calling her an ex, because they had been a thing right up until they hadn’t been a thing again, and it brought a finality and closure to what had been their relationship - even if acknowledging such a thing brought Molly pain. Otherwise, there was no way to know - were they dating, on a break, Marie just fucked off again, what? And regardless, Molly had married another - Konrad, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, mostly her favorite rock to lean on - and hadn’t thought about Marie since. Or, well, at least not romantically - she’d thought about Marie a lot in the intervening years, mostly in how poorly the woman treated them all, unpacking her abuses one at a time like unpacking a scrapbook she didn’t want to have to look through. She thought about the woman at Martha’s wedding, and getting banned from Paris, and every other moment, and she hated Marie, and she hated the way she still felt something for Marie, the potential for greatness still there, and she hated the way she couldn’t let go of it.

It didn’t help that Martha had leaned in almost as soon as the woman had gone, and Molly had been awash in the affections of not one but two pretty women as she picked herself up, and while it had brought her a level of comfort, it was overwhelming, especially after what happened. Her kids had been kidnapped, after all, and she’d lost one of the last people she’d known from the 20s, and it all just sucked - so she’d fucked off to Paris to be with the girls, at her husband’s insistence, which was fine and fair. He wasn’t a comforting man - the rock comparison was more apt than just the one metaphor; even with the way he’d grown, he was as comforting as a stone - and he had insisted she go spend time with people that knew how to comfort her. That meant, when she’d arrived, she was showered with love, but while it had helped her find herself after the whole issue, it hadn’t actually… helped. It hadn’t helped because she was awash in affections and adoration and love, yet she knew there was nothing to indulge. This was all a show of pity, an ask from a man who couldn’t supply, and not out of a sense of anything other than friendly caring. She would be left alone again, once she was done, and that would be that. Martha had moved on, had gotten married. Who was she, even, to a woman who had it all?

She sighed, lighting her fourth cigarette and trying to keep the grief and everything else in her chest, instead of letting it explode out into the world around her. She loved Martha, and now she understood what it was to be Martha, the specter of her affections being meaningless hovering over Molly’s head like the other ghost she couldn’t shake. Even if they had gotten closer, it wasn’t going to change anything. It hadn’t changed anything for her - she hadn’t magically picked up feelings just because Martha had expressed interest, back then, and it meant Martha’s feelings wouldn’t be rekindled just for her kind words - and besides, while they’d spoken about Molly’s misconceptions in the past, that Martha wasn’t just looking for sex, Molly was certain that lacking such a thing would still be a deal breaker for the other woman. Molly knew how often Jess and Martha had sex - it was pretty regular. Martha liked doing it, and so did Jess. It was a large swath of their life that Molly simply wouldn’t participate in, and she knew, deep in her heart, that there wouldn’t be enough left to make up for the lack.

Konrad had said he’d found comfort in the fact that he brought something to their relationship that no one else did. Molly found the opposite, mostly in the fact that she didn’t feel like she brought anything at all into Martha’s life that wasn’t memories of a past and a woman that they didn’t want to think about anymore. And it sucked.

Jess left for the store. Molly texted, poking quickly at her phone and sending it along to her dearest friend, first unofficial kid, and confidant, Issac. She didn’t know why she always texted him, but she did, and it helped, at least a little. Got a weird feeling, though. Think I've finally overstayed my welcome. She typed. She had gotten a weird feeling, over the past few days, tension that she couldn’t place. Just the sense that someone needed to tell her something, and it was important, and it needed to be private, and it wasn’t going to be a fun time. Or, at least, that was how she felt.

She sighed, again. It had been a hard year.

It was not less tense elsewhere in the house. Martha sat in the master bedroom of Jess’s Venice home, her eyes glued to her phone screen, a message from her wife displayed, plainly and in blue. Giving you two some alone time… May the opportunities finally arise, dear. Jess’s message read. Martha knew what the woman meant - they’d spoken, before, and Jess had made some comment about telling Molly when the opportunity arose, so when she’d suddenly decided she had business in the city, Martha had suspected something was up. It was especially suspect that she left with a wink and a sly little smile, leaving Martha alone in the house with Molly. Molly, the woman Martha had pined after for over a hundred years; Molly, the woman Martha had thought she’d finally gotten over, only to find out she was very wrong; Molly, the woman who Martha managed to fall in love with all over again, without Molly even trying. And it wasn’t all at once, either, but a slow thing, building since the pair reconciled in 2021; of course, there was a bit of fear of the whole thing, that there were hidden mistakes in the miasma of affection, and Jess had vetted the woman very thoroughly for her trouble. But, over the years, Molly and Martha had grown closer than they had been in a long time, and Molly’s affection - which was a constantly growing thing between them - ate away at the wall that Martha had set around her heart, until everything came crashing down the year prior.

She remembered walking into Jess’s office that fateful night, terrified of her wife’s possible reaction to the fact that she had fallen in love with Molly, not just the once, but yet again. Instead, to Martha’s surprise and delight, not only had Jess supported the idea of this, but she had told Martha specifically that she, herself, was quite taken with the other woman. Of course, they’d tried to talk to Molly about the whole thing sooner, but life, and politics, and people that needed killing, kept getting in the way, and they hadn’t accomplished it yet. And then Marie died, Martha’s vampiric sister and constant specter in Molly’s life finally leaving for good, and telling her then, well, that was a non starter. It had rocked them all to their core, as even though they loathed Marie, the idea of her truly being gone had shocked all of them, and they’d needed the space to heal.

It didn’t help that, after the event in question, Molly had come to Paris to try and find comfort - her husband, Konrad, was not a provider of the softer side of things, unfortunately - and in her distress, she was loathe to be without at least one of the two women present in the room with her. She only truly relaxed when the three of them were all together in some way, worry about the third building any time they left the house. It had meant the affection had been turned up to an eleven the entire time she’d been there, and both Martha and Jess responded in kind, meeting her affection with their own. Martha had, at least, resigned herself to the idea that she would need to say something soon, but she’d always stopped herself with the idea that she was waiting for the opportunity, which never really came to pass. Apparently, however, it seemed as if Jess had attempted to serve her that opportunity on a silver platter - Martha and Molly, alone in Venice, the city of romance and love, inside the lavish house Jess owned. It was textbook, a spicy novel with all the fixin’s, but while it was simple, it was also extremely complicated. Martha was happy with the way things were, as far as it came to her relationship with Molly; she was in Martha’s life again, and the closeness was the sweetest balm for her aching heart that she could ask for. But there was an ever present fear that this was simply a misunderstanding, a misconception, a falsehood. Martha had tried the whole affair in the past, after all, and Molly had never reciprocated - it had been one sided the entire time, and she feared that if she brought things up then, after so long, she would truly lose her most dear and treasured friend.

It meant Martha sat in her bedroom, staring at her phone, panicking. And, in panicking, she did what anyone might have done on the cusp of a possible emergency - she called a Doctor. Her fingers swiftly backed out of the conversation with Jess, scrolling instead to a very specific name just below it - KONNIE - and hit call. The phone rang, balefully, once. Twice. Three times. But then it connected, a lifeline to her sinking ship.

“The fact that you are calling me and not my wife tells me that you have not yet asked her. Is that correct?” Konrad asked, in a tone that said he was entirely too aware of what was going on and maybe even a little bit done with the whole series of shenanigans. A chuckle bubbled up in Martha at the words, a pure and awkward thing, a little embarrassed at being caught out like she was. Unfortunately - or, fortunately, honestly - Konrad was honestly probably too familiar with Martha’s feelings on Molly, having seen them move through not one iteration, but two - not to mention the fact that Martha had spoken to him, near the start of the year, and aired her feelings out properly. She’d gone to, essentially, ask for his blessing on the matter - or, at least the reassurance that he wouldn’t get in the way - and he’d given it wholeheartedly, or at least as much as he could. He wasn’t exactly a man for feelings, but he tried. Apparently, watching her stall seemed to frustrate the man; luckily, Martha was used to frustrating him, even if it wasn’t entirely on purpose. “I… I just need some advice, Konnie.” Martha started, taking an unneeded breath to try and steady the nerves that had been rising in her since Jess had left the house. It only sort of helped. “Am I doing the right thing? Sure, we’ve gotten closer, and I love spending time with her, and she likes spending time with us. I just… Konrad, if I’m barking up the wrong tree again, it could ruin everything. I don’t want to lose her to this again. So, please, good doctor, I need your prognosis. Should I do this?”

“Martha, I would like to be frank with you, and I do not pretend that people enjoy my words when I am this blunt. However, I have enough tact to ask: are you are prepared for this?” Konrad asked, in his own roundabout way, getting her consent to speak plainly on the matter. He tried to be as plain as he could, normally - he didn’t like word games super much, though he’d play them when he needed them; they were a tool, just not one for informal settings - but this was starting to get into a territory where the gloves needed to come off.

“By all means.” Martha said, understanding his meaning.

“You, my dear, are acting like a fool.” Konrad replied, with absolutely no level of judgement or hatred in his words, but also a certainty that could not be denied. He meant it, sure, but he didn’t mean it to be mean - it was just facts. “I have been privileged to witness your relationship with my wife develop for one-hundred and seventeen years, Martha, and I can conclude several things from this cross section of your lives. One, you care very deeply for my wife, regardless of her affections towards you, which has been explained to be as something more genuine than a care that is transactional. Two, I have witnessed the same from my wife to you. Three, you are both blithering fools in as many ways as you can force yourself to be. You will refuse to look in front of your own face for fear of some hypothetical future you cannot even prove will come to pass - and one that is, demonstrably, unlikely to come to pass at all - because the idea of seeking what you want from life seems to fill you with some level of dread. I understand this is the result of Marie’s hands in your lives, but that woman is dead. If you continue to let her haunt you, Martha, then that is your willing choice, at this point, and no man, woman, or otherwise could save you from yourself in that manner.” He paused. “This is the same for my wife, for the record. I judge you both equally as morons about this mess, because you are acting like them.”

Martha, hearing this, couldn't help but laugh; the way Konrad always seemed to put things so bluntly, and yet be so correct, was something that she truly treasured. She shook her head before speaking again. "I'm just worried, Konrad. We've seen where this has gone before. I just don't want to make those same mistakes and lose what we already have for making them. I do love her, and I know she cares deeply for me. I just worry it's on a different level like it always has been."

“Martha, it would be difficult to sit here and list in any level of detail the various things wrong in what you just said, and because I am tired of you women and your dithering about all of this, I simply put it like this: you have pined after my wife for just under two hundred years. If my wife was willing to put up with that level of pining after her, considering that she did believe your feelings for her to be her fault and her punishment, for that long without devaluing your friendship, why in Cain’s name would you believe that returning to that state of being would fuck things up?” Konrad snapped the last words, swearing - he didn’t often swear, because there was often a better word, but this time, there wasn’t. He took a breathe, however, steadying himself, because being angry wasn’t really helpful. Firm, yes. Angry, no.

“You understand, Martha, that I have grown in my studies of the way people experience emotion, romance chiefly among them. As someone who has undertaken this as a course of study, I will impart to you something I learned from my tutor in such matters, Naomi Arnott, Azrael’s first childe: Love, as we understand it, is not a feeling, it is a choice. What you feel for my wife is attraction. It is affection. It is respect, and it is adoration, and I will not speak to how you view her physically, but that is likely involved as well. But what you feel is not love - what you choose to do about this is love.” Konrad said, and this was more… heartfelt, more sincere. This was how he was taught to figure out what love was, and he was actually, truly, trying to impart the hard lessons to Martha. “I love my wife, because I choose to love my wife, and I make this choice by supporting her. I make this choice by killing her enemies, and buying her cars, and attending her parties, and when the mood strikes me, giving her physical affection. Several of those things I would not do if I was not asked to, and I do them because I choose to love her. Now, you are telling me that you are worried you will make the same mistakes, but I ask you this: do you believe yourself to be so incompetent that you cannot choose to love her in the way she asks to be loved, no matter what that may be? Do you believe you are incapable of learning?”

“No, Konrad, I’m capable of learning.” Martha chuckled, again, the worry still present in her guts. However, Konrad was so emphatic about the whole thing, and that had a way of putting Martha at ease, even if his words were kind of an insult. “Forgive a woman for being a bit worried, with this finally happening. But, you’re right, even if this is a one-sided feeling, it almost certainly won’t change how things have been. And I can be happy with that.”

“Further still,” Konrad continued, and he continued in a way that said that he was going to say this regardless of what Martha said, “Both of you whine and complain about what might happen should this go poorly after a positive result, and I ask you both - are you an adult who can avoid most poor fates by talking about things, and further, would returning to this point after experiencing her love really be the worst outcome you might experience?” Konrad asked, but this time, he didn’t wait for a response. “I am growing tired of this playing around with things, Martha, so I will do you a favor. I have information that I will divulge to you, right now, that will assuage all of your fears. In return, I ask you two things: one, you ask my wife out on a date, tonight, and you do not, as the kids say, chicken out. Two, and more importantly, you forget who it was that told you this information as soon as you understand it’s relevance. Telling you this will technically break my wife’s confidence, but the result is positive enough that I believe it will be worth it. Do you agree to this, Martha Briatta-Thompson?”

"Of course, Konrad." Martha replied, worried with the anticipation and concerned about what it might be.

“Good.” Konrad paused, pregnant, knowing that he held strings to an ending that no one else could manufacture. “My wife has been in love with you since you reconnected with her in 2021. She has spoken to Issac, Claire, myself, and, apparently, your wife about this, though I am under the understanding that she did not intend to tell your wife this information and it slipped out. Regardless, multiple people can confirm that your actions will bring you success, as soon as you stop stalling and actually get on with things.” Konrad grumbled, before sighing. “Martha, I have known you to be a woman who is brave, among many other qualities. Please do not tell me such parts of you diminish in the light of my wife’s beauty. It would be an unfortunate thing to hear.”

Martha didn’t answer for a long, long second, because she was busy taking the time to pick her jaw up off the floor. It was almost unbelievable, the idea that Molly would love her, and yet, in a sense, it was the most freeing thing that she could have heard. They both wanted this, and the only thing that could change was that they would get closer. She would need to tackle the fact that her wife knew, and decided not to mention, at a later date, but she knew Jess would have her reasons all the same.

“Thank you, Konrad.” She started, her mind already running wild with ideas; not all of them were great, but she finally landed on something that she thought wouldn’t scare the other woman off. It was hard, as Molly was quick to pick up on things and quicker to get in her own way. “Now, I believe I have a woman to ask out.” She added, ending the call and quickly making her way out of the bedroom. She didn’t have to think to know where Molly would have ended up, left to her own devices; she had a habit of finding a balcony anywhere she went, more so by then than, say, the early ninties or before. She was a woman who felt calmed by a cigarette - and it was almost a relief, because Martha was going to need a cigarette herself for all that was happening. She found Molly on a south balcony, and she stepped outside, pulling her own pack of cigarettes from her pocket as she slid over next to Molly, their shoulders brushing, lightly, against each other - an intentional choice from Martha’s end. She leaned over, propping her head up on her off hand as she flicked a cigarette from the pack, pulling it out with her lips.

“Lovely night, isn’t it, dear?” Martha asked, her lips already tight around the cigarette, leaning forward in a silent request for Molly to light her cigarette with the end of her own. Molly leaned over, pressing their shoulders together as she pressed the tip of her cigarette to Martha’s and inhaled, letting the ember burn hot enough to catch. Martha took a draw, passing the ember down from Molly’s cigarette to her own, and exhaled, out and away.

“Stressful night?” Molly asked, and her tone said that the cigarette felt like escapism, that the shoulder press felt like a request for comfort. Like she knew Martha had a hard thing to ask of her, and she figured that these things were there to assuage any bad feelings over having to ask it. Of course, she thought the worst; she’d heard the hushed voices and knew the dulcet tones of her husband anywhere - clearly, they were arranging her return, and clearly, she was still considered too hysterical to likely be involved in the process. She sighed. “Or you just jonesin’ for a buzz?”

"Maybe a cigarette is just an oh-so-clever excuse for me to come and see you, dear." Martha replied, keeping her tone light, her grin mischievous and playful, trying to keep the nerves from her system. She turned, leaning back against the railing, resting her elbows against it and letting the hand that was supporting her earlier rest, lightly, over Molly’s own. “Wanted to check on you, regardless. Are you nervous about the party tomorrow night?” It was a genuine question; Martha had noticed Molly was dreading something, the stars she constantly saw in the woman’s eyes slightly dimmer for the stress of whatever it was.

“A bit.” Molly said, and god, Martha was certainly close, and that was a lot, but she’d been pressing on the affection recently, and that… that was normal, right? If Molly had a heartbeat, she would have felt it quicken, suddenly, the math in her head failing to compute. It wasn’t normal, was it? She had to ask, and she came up empty, blank, unsure, every time. This couldn’t be normal - but if it wasn’t, what was? “Mostly just worried about where I go after it all. It’s, uh… I’ve been here for… a bit. Bet you’re gettin’ tired of sharin’ your space, and all… Right?” She asked, and something in her said that she was beginning to realize that maybe, maybe, she was wrong about what this was about, and that she wasn’t going to get kicked out, and that something else was happening here, but she needed Martha to say it. To say she wasn’t going to have to leave. To tell her what was really going on - as straightforward as she could possibly be, considering.

“Quite the contrary, dear.” Martha started, inhaling and then taking great care to blow the smoke away from Molly’s face when she exhaled. “I wanted to ask if everything has been alright with your stay, so far. Anything that I could do to make you more comfortable, I’d do in a heartbeat.” She tried laying it on thick, her gaze falling to look Molly square in the eyes. Was it flirting? As much as she could flirt, without it being so obvious; she took one step, just one, imperceptible as much as it was crossing a massive divide, letting their hips touch as her hand shifted to fully take Molly’s in her own.

Molly simply blinked at the words; on the outside, she was slightly startled, mouth slightly split, watching Martha with confusion and concern and building, looming, hope and dread all together. On the inside, however, she was violently willing the blood in her body away from her face, fighting the sudden onslaught of butterflies that had overtaken her stomach, the fluttering sensation Martha always brought her. She could smell Martha, strawberry and gunpowder, and they were holding hands and there was no accident there, no comfort, intentional as anything else. Martha was—no, Martha couldn’t. Martha was over her. Martha was married. Martha was monogamous. Molly tried not to pull away, because god did she want what was happening, but she couldn’t; she shifted her hips, a half step back, but didn’t move her hand. “Martha, it’s been… you’ve both been lovely to stay with, really. I just…” Molly paused, looked at their twined hands. She was in her own way, of course, but all she could see was a future she couldn’t have. “I know I’m probably in the way. I don’t wanna take away your alone time with Jess, y’know.” She shrugged, tried to turn away, but she couldn’t bear to pull their hands apart.

“Molly,” Martha started, chiding, waving her hand in front of them like she was waving away Molly’s notion like clearing gathering smoke from their cigarettes, her gaze softening as she did so. “You’ve never been in the way, dear, and even if you were, I’d want you there anyway.” She paused, only a moment, before pressing forward, her smile broadening ever so slightly as she did so; she knew she would need to get to the meat and potatoes of things quickly, as she didn’t want to lose the courage she’d built up. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something. It’s not necessarily something that would need to wait until we get back to Paris, though it could, if you’d like?”

“Look, whatever it is you gotta ask me, just ask me. I can take it.” Molly said, almost testy, and she turned, slightly, to suck down more of her cigarette and blow the smoke out and away from the other woman. She shook her head, returning to face Martha but holding her cigarette out and away. “You’ve been dodging somethin’ for a minute, Martha, I can tell. So just. Go ahead and tell me. I’m not so broken that I can’t handle it.” She laughed, and it was a soft, bitter, sad thing; even with all of the reassurances, she still thought the request would be for her to leave, that Martha was telling her she wasn’t in the way to save face before she had to add that there were other reasons she had to head back to New York. It wasn’t like there was any other option, as far as she saw - what else could there be?

Martha’s gaze softened again, the pure adoration she felt for the other woman plain on her face as her smile split into a grin that didn’t feel quite like it matched Molly’s bitter tone. She could tell that the other woman was nervous, with a million possibilities running through the other woman’s head - but she knew the results would only make one real, and she knew that’s what Molly wanted, too. “Well,” She started, “I wanted you to know this up front - Jess and I have talked, recently, about our relationship. And, as much as we do love each other, I’ve realized that there is someone else for whom I have just as much love for.” She paused, there, letting the words wash over Molly, watching the realization slowly dawn on the other woman’s face as she went to take a drag on the cigarette, before she continued. “So, Molly de l’Argonne, would you like to go out with me? On a proper date, just you and I?”

Molly almost swallowed her cigarette. She was in the middle of an inhale, and she sputtered so hard at the words that she almost consumed the thing entirely, having to hold her hand up and away from her face as she coughed so she didn’t cause herself further issue. That… that was not what she thought was coming. What did she think was coming? An eviction. And that was certainly not an eviction. That was the opposite of an eviction, and Molly quickly and quietly stepped right back in her own way, trying to relight the cigarette with shaking hands, trying to make sense of the sudden heel turn that she’d experienced in real time. “Martha—I—you don’t—you can’t—I can’t—” Molly tried so many different excuses, problems, issues, and she couldn’t get any of them out between the nervous laughter that flooded out of her. Did she want this? Absolutely yes, no questions, no comments, take it in a heartbeat, yes. But the house of cards was being built on a fault line, and it was her duty to point that out. “You’re monogamous, Martha. If you—I don’t want to put your relationship with her in trouble for me.”

“Molly,” Martha started, shaking her head, taking one last quick inhale from her cigarette before stubbing it out on the balcony’s railing. Her now free hand landed, softly, on Molly’s arm, not holding her in place as much as a deliberate, soft touch. “I’ve talked with Jess. She and I are both in agreement - this isn’t just okay, but it’s an overwhelmingly positive thing. Not only that, but I did speak to Konrad - he sends his love, along with his blessings.” She took a beat, the moment feeling like so many millennia in the making. “The only person I had left to ask was you, dear. I know we’ve tried this whole song and dance before with… limited success, but, if you’d want to, I’d like to try again. I love you, Molly, from the way your smile makes me feel like the weight of the world could just melt away, to how your laugh makes my heart flutter. You make me happy in so many ways, and I guess I’m asking if I do that sort of thing for you? And, if I don’t right now, would you be willing to give me the opportunity to try?”

Molly felt her knees almost buckle under her, and she leaned on the railing, heavy. This was happening. It was real. Martha was in love with her - and somehow, while this was a shock and certainly unexpected, Molly wasn’t surprised about it, either. Martha had always been in love with her, but she had been certain that the stop blocks between them were impassable, impossible things. Molly pulled herself up from the puddle she’d made on the floor, putting herself back together - and she was so used to the practice, by then, that it was effortless - taking one of Martha’s hands in her own and giving it a smile that was… receptive, sure, but also still, somehow, sad. “Martha Briatta-Thompson, you don’t have t’try t’make me happy. I… look, here’s the skinny - yeah, you make me happy. Deliriously so. Everything we’ve had here, everything we’ve done here, I could… I could live like this and never do anything else and never frown again. I could be happy like this. And… and yeah, I’d love it if you’d… if you’d kiss me.” Molly couldn’t fight the flush that rushed into her cheeks, not for a second, but she did force it down all the same, looking out over the Venetian skyline.

“I’m in love with you, and… at first, I thought it was too late, the train had left the station, but… Martha,” Molly said, looking back at Martha with desperation, “Is this even gonna work? I’m… I know I said I wasn’t… uncomfortable, in the 40’s, but… I don’t really seek that out, and I know how you and Jess have been, and I…” She paused, rolling her bottom lip under her teeth for just a moment, “I’m not gonna be enough, y’know? Eventually, that pretty face, that nice laugh, that won’t sustain you anymore, and what happens then, Martha? What happens if we fight again, if I’m not good enough, if you fall out of love or I fall out of love or Jess decides she’s done sharin’, and we have to stop this? You think we can even be friends, after?” Molly shook her head, like she thought the answer had to be no. “I’ve fucked up a lot, Martha. I almost lost you, once. I don’t wanna lose you as a friend for all of this.”

“Molly, the only thing I will ever ask of you in the bedroom is maybe a nice cuddle. I would never put you in that situation again if you didn’t want it, and Jess has that department well handled, regardless.” Martha replied, a chuckle bubbling from her throat even as she shook her head. “And, to be honest, Molly, there’s never been a moment, or even an alternate timeline, where you’d ever not be enough for me. I’ve wanted this since I first met you; I’ve wanted you for all that time, not just your body, or what you think should be done in a relationship. Just you, and whatever parts of yourself you’re willing to share with me.” Martha took an unneeded breathe, steeling herself; Molly wanted this, but there was hesitancy, there. She was ready for a no from the start, even if it would be forced, but she knew Molly, almost better than most. “When I came back, in 2021, you asked me if I was done leaving. I know I didn’t promise anything back then, because I didn’t want you to think it was just more empty words. But dammit, Molly, I would spend every day from today ‘til my last with you, if you’d have me. You’ve always had my heart; even while we were separate, there’s always been a part of it that’s belonged to you. I guess I’m asking, now, if that’s something I can finally give you?” She asked, and she tried not to grimace, because this would be it. She knew it. She didn’t want to push too hard, but she’d battle against any excuse Molly could give if it meant she could be happy in the end.

“And… even if we fight,” Molly started, breathless, that last barrier between them glass clear and thin, easily shattered with the right train of thought, “You won’t… we’ll be friends? The last time we fought, Martha, you fucked off for a few years, and then the world almost ended, and I was worried we wouldn’t even be friends after. So if we… if something happens, and this doesn’t work, we’ll… we’ll figure it out, but I won’t lose you? You promise?” Molly asked, both of Martha’s hands in her own, her grip desperate, shaking. Martha gave Molly's hands a firm squeeze, a reassurance as much as a promise in and of itself.

“I promise, Molly, that no matter what happens between us, I’ll always be just a call away. Though, I doubt there could be anything that would break what we have right here.” Martha spoke softly, stepping closer, their bodies fully touching. Molly was cold, her skin smooth, her dress just as smooth, her hands shaking. “It’s been over a hundred years, dear, and nothing has been able to stop this. And, as patient as I can be now, I don’t want to go another day without you, if I can help it.” Martha hesitated, every fiber of her being wanting to lean in and kiss Molly right then, but she didn’t, not wanting to pressure the other woman into the action. Molly would need to make the first move, as her comfort in the moment was paramount.

Of course, Molly hesitated all the same, until she didn’t, leaning up and kissing Martha square on the lips. She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d expected her first kiss with Martha to go, but this certainly wasn’t it, and yet, she didn’t mind - she leaned in, her hands on Martha’s shoulders, her back arching into Martha’s body, everything smelling of strawberries and gunpowder and the cool feeling of metal against Molly’s sternum surrounded by the cold, soft skin and fabric of Martha’s chest, her hands lighting on Molly’s back, and it was everything she ever wanted and everything she could have hoped for.

But then the reality of what this meant splashed over Molly’s head like cold water. The image of Mae, her only other friend - and were they even friends, by then, or just people who’d known each other once - screaming at her for the transgression settled into the back of her head like a shot to the heart, and then that shifted, twisting to be Jess, irritated, doing this for Martha and not because she wanted to, and then Marie, back, somehow, furious, angry in a way that made Molly’s blood run cold. Konrad’s indifference, her children thinking her a cheating whore, it wasn’t rational but one thought spiraled into the next until suddenly Molly was pulling back with a look of terror on her face. She stepped back from Martha, stumbled, overwhelmed, everything in her eyes desperate and wanting but everything in her body scared shitless.

“Martha—I—I just—I’m sorry.” She said, softly, aching, before turning to beeline out of the room. She didn’t pause for long, heading to the only place she knew she’d find privacy from any of Jess’s staff - the bathroom. She closed the door behind her, locking it, before leaning back against the wall, and with shaking knees, sliding to the floor and collapsing there. It wasn’t fair. She never got what she wanted, and she wanted Martha. She wanted Martha so much, and Martha wanted her, but no one was going to let her. Even the Issac in her head seemed to snarl her direction at the idea of it, like they all knew the real secret - that Molly was the problem, and she would hurt Martha, and they’d never speak again. Shaking fingers dialed a number Molly knew by heart, because she knew the image in her head was wrong and she knew she could check. “Issac?” She whispered, once the ringing stopped, before he could speak. “Issac, I need your help.”

Issac, for his part, had been having a wonderful evening by that point, with plans to have a wonderful evening after that point, too. He had been out on a date with his husband, the two of them going on a bit of Venetian sightseeing before they sat down for dinner at one of their favorite spots in the city. They'd made it from their tour to the restaurant, at around the same time he'd received a text from Konrad that simply read, Martha is finally making a move, be ready. He knew what that meant, of course; he'd gotten a few worried texts from Molly throughout the early part of the night, so he had figured he would have about an hour if not a little less before he was, almost certainly, going to be getting a call from the woman in question. He’d gone to dinner anyway, and the couple had made it through the appetizers and had ordered their entrees when Issac’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. He excused himself quickly, with the ease of a well practiced politician; he was lucky his husband, Elias, was Molly’s son, and also had an idea of what was going on, so he didn't feel bad when he stepped out of the restaurant. He found a quiet place, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and getting it in hand before he answered the phone. He waited a beat, letting Molly get everything out before he broke in.

"What's goin' on Ma?" He asked, lighting the cigarette; it was an empty question, but one that needed to be asked. Molly didn't like being the last one to know about something, and he didn't want to stress her out any further than she already was by admitting her understood exactly what was happening.

“I kissed Martha.” Molly’s voice was hushed, soft, panicked, shaking, the whisper of a woman who had fucked up over and over and over again and who didn’t believe herself to be able to be trusted to not fuck it up again. “I-I-She asked me out on a date, and I-I kissed her, and then I… it was so good, Issac, it was everything I’d ever wanted, but then I… all I could see was Mae just… screaming at me and Marie just screaming and Jess havin’ done this for her and not happy about it and I… I couldn’t… I panicked, Issac. I panicked and I ran.” Molly tried not to hiccup, to keep herself under control, but that seemed to be the place where she felt the fuckup was the worst. That she’d left without so much as an explanation. “I just… what if I hurt her, Issac? If I hurt her, every hateful thing they’ve ever said about me will be right. And then she’ll realize this was a mistake and she’ll leave me again for good, Issac.”

Issac sighed. This was not unexpected - Molly was an ace at getting in her own way, and this was no exception. Luckily for her, however, Issac was also her go-to guy for a pep talk, and he was her go-to for a reason - he knew her better than just about anybody, having been with her for so long, and he was willing to put money on that. “Well, t’start, I’m glad she finally went ahead and asked.” He started, shaking his head. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic. “But, second, why the hell would you care about the opinions of two dead women who shouldn’t have a say in your happiness, or Martha’s? As much as it sucks t’think about, Marie is gone, Ma, dead and essentially buried.”

“Mae’s not dead.” Molly tried. Issac didn’t let her.

“Yeah, well, let’s just say your favorite redhead seems t’be spending a lot more time with you than she has with Mae in the last, oh, I don’t know, twenty somethin’ years. If Mae has an issue with this, I happen to know a good few people who’d like t’tell her t’fuck off, personally.” Issac added, pausing there, mentally going over the not-insignificant amount of people that would come to Molly’s defense if Mae did have an issue with the whole ordeal. The list was as large and potent as he’d expected. “As for Jess… well, let’s just say I’ve gotten t’know the woman rather well, over the years. She’s not someone t’just do things without thinkin’ about them, so I doubt she’s doin’ this just ‘cause Martha batted her eyes at Jess and said pretty please. Look, this is gonna be a lot, but right now, I think you’re gonna need t’hear this, so even if this sounds mean, know I mean it with all the love I have for ya, okay?” Issac asked, waiting, wanting to really give Molly the chance at an out, even if he figured he was going to say it regardless.

“There’s nothin’ you can tell me that’ll make me feel worse than how fast I booked it, Issac.” Molly’s chuckle was sad, soft, broken, scared. “I just… I don’t want everyone t’realize they were right when things go south, Issac. And things always fuckin’ go south, feels like. Just my luck.”

"Well, then, here’s the deal. I know I didn’t do the whole weird time shit that you both did, but I can tell you this much. I watched that woman pine over you for so long, but there was always something in the way. Your off and on thing with Marie, the fae, the horrors, always somethin’. And then, yeah, she left. I didn’t like it, but she did what she thought was right - and then, when she came back, lo and behold, it’s not her who’s doin’ the pinin’ anymore, it’s you. You resigned yourself to watching the woman you love go and be happy with someone that isn’t you. But now, that very same woman figured out that, yes, she still loves you, and she went through all the steps that she needed to in order t’make sure it could happen. And, instead of spendin’ time with her, you’re talkin’ t’me about the opinions of a dead bitch and another one who, at this point, hasn’t given either of you the time of day for over twenty years. Do I have that right?” Issac asked, taking a long drag off the thing before exhaling through his nose, waiting for her response and knowing he wasn’t going to be happy with it.

“It’s not just them, Issac, it’s everyone!” Molly snapped, but then she heard herself, and she sighed, pressed against the wall. “I just… what if we don’t work out? What if this was some… fleeting moment and not something…” Molly shook her head. “And now that I’ve panicked, how the fuck do I even go back out there? She probably took that as a no, Issac. I just. I was overwhelmed.”

"Well, for starters," Issac started, sucking down the last of his cigarette before stubbing the butt out in a nearby ashtray, “Think of it like this: you two were in a bad way before the war, yeah? And she left, and that hurt, but what you seem to be forgettin’ is that she came back. Her wife all but told you to never set foot across the sea again, so she came to you. Not because she wanted something, not because she needed you for anything, no - she did it because she wanted t’see you again.” He paused. “I know you always say that you love Konrad because he was the one that stayed, but, maybe there’s somethin’ t’be said about someone who came back. If that doesn’t tell you that there ain’t any way you can fuck this up, then I don’t know what t’tell ya. And, besides, if you ever think you are gonna fuck it up, you got a whole bunch of folks that want this t’work out for ya, including her. So, if you don’t mind, I have a date with my husband t’get back to. Go show her how much you want this, alright? I’ll talk t’you soon.” He paused, just for a brief moment, just to make sure the words sunk in. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m happy for both of ya. Now, go see your girl, Ma.” He said, and he hung up.

Molly sat there for a second, long after the phone had hung up, even as the call went and then stayed silent, turning things over in her head. Ultimately, hiding in the bathroom was stupid. She was a big girl, who’d been through many things - and if one of those things happened to be a breakup later in her life, well. Wasn’t there someone famous who said it would be worth the time spent, regardless? She shook her head, pushing herself to her feet and examining her face in the mirror; she was a bit messy, but she always was a bit messy, and she pulled a compact out of her pocket to correct the mussed makeup. Fresh lipstick, fresh eyeliner, fresh beauty mark - perfect. She paused, considering herself, tried to puff herself up, and failed.

“You’re kinda bein’ a bit of a puss, Molls.” She said, to herself, using a nickname she had only ever heard from her father - and probably would have killed anyone else had they uttered such a thing. She stared at herself; she looked exhausted. She had been abused, as far as anyone had told her. It made sense. “Look, it’s Martha. Just. If nothin’ else, babe, you gotta do this so you don’t go home to a fuckin’ earful.” Molly chuckled, threatening herself with Issac’s reaction, before leaning on the sink. “You want this. You deserve this. You gotta shove this fucking shit in Marie’s now metaphorical face. And Mae’s less metaphorical one.” She sighed. “C’mon, you broken cunt, just believe in yourself.” She gripped the bathroom counter’s edge, and took a deep breathe. She was Molly de l’Argonne. She was the Bull Queen, though she had no idea where that nickname even came from. She was a woman with stars in her eyes and a crown on her head and she’d saved the world three times and talked an entire clan out of killing her for not ending it a fourth time. She controlled the entirety of New England.

She could fucking ask a woman out.

She pulled herself up to her full height, quickly adjusting the cut of her blouse, opening a few of the buttons running up her shirt so her cleavage was a little further on display. She had very little to show, but she knew how to work it. A quick retouch of her lipstick had pink on her cheeks, making her look more rosy and less dead. She exhaled, slowly. She was a bad bitch. She could do this.

Opening the door, she peered out, first simply trying to locate her prospective girlfriend; Martha hadn’t moved, still right where Molly left her, leaning against the railing. There were two other cigarette butts on the rail, and another in Martha’s hands, mostly finished. Oh boy. That wasn’t a great sign. Molly exhaled, again, flattening her dress, adjusting her tits as much as she could, and making sure her hips had sway when she moved. She had a body that was hot, and the girl knew how to work it - and while she didn’t necessarily think she needed to turn on the charm, she figured going so far in the other direction of her first reaction would at least tell Martha she wasn’t lying. She slipped back outside, cocking one hip out hard enough to put a hand on while trying to look apologetic all the same. “Sorry about that, Martha, I… I got a little overwhelmed.”

The relief that washed over Martha’s features was almost palpable, as much as it was visible. She had honestly thought Molly’s mad dash had meant that she’d gone to pack her things, and that Martha had truly scared the woman off - despite all of the information she’d been given previously, she’d worried that she’d misread everything, and that this meant she was going to lose Molly for good. “I… I’m sorry if I came off a bit strong, there.” Martha finished the last of her cigarette, putting it out as she turned to close the distance between them again. “Are we okay? If you don’t want to do this, I understand. I just don’t want to lose you, Molly. I’m sorry.” Martha said, stepping forward again, desperate to close the distance she thought she’d created, metaphorical as much as physical, fear in her voice, terrible and scared.

“I… I’m gonna be honest with you, Martha, I’ve not been okay for a long time.” Molly said, softly, heartfelt and tender. Part of being a bad bitch was laying things out seriously and truly, and Molly had gotten to the point of fuck it where there was nothing to keep her from saying what she needed to say. Worse case, she fucked it up as much as it was already fucked. “But… when Marie died, I came out here and found more… warmth and kindness than I’d ever been given, and it’s the closest to okay I think I’ve been.” She paused. “But… I’ve been scared, Martha. I’ve been terrified, ‘cause… ‘cause by the time Marie waltzed out of my life, after the war, I’d realized how much I loved you. But you didn’t need me anymore, and everyone thought I was the villain, and why wouldn’t you think that, too? And… I know you’ve said you don’t blame me, and I believe you, but… It’s hard, trusting. Especially when things have been so bad, before.” Molly turned, stepping forward, hips swinging, tits out. She was hot and she knew it and she hoped the show would assuage any of the fear in Martha’s voice, show her that she wanted this. She sighed.

“So, when you came out here, I… I got scared, again. Scared that we’d mess this up, that I’d end up back where I started - hated by everyone I knew for hurtin’ you, but this time it would really be my fault. And I panicked, and I ran.” Molly stepped up, closing that final gap, putting one hand, lightly, on Martha’s shoulder, before trailing it along her suit jacket, letting her smell the rose on her wrist as she ran her nails down the curve of Martha’s neck, gentle, sensual, tender. “But… I realized… It’ll be worth it. Even if we end things. Even if I’m t’blame. Because I get to love you, Martha, and it doesn’t matter if it ends tomorrow or it ends in a thousand years, that’s more than a lotta people get to say. Not a lotta people get to sit there and say they’ve found someone they love, let alone more than one someone, and that they’ve even tried to be happy with them. So… yes. I’ll go out on a date with you.”

Tears welled in Martha’s eyes at the words, the gap vanishing entirely as she reached out, winding her arms around Molly’s back as she pulled the woman in close. Rose mixed with strawberry, floral and fruity and sweet, as Martha leaned in, and their lips met one more time, soft as much as it was passionate. The first kiss, it had been a real kiss, but that kiss, that was the kiss, the proper thing, the moment the two of them became something more than crossed stars, barely glimpsed in a light polluted skyline. Molly wound her arms around Martha’s neck, and Martha pulled the woman close by the small of her back, and they melded into each other, no more gaps, no space, nothing but close contact and the sweetness of forgiveness and the blessing of patience. In that moment, over a hundred years of heartbreak and tears seemed to vanish, and Martha held onto Molly tightly, almost afraid that if she let go, the other woman would simply vanish and the dream would end. She had dreamed, so often and for so long, and her grip on reality was so tenuous, for a moment, the warmth that Molly pressed into her skin for Martha’s benefit couldn’t be, shouldn’t be - but then it stayed, and it was, and they broke apart, breathless if they had needed it. Molly looked at Martha, and for a moment, the stars seemed to spit fire across the sky, a meteor shower in the woman’s eyes. The twinkle in Martha’s gaze seemed to match it.

“You know exactly how long I’ve been waiting to do that, love.” Martha whispered, breathless and soft, doing her best to keep a laugh from her voice and almost failing. She was happy, truly happy, because Molly always made her happy - though, it was strange. Things weren’t going to change, not really; they were all but dating before the kiss, and now the only difference was the fact that they would do so more often than not. Yet, the little that would change was colossal, in it’s own way, and Martha couldn’t really parse why that one thing was both so minute and so small and yet so large and overpowering at the same time - and honestly, it didn’t matter. Molly made her happy, and they could finally be together, and that was all there was to say about it. “It’s honestly hard to believe that this is happening.” She chuckled, finally letting the laugh out. “I’m not dreaming, right?”

“No, no dreaming, no dopplegangers, either.” Molly said, trying to let herself relax and finding it hard. There was always so much to worry about - who knew, and when, and how, and who would tell them, and what would they say, and how far would it travel, and, and, and. Things were stressful, even when they were great. “God, we’ve got so many people to tell, and-and I still gotta figure out what I’m gonna wear tomorrow…” Molly paused, turning with an idea in her eyes, to Martha. “Would you… would you help me? Pick an outfit, I mean.” Molly inclined her head down, looking up through her eyelashes. She didn’t need to, but she knew it would make Martha turn certain colors - it did before, and she hadn’t changed all that much - as she took the woman’s hands in her own. “I wanna make sure I can dress to impress. And, while I dress, you can start telling people.” Molly chuckled, and Martha nodded in agreement, her hands still lingering on Molly’s hips.

“One more round, boys? Or are we all out of cash?” Kat Baker asked, of the three gentleman at the pool table with her, leaning on the side of the table with one hand on her hip.

It was the middle of February, and Seattle was as Seattle often was - cold, wet, and unwilling to compromise the gray of the sky for anything brighter for even a moment. It meant that, even in the lateness of the evening, the bar was full of people seeking somewhere warm and dry to hole up in for a few hours, trying desperately to flee the darkness outside. This was, ultimately, why Leigh, and his girlfriend, Kat, spent most of their off time in the bounds of the pub - the food was free, easy flowing, and usually pretty drunk by the time they got there, so it was easy to get a good buzz going without anyone the wiser. There was even a body in the back hall, a young man with a few pints less blood in him that he’d started with, sleeping off the hangover that he’d apparently picked up earlier that evening. It helped that Leigh was a nurse, after all; he was good at telling what ailed people, and better at ignoring the small pinpicks he’d left on the man’s neck.

Drunk enough, he’d returned to watch his girlfriend hustle pool, and he’d been like that for almost an hour at that point, only half listening to the conversation near him as he watched her do her thing. She was in jeans, but they were skinny, split at the knee, and showed off the curve of her ass and her hips, which Leigh watched sway as she goaded the gentlemen into playing one last round with her. Sure, she was in an overly-large flannel shirt that covered up the rest of her curves, but Leigh didn’t need to see what was behind the curtain to enjoy the view, and he absently sipped on his pint as he did so, thinking as he watched her move.

They’d been dating for eight years, which was a lot in normal people terms; Leigh and Kat were Kindred, however, like most of their friends, which meant they weren’t exactly normal people when it came to the timelines of romance. Leigh’s sire, Elizabeth Byrnes, had been into another woman, Azrael, for literally centuries, and still, somehow, hadn’t asked her out yet, even though rumor had it that Az was just as into the idea as Elizabeth was - this was, as far as Leigh understood, common among Kindred. But he’d only been dead for the same amount of time - he’d been blown up, sired, and then immediately met Kat, who had bonded with him so quickly it was like they’d been dating for ages - and it meant his sensibilities were still more what Kine would figure as normal. And normal people didn’t date eight years without at least knowing what they wanted from their future. Did Leigh? Well, kind of.

“I get you’re dating her, but you don’t have to ogle her ass every ten minutes.” Leigh’s coworker, Diya, said, sipping her own beer. Leigh was a nurse - he’d thrown a button down shirt over his scrubs, having traveled to the pub right off of his night-shift - and Diya was his coworker, comrade in the trenches, and personal ghoul. It had gotten too much to try and keep the idea of being a vampire from her, considering, and it had left him with someone he trusted that could still go out into the daylight in his back pocket. Leigh sighed, ripping his gaze away from his girlfriend to shoot Diya a withered look. She was sitting at the table next to the only other friend Leigh hung out with in any real, regular fashion - Kilo, a Kindred and juggalo with a big heart, bigger grin, and a brain that was mostly full of Faygo. Was he stupid? No. But he certainly came off like he was.

“You’re just jealous that I have a hot girlfriend.” Leigh countered. Diya rolled her eyes, sipping at her own pint as she did so. She was, as far as Leigh understood, into women, at least partially, but they both knew it was a deflection. He didn’t have to ogle her, that was true - but she was pretty, and he was so lucky, and there were plenty of reasons he had to hate her and none of them actually mattered to him; what mattered was that she was his, as he was hers, and there was nothing but death that could separate them.

“You ever gonna make her more than a girlfriend?” Diya asked, instead, looking at him over the top of her pint. Leigh turned his attention to her, having to work through the words, considering they were not particularly clear and he was particularly drunk. “Or are you just waiting to bail on her when things get bad?”

“I’m not gonna bail on her, D.” Leigh corrected, narrowing his eyes at her. He had figured out what she was getting at, of course, but he wanted her to say it anyway; it was a power thing, and he didn’t want to admit that he knew her meaning and just didn’t want to answer. “It’s been eight years. If I was gonna bail on her, I’ve had plenty reason and haven’t.”

“Then when, my friend, are you going to put a ring on that hand?” Diya countered, finally getting to the point, and Kilo made a face of surprise that certainly didn’t help matters. Leigh sighed, deeply, briefly burying himself in his pint to put off having to answer. Diya was not, however, letting him get away with avoiding it. “You yourself said it’s been eight years. Most people I know at least talk about weddings after five years. You even talked about it with her?” She asked. Leigh gave her a scathing look, and then sighed, letting his shoulders fall slightly.

“We’ve talked.” He said, not backing down, but letting himself fall from the intensity they’d almost gotten to; luckily, he wasn’t lying - they’d talked. They’d talked, and they’d agreed that, while both would love to be married, weddings were a lot. Especially considering that Leigh’s coterie weren’t exactly friendly with his girlfriend; inviting them to his wedding sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Plus, the coterie he ran with before, when they’d met, well, most of them were dead. Kilo, Leigh, and Kat were the only ones of the team to survive, beyond their benefactor and friend, Deacon. Leigh liked Deacon, but he was more of a dad than he really was a good friend, and while he would have loved to invite the man to a wedding, one guest did not a good event make. Plus, while they had money, Leigh was a nurse, and that meant getting any kind of time off for a wedding, let alone a honeymoon, would be rough. He’d rather use his PTO for the vacation. “I don’t think marriage is for us.”

“Marriage, or weddings?” Diya asked, curiously. Leigh shrugged.

“Same difference, innit?” He asked, skulling the end of his pint. It was probably quitting time, anyway, he figured, and it would get him out of the conversation. However, the way Diya looked at him said he was incorrect, somehow. However, it wasn’t Diya who jumped in, but Kilo, who had a look on his face that thought Leigh was certainly smarter than that; Kilo was not often the man in the room with the best ideas, though he wasn’t bereft of them.

“You could elope.” Kilo suggested, with a shrug. Leigh narrowed his eyes, and it was suddenly clear that he honestly didn’t know what eloping was. Kilo, helpfully, tried to elaborate. “Like, drive down to Vegas and get Elvis to marry you. People do it all the time, bro!”

“I don’t think we want Elvis to marry us, thanks.” Leigh countered. He’d heard of the concept, before - eloping in Vegas - but he’d never really considered it an option. Eloping in Vegas was for drunks who’d met their bride all of twenty minutes earlier in some seedy, behind-the-Strip bar, as far as he was aware. Plus, he’d only ever seen Elvis as the officiant, and while he wasn’t against the man’s music, being married by a likely overweight impersonator in a shiny, Party City one-piece jumpsuit that showed way too much and a cheap pompadour wig did not sound like a wedding Leigh wanted to have. If he was going to put a ring on his girlfriend’s hand, he wanted there to be some level of standards.

“Dude, it’s not just Elvis.” Diya countered, giving Leigh a look that said he was being stupid. He didn’t like getting that look, because Diya was usually right and also insufferable about it. “You can basically get anyone to marry you, down there, and the only reason it’s in Vegas is ‘cause the laws are a lot more lax down there. But Kilo’s right,” Diya said, and Kilo lit up like he was a Christmas tree that had been plugged in suddenly, bright and happy to be told he was right, “If you wanna marry your girl, but you don’t want a wedding, eloping is the way to go. Just you, a guy with a pen and the power invested in him by the state of wherever the fuck, and your girl. You don’t even need to look good, though, that’s kinda the best part of a wedding.” Diya shrugged. “Just… think about it?” She asked. Leigh sighed.

“You’re very invested in my love life, D.” He said, pushing himself to his feet. Kat was wrapping up her third win, and it was probably time they bolted before one of the guys decided he wanted his money back. Leigh didn’t have the energy to dispose of a body that night. Diya shrugged again.

“I’m just sayin’, you’ve been with that girl for almost a decade and you’re head over heals for her. If I were her, I’d be looking for a ring at some point. I just don’t want you to lose the only good thing in your life ‘cause you’re a fucking coward.”

“Thank you for the delightful encouragement.” Leigh countered, shaking his head, before pushing away from the table. “I’m in tomorrow at 7. I’ll see you then, yeah?” He patted the table, before heading for the pool table, sliding up next to Kat as she counted the cash in her hands. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and walked with her to the bar, and finished out his tab - and all the while, he was thinking. He was thinking as they made their way out of the bar, his arm around her waist and Kat against his shoulder as they stumbled, drunkenly, down the street, and he was thinking as they reached their apartment, just down the way, and he keyed into it. He was thinking, even as Kat pulled him into a deep kiss in the stairwell, and he was thinking as they skipped up the stairs, nearly two at a time, full of giggles, into their apartment.

It wasn’t a big thing, but it was home, and that was what mattered. For all the money Leigh had, he was loathe to spend it, if only because spending it would mean getting caught. He and Kat were bankrobbers, by trade, and he didn’t want to compromise his real job for something as luxurious as an apartment that was bigger than they needed. The place they were staying was still a nice apartment, three bedrooms and two baths, with a nice kitchen and a decent living room, and they’d filled it with things that weren’t cheap. It just wasn’t luxury, and honestly, it hardly mattered, as Leigh really didn’t notice anymore.

Door closed, Kat threw her arms around her boyfriend’s neck, and they kissed, deeply, Leigh’s hands on her waist, spinning her lightly around their foyer. There was no indication that they were going further than just kissing, and he was fine with that, even as Kat took her shirt off and tossed it on their dining table, even as he leaned down to press kisses to her bared stomach, making her laugh. There was no need, and that was fine; affection, love, intimacy, they did what they had time for, and that night, they were both tired, too tired to go all the way but not so much that they couldn’t at least cuddle and kiss and love each other. Kat led Leigh to their sofa, where they often relaxed, and she laid down over his stomach as he put on the cable and let the TV turn into background noise. They stayed like that for a bit - Leigh, reclined on his back, Kat sprawled over his stomach, her shirtless chest pressed against his shirt, which she was slowly unbuttoning so she could press her cheek to the soft skin of his stomach, lifting his scrubs to get there.

It was heaven, and it was in this heaven that Leigh finally came to the conclusion that, while they were certainly talking about a wedding when they said they were good, Kilo might have actually been right.

“Kat,” Leigh asked, softly, reaching down to press his hands to her white hair. She looked up at him, her chin on the bottom of his ribs, a bleary, kind of drunk, happy grin on her face. He smiled back at her, to assure her that he wasn’t asking anything terrible, even if it was a little strange on his face and made her raise an eyebrow lightly. “You ever wanna get married?”

“Are you proposing, O’Connor?” Kat asked, in return, like he was kind of joking. Leigh raised both eyebrows and tilted his head, like he wasn’t not proposing, either. She sighed. “You know why we can’t have a wedding, Leigh. Like, I’d love to get married, but I don’t think anything’s changed since the last time we talked, y’know?” She said, but Leigh’s face didn’t drop into the sorrow that she expected, and she furrowed her brow. “Why?”

“Well,” Leigh said, and he paused, pushing himself up on his elbows; Kat sat up when he did, sitting next to him on the sofa, one leg tucked under her, her shirt off and left in just her bra, Leigh’s shirt unbuttoned and scrubs visible underneath. “Diya asked, again, when we were at the bar.”

“I swear she’s trying to score you, Leigh.” Kat laughed.

“She’s more likely trying to score you, but that’s neither here nor there, ‘cause she asked if I was ever, and I said we’d talked about not wanting a whole wedding, and Kilo, of all people, said we didn’t have t’do that.” Leigh paused, watching Kat’s eyebrows go up at the idea that Kilo had a good idea. “Now, he suggested eloping, which, far as I’ve known, meant shitty Elvis impersonators and seedy little chapels off the strip, down south. But, I’ve come to the idea that I might be mistaken.” Leigh said, softly, and the realization finally hit Kat in the face.

“Wait, are you actually asking me to marry you?” Kat asked, softly, blown away entirely by the suddenness of the whole thing. Leigh looked at her, and the light in her eyes, the sudden need for hope and joy in her face, and he knew, in that moment, that it didn’t really matter. It could be a shitty Elvis impersonator in a shiny velour suit and the grungiest, seediest chapel that side of the Pacific, and he would have married her anyway. He didn’t have a ring, but he slipped off the sofa, down onto one knee, and took her hands.

“Katherine Baker, we’ve been t’gether for eight years. We’ve lost almost everyone important to us, and we’ve rebuilt. You’re strong, and you’re fun, and you’re the love of my life, and I think it’s been plenty long enough. Would you do me the honor of becomin’ Mrs. Katherine O’Connor? Or, however we wanna do the name, I’m not pressed.” Leigh asked. Kat balked, for a moment, the surprise on her face genuine and happy and delighted and unable to process for several seconds, until she pulled him up by the hands and into a deep, passionate kiss, her hands traveling to his face as his settled on the sofa, straddling her knees. The kneeling knight in front of the Princess, devoted and loving.

“Yes! Yes. Absolutely yes.” Kat answered, between kisses and laughter. Leigh grinned against her lips, finally pressing himself forward until he could sit on the sofa again. Kat didn’t want to part from him, not letting go of his face until she had to and her hands immediately taking his in return. “God, when?” She asked, breathless. “And how? Do we just… do we call them? Are we going to Vegas? Do we need to scout for a not-Elvis?” She asked, half-laughing, and Leigh shrugged, reaching down to snag a laptop from under the coffee table. He had several, and he liked to keep them in easy reach.

“I can start lookin’. I imagine you book them like you book anything else, but fuck if I know. I’ve apparently been mistaken for a long time.” Leigh opened up the laptop, and Kat leaned over on his shoulder, watching him type. He put eloping in Las Vegas into his search engine, and clicked on the first link that popped up - a guide to eloping in Vegas. Surprisingly, easy. It started on, talking about what they’d need, where they’d want to go, and Leigh scanned the page with a slowly growing skepticism. “This said we’d need an elopement planner, a make up artist, a photographer - isn’t that the stuff that we thought was too expensive for a real wedding?”

“Yeah, but you’re on the website of a Vegas photographer. They’re gonna wanna rep their friends.” Kat chuckled, using the touch screen on Leigh’s laptop to scroll down. “See, look, here’s the vendors she lists. Elopement planner isn’t necessary, ‘cause that’s just a wedding planner on a budget, right? Considering we’re not like, planning much, we don’t need one. And we definitely don’t need a florist, or a caterer. Not like we can even eat what they serve, y’know? I can do my own makeup, so we don’t need a makeup artist, and… I don’t know, I don’t think we need a photographer. Our phones have good enough cameras, right?” She asked, looking up at Leigh, who nodded.

“I’m easy without a good photographer. Worst case, we do this, decide we want pretty wedding photos, and throw a proper party to take them.” Leigh offered, and Kat nodded, furiously, at the idea. She liked the idea of going bare-bones - that’s what they’d discussed before, anyway. That all the frills and fuss of a wedding was the problem, and this idea of eloping, of stripping it down to nothing at all, was the solution. “So then, it’s just… where, when, and who’s the officiant. And if anyone is coming.” Leigh said, nodding along, closing out of the tab and putting wedding officiant vegas into the search engine instead. “Do we want an impersonator? Or just a regular guy? ‘Cause it seems like there’s no small shortage of either.”

“Let’s look at impersonators. If we’re gonna elope in Vegas, we should at least look at the fun options.” Kat suggested, and Leigh quickly put impersonator into the search after the rest, pulling up a site that seemed to list many for very cheap. There were certainly more options than Elvis - there were several, of course, including one that was a drag queen that went by ShElvis - including celebrities, super heroes, and other fictional characters. Batman, Spiderman, Beetlejuice - the list was broad, and seemingly endless. Leigh scrolled, pursing his lips at the various costumed options, not liking any of them. Kat, however, seemed to spot something, and reached out with a snap, scrolling back up to find a Pierce Brosnan Impersonator. “Ooo, wait. What about that guy?”

“You wanna get married by a Bond?” Leigh asked, curious but not judgemental. Kat had a broad grin on her face, almost feral, and Leigh felt like he was falling in love all over again at the face.

“Leigh, you and I are full-time bank robbers. We work for a shady guy in a mask and our getaway driver is a juggalo. We’re Bond Villains. Why not get married at the hands of Bond himself? Or, someone who looks a whole lot like him.” Kat asked, and Leigh clicked purchase without looking at the screen, unwilling to take his eyes off his very intelligent, very funny, very hot and very right fiancee. Fiancee. His heart almost exploded to think it.

“Bond, booked. I’ll finish the checkout later. I think, next, we need a date. When do you wanna do this?” Leigh asked, setting the computer down. “And… do we want anyone there? That might make the date a bit funny, trying to get people to show up.” He sighed. “Think we have t’ask Elizabeth. She’ll kill me, otherwise. And I do mean that literally. Besides, we should have a representative of the Nox involved, at the least, so they don’t think I’ve run off and gone rogue.” He added, and Kat nodded, a stressed thing; the Nox were all Salubri, and they weren’t… the most pleased that one of their number was dating a Tremere. It was better that they weren’t the first, but even the previous couple, Naomi and Bri, didn’t stretch their empathy that much. Leigh was right to think they needed to get the wedding sanctioned before someone thought Kat a closet infernalist. “I don’t know if I want to invite anyone else.”

“Not even Deacon?” Kat asked. Deacon was their boss, and, as far as she understood, their friend. Leigh made a face.

“It’s not just Deacon, though. It’s Deacon, and his other people, ‘cause you know he has several, and then there’s that one fellow he won’t ask out, and he’s got people to bring, and of course if we ask Deacon we have to ask Kilo, and then he’s gonna want a plus one, and suddenly we’re fifteen people deep and everyone else is askin’ why they didn’t get on the short list. Not to mention, we’re paying for air fare and hotels and meals and drinks and hopefully nobody’s gambling, but I wouldn’t put that past them. Isn’t that the whole thing we’re trying to avoid? The expense, the need t’be constantly responsible? The need t’entertain our guests?” Leigh asked, briefly desperate, and Kat nodded, understanding. While they both loved Deacon dearly, he made a good point; weddings snowballed. “We said half the reason we didn’t want a proper wedding was that we didn’t wanna have t’manage anyone, and I’m still there. I wouldn’t even ask Elizabeth if I didn’t think that was what would keep you alive after. Everyone else can find out when we get home, yeah? Unless you’re not okay with that?” He asked.

“No, you’re right. I’d rather just get things over with, and even adding one person is a production.” She sighed. “But, hey, just inviting Elizabeth also means we can do this pretty soon, right? ‘Cause we’re just waiting on her schedule? And she’s pretty free.” She paused. “What are you gonna tell her? ‘Cause she’ll blab to Deacon, right? They’re friends.”

“Oh, I’m gonna tell her we’re going on a bit of a holiday, and ask if she’d like to join us for the weekend.” Leigh shrugged. “She doesn’t need t’know it’s a weddin’ ‘til we get there. And the sooner we get things done, the less time she’ll have t’suspect we’re not tellin’ the truth.” He added, resolute in his lie. Would she be mad? Maybe. But she’d live. She’d live, and she’d get it, too, because she’d have done the same thing to him if her wants had been the same. He paused there, his hands in Kat’s, considering her fingers like he could find the right date between her bare knuckles, because that was all they had left - a date and bare knuckles. Bare knuckles that weren’t going to be bare much longer, however. Leigh felt his chest flutter at the idea of a ring on her finger, suddenly, and for a moment, he wished he could just marry her right then. Screw the venue, the dresses, the officiant and cal up someone right then to sign the papers - but that just wasn’t possible, not when most government buildings only operated when the sun was up. They had to schedule it, or they weren’t going to get it done. Luckily, if Elizabeth was the only guest, Kat was right - they could get married soon, as soon as the officiant could be free, and for a moment, there wasn’t any time that was soon enough. “You think you can be ready for this by this comin’ weekend?” Leigh asked, and Kat looked at him like he’d just launched a rocket into the sun just for her - awe, fear, and excitement all mixed into one.

“Wait—like, for real?” She asked, and Leigh nodded.

“We’ve got t’book one guy and get my sire out. We can call them both and just pitch this weekend. Sunday’s the 1st - let’s plan for that, yeah?” Leigh asked, and all Kat could do was nod emphatically, like the idea of sooner was absolutely her preference, too. Like she was in the same boat - now that the idea of their marriage was real, now that he’d asked, now that it wasn’t a series of stressful tasks they had to get through in order to have one day that was honestly more for the guests than it was for the couple, she couldn’t get to it quick enough. Like she wanted to tear the space between them apart with her teeth until they were properly married. “We’ll get you a dress day of. Maybe you and Liz can go out and get a dress for her, too. Get it all done. Won’t necessarily be fitted, but you fit most things off the rack, and I bet we can find someone that’d do a couple alterations day of, yeah?” Leigh asked. Kat, again, simply nodded along, like she was powering their movement through the shake of her head. Her grip on his hands was white knuckle tight.

“So, this weekend. We’re getting married this weekend.” Kat repeated, like she had to say it to make it real, and Leigh grinned at her, his own grip on her hands just as intense. They were getting married, and they were both so excited, they were kind of feral about it - but wasn’t that the thing they loved about each other? Wasn’t that the thing that drew him to her like a moth to a flame? The fact that she took what she wanted without care, that she did her own thing, that they both operated on a different drum beat than the rest of the world? That his freak matched hers in every way that mattered? It took only a few seconds before they were leaned in again, kissing, the stress of it all melting away as they both finally realized there was nothing else to do but call Elizabeth and book a flight. And the flight was the easy part.

But Leigh didn’t mind, even as as laid back on the sofa, and Kat laid back on his stomach, and pulled his scrubs up until she could see the top surgery scars across his chest and other scars across his stomach. He couldn’t mind, even as Kat pressed kisses to his chest, and pressed her cheek to his stomach, and even as the cable TV intoned infomercials they didn’t really give a shit about, because he loved her. He loved her so deeply, there was nothing he wanted in between them, ever, and the ruination of his clan by hers couldn’t even stop him.

They were finally getting married. And Leigh couldn’t help but grin at the idea.

~*~

“Okay, now. I’m old, and I’m gracious, but I know a liar when I see one.” Elizabeth said, sitting at a little bistro table with a cup of coffee, Leigh across from her and Kat by his side. He was grinning, and she was grinning, and they were in Las Vegas for some reason, and Elizabeth was losing her sense of trust in the situation every moment it went by. It didn’t help that she’d started with very little in the first place. “What’s really goin’ on?”

Leigh had called her, first, a handful of days before, and asked if she would like to vacation with them in Vegas for the weekend. Spur of the moment thing, he’d said, but he’d not seen her in ages, and if she was ever going to like Kat, she needed to visit more often. She’d said yes, but only because he was right, and she didn’t often get to see her childe out West; she lived in West Virginia, which was a far drive from Seattle on a good day, and Leigh couldn’t leave his work for long enough to meet her in return. But even from the phonecall, she’d been suspicious of their intentions - Leigh had been quick, dismissive, smooth; he didn’t give her much space to question, and she’d learned fast that it meant he was hiding something - and arriving in Vegas hadn’t helped. Kat had quickly picked her up from the airport on her own - this was a pretty rare occurrence - shuttling her, not to a hotel, but to a dress shop, where she’d insisted they both get fitted for new clothes. Fancy clothes, much fancier than required in Vegas; they weren’t high rolling, as far as Elizabeth understood, though she’d quickly realized she understood very little. It was absolutely suspicious, of course, and the feeling had only grown when the dress Kat had picked out was entirely white. So, when they’d bought the dresses, gotten them fitted, and then finally convened at a small coffee shop just off the strip, Kat’s dress in a bag in their car and Elizabeth’s dress in a box near it, a box on the fourth seat at the table containing something Leigh had certainly bought while they’d been shopping, well. She couldn’t have been anything else than suspicious.

“Kat and I are getting married.” Leigh said, simply, in response to her question. The jig was up, after all, and as a bank robber, he understood when it was best to just give up the ghost. It wasn’t like holding the lie was going to help them; the wedding was in a handful of hours. He’d booked the Impersonator for one in the morning, which was probably a little early for the man, but he’d agreed without a second thought. It would mean they’d be married on the day they’d wanted, and they wouldn’t have had to battle drunks at nine in the evening on a Sunday to do so - but the bars would still be open, so the actively drinking wouldn’t have found solace in their space, either.

Elizabeth had taken a sip of her coffee as he spoke. He watched her almost choke on it.

“You’re what?!” She asked, setting her coffee down before she dropped it. “Married?!”

“Elizabeth, it’s been eight years. You have t’get over it.” Leigh replied, thinking her protest was in regards to his fiancee’s clan. She was a Tremere, but this wasn’t even the first wedding where a Salubri married a Tremere, so it shouldn’t have been that much of an issue, he figured. Elizabeth balked at him, like thinking that was the issue was the most reductive way he could have figured it, and it was almost an insult.

“That’s not—it’s not about her!” Elizabeth half-barked, half-laughed. She wasn’t being mean, she just had a tendency to come off that way. “You’re just missin’ quite a bit for a wedding, lad. A venue, for one. Or an officiant. Or guests. Y’know, the usual trappin’s of a wedding.” She gestured, indicating that she should have been seeing those things by then if that was what they were doing. Leigh simply gave her a cold gaze in return - she was oftentimes taken as being mean unnecessarily, because she was blunt and to the point and didn’t hedge her words. Leigh was not dissimilar; people often took him being mean because he was able to set his face in a cold stare very easily. It was nurse training, however, and he hardly meant the stink he put on his face when he did.

“We’re eloping.” He corrected, and Elizabeth narrowed his eyes at him, like that didn’t make sense. “We didn’t want any of that, Liz.”

“Don’t call me Liz.”

“He’s the only one you don’t let call you Liz.” Kat pushed in, suddenly. She’d been holding Leigh’s hand under the table the entire time, and she gave it a squeeze as she spoke. Was it starting shit? Maybe. Did she care? No. “You let the other Nox call you Liz, but not him. He’s your childe, though. Why?” She asked. Elizabeth pursed her lips, looking sour.

“…I’m working on it.” She finally admitted, between her grit teeth. Leigh raised an eyebrow. “Leigh, you know I didn’t really get t’choose t’sire you. Deacon asked for a hand in an emergency, and I did what he asked, ‘cause I don’t like seein’ Kine trashed by Kindred’s actions. But we’re not close like I am the Nox. I’ve had hundreds of years with Addicia, and Naomi, and Rorke, and Milo, and many more with Az, but you… you’re eight years fresh, lad. I don’t… lettin’ people in isn’t easy, and with the fact that you allied yourself to her in an instant, it’s been… hard. Look, I’m happy for you. But you don’t come visit, so it’s takin’ a bit for us t’grow t’the point everyone else is at. You get it. I know you do. That’s why I chose you.” Elizabeth offered, and Leigh sighed.

“I know.” He said, and he gave Kat a sort of head nod that said he got it, and that while he appreciated her defense, he didn’t need it. “Regardless, this is what we wanted. No frills, no mess, no fuss. No big expense, no entertainin’ guests, no scheduling issues. Her, me, a guy with a pen, and the power invested in him or whatever.” Leigh said, quoting his own ghoul, and Elizabeth sighed.

“The Nox won’t be pleased.” She said, and he shrugged, which was exactly why she chose him. He was just as much of a stubborn, I get what I want and you can’t stop me kind of person as she was.

“The Nox can handle being dissapointed. I’m not throwing them a party I don’t want for their feelings.” He replied, and Elizabeth shrugged again. “We’re not even inviting Deacon, Liz. You’re here so the Nox know I haven’t gone rogue and run away with her. And cause you’re the only other person I got left that’s like family. You and Kilo, and he’s also not on the list.” He added, and she sighed. He was right, it was just a lot to receive at once. “It’s happening, anyway. Appointment’s at one. You’ve got a dress, she’s got a dress, I got a suit, we’ve got rings. All we need is your agreement. You in?” He asked. Elizabeth stared at him for a long second, before she sighed, again.

“Fine. But you’re explaining to Deacon why you didn’t invite him, not me.” She said, and Leigh shrugged, happy with that answer. He was already planning on fixing that problem himself, anyway.

“Fair enough. Now, shall we go get married?” He asked, pushing himself to his feet. It was almost midnight, and they had a little bit of a drive, plus getting dressed at the venue. Kat hopped up, and Elizabeth followed suit, following them to the car - the car that now had JUST MARRIED written across the back windshield in window paint marker.

It was a small wedding, but he didn’t say it was going to be subtle.

~*~

“By the power invested in me, by the state of Nevada and the city of Las Vegas, I now pronounce you man, and wife. You may now kiss the bride.” The officiant said, in a smooth, Pierce Brosnan kind of voice.

There were, surprisingly, guests. They’d found a little garden chapel online, and they’d convinced the Brosnan impersonator to join them there, which was no trouble. He was a surprisingly agreeable officiant, once they’d gotten his proper number, but Leigh didn’t question it; a late evening wedding at a random garden chapel was probably not the weirdest wedding he’d worked. Elizabeth had gotten dressed when they’d arrived - her dress was black and silver, floral, fluffy, and looked good with her white hair - and she’d helped Kat dress after, in a moment that seemed to leave Kat more struck than anything else. Leigh didn’t get a chance to ask, of course, but the dressing in the back of a wedding was a special moment, and he was simply happy they’d shared it - and happier still that it seemed to have some kind of impact on the pair. He’d gotten dressed, too, a white tux with black lapels to match Kat’s white, short, fluffy wedding dress, and then they’d met the officiant at the front of the venue. Elizabeth had walked him down the aisle, arm in arm, sitting in the front, and Kat had walked down after, beaming, even as she passed a couple of drunks sitting in the back row, smelling like cheep booze and cigarettes. Leigh didn’t notice, his eyes drawn to Kat, her radiance, her grin, and he didn’t look away once she’d stepped into the aisle - and clearly, she didn’t either, her eyes glued entirely to him the entire time. The vows, the rings, they barely broke eye contact, working entirely by feeling and instinct.

The kissed, as instructed. It was deep, and heartfelt, and in that moment, the pair became a whole set, two people fused so closely that there was nothing that could hurt them. A drunk cheered. And, unbeknownst to the two who hadn’t seen anyone else but each other the entire time, the Impersonator peered over them, catching Elizabeth’s eyes and giving her a short wink. In that moment, she understood, and she, too, grinned.

Leigh pulled away from his wife, his hands on her jaw, hers on his lapel, breathless without breathing. Nothing else mattered, in that moment. Only the taste of her toothpaste and the feel of her lips and the cold of her hands on his chest and the way she was looking at him like he was the only person who had ever lived and who would ever live again and she had to bask in that moment before she, too, was taken. Nothing else - until a sudden hand landed on his back, and her back, the Impersonator leaning down with a hand on them both, familiar and strange. “Happy for you two kids.” He said, and he said it in a voice that was not the smooth, dulcet tones of Pierce Brosnan, but in a gravelly thing that sounded like it was seven packs of smokes in that day, and still needed to get drug across the gravel parking lot a little more before the day ended. It was a voice Leigh recognized very, very quickly.

Unfortunately, Kat’s fist was faster than either of their recognition, and the sudden swap in voice meant it collided with the man’s face so fast, no one had any time to react to it.

She, quickly, pulled her hands - one of which had dark blood splattered across the knuckles and brand new ring - to her mouth to cover it, because she, too, realized who it was she was talking to, but only seconds after she had swung for it. Deacon - and it was their Nosferatu, they could tell, from the familiarity to the sound of his voice to the fact that this was exactly the kind of bullshit he’d pull - pressed a hand to his face to stanch his bleeding nose, but Leigh could see him grinning under the hand.

“I guess that tells me why I wasn’t invited?” He asked, but he asked with a grin, the kind that said he was mostly joking. The surprise left Leigh speechless, up until Elizabeth appeared at their other side, and her soft hand on his back brought him from the shock of it.

“I just—how did you—” Leigh started, trying to piece together words enough to process what had just happened, even as Elizabeth quietly caught Deacon’s eyes and they both started to escort the newlyweds from the venue. While they were owed a conversation, they didn’t need to have it at the front of the venue, especially with Deacon’s nose still dribbling dark, dead blood down his face. Elizabeth passed him a tissue; she’d brought some, mostly for Kat’s makeup. She was a bitch sometimes, but she was never unprepared.

“Leigh, I am your boss and your guy in the chair. Did you really think you’d book a wedding without me noticing?” Deacon asked, throwing his arm over Leigh’s shoulders as they headed back down the aisle. Leigh’s hand was still in Kat’s, and he refused to let go, even as navigating the door became a bit of an issue due to it. They got outside, and Elizabeth pulled them off to the side of the venue, where they could talk more privately. “I would have been more upset if you’d invited anyone else, but apparently the guest list is light on purpose.” He added. Leigh pulled his vape from his pocket and hit it, blowing the smoke off to the side.

“If we’d invited you, Deacon, it would be you, and your people, and that one beau of yours, and his people, and then the Nox would have been very mad that I didn’t invite them if your brood all came. It was better like this.” Leigh shrugged. “I’m saving my PTO for the fuckin’ vacation we’re takin’, thanks.”

“Well, let me at least buy you both dinner, since you wouldn’t let me bank roll your wedding.” Deacon offered, and Leigh looked to Kat, who grinned and nodded, accepting the terms. Sure, they didn’t want to have a big wedding, but dinner? They could deal with dinner.

“Well, then, if you’re buying, I know a place, but it’s a drive, so let’s go before they close, yeah?” Leigh didn’t hesitate, starting off towards the parking lot, dragging Kat along behind him, leaving Deacon to follow along with Elizabeth as they headed for the car. Kat was grinning, madly, and Leigh was grinning, and half skipping, two happy, young kids in their wedding best half-dancing down the sidewalk. Deacon sighed.

“They told me they just wanted to see me, for the record. I only found out it was a wedding a few hours ago.” Elizabeth explained, and Deacon shrugged.

“I figured. Your kid’s never been the kind for being seen in public, so I’m not surprised.” Deacon shook his head, watching the pair skip down the sidewalk. “Especially considering he’s not really given the Nox a lot of time to get used to the idea.”

“They’re getting better, after Naomi, but he’s certainly a stubborn one.” Elizabeth sighed. “Doesn’t much care how things are supposed t’be done, long as they get done and he gets t’get back t’his own life.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.” Deacon raised a single, Bond-level-manicured eyebrow, and the glower he received in return was potent. “Look, I’m just sayin’, you’re not that unalike.” He paused, leaving it for a moment, just a moment, to let her put her guard back down, just a little. He needed to not be stabbed for what he wanted to add. “Unless waiting several centuries to ask a girl you like out on a date is the way things are supposed to be done out in West Virginia?” He asked, and he was glad he paused, because Elizabeth only slugged him hard in the arm for the comment instead of trying to put a blade in his ribs.

“Look, we’re working on it.” Elizabeth grumbled. “Azrael has to figure things out at her pace. I can wait. I’m patient, and I’ve been patient for years. I can wait a bit longer.” She shook her head. “Least a few of us get t’be happy. ‘Specially after all that mess out east.” She added, and that had Deacon nodding along, heaving a deep sigh. 2018 had been a mess for quite a many people, Elizabeth included, and it had only been two years. The wounds were still fresh. Deacon could even see the bite scar, two pinpricks, red against what was already a white scarred neck. Elizabeth had seen her fare share of bullshit, that was for sure.

“We take what happiness we can get, these days.” Deacon shrugged. “Even if it feels like it won’t work out. Even if it’s fleeting, or dangerous, or risky. Even if it’s dating someone from the clan that ruined your people. ‘Cause otherwise, where the hell else are we gonna find it?” He chuckled. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at him, like she understood he was getting at something but wanted him to say it outright. “I’m telling you, ask the woman out, Elizabeth. Make yourself happy. What’s the worst that can happen, you don’t like the taste of her teeth?”

“I’ll ruin what we have, that’s what.” Elizabeth shook her head, watching Leigh skip down the sidewalk. He was singing, loudly, by then, belting out the lyrics to Galway Girl - the traditional song, not the pop one that came later - as he did so, no cares in the world. It was clear that his world was his new wife, the song he was singing for her, and the fact that they were half-waltzing down the street, hand in hand, twirling each other around, laughing at their first dance.

“And I ask you friend, what’s a fella to do? Her hair was… white, and her eyes were blue. So I took her hand, and I gave her a twirl, and I lost my heart to a Galway Girl…”

“Elizabeth, can I tell you something honestly?” Deacon asked, and Elizabeth looked up at him, not needing to watch as Leigh picked Kat up by the waist and spun her around, laughing madly and hardly able to keep the song going for the giggles. It was sweet, and it made her own issues stand out far too much. “I literally do not think that’s possible. If you told her, right now, that you were in love with her and wanted to date her, and she said anything less than absolutely, I’d eat my suit.”

“And what if she does say absolutely, until she decides that’s false and we break up?” Elizabeth asked. Deacon shook his head, letting the sigh make his shoulders relax, like he needed to show Elizabeth how she should be - chill. Her words were very much not chill.

“Elizabeth, you can’t sit there and base your future actions on hypothetical possibilities that don’t have any basis in reality. That’s the kind of shit anxious people do, and as far as I understand you, Liz, you’re probably the most mentally sound Salubri in the Nox. Like, look, you could get stabbed to death by a fuckin’ Sabbat neonate with delusions of grandeur tomorrow, too - so what are you doing about that?” He asked, and she glared at him, which said nothing in less words. “Exactly. Any time you put yourself out there, you risk the idea that you’re going to break up. But you’ve already seen her at her worst, right? Considering the Crusades, not to mention her kid being the first weirdo to pop up in your coterie. And she’s seen you at your worst, right? So what could you do as lovers that’s worse that would somehow chase her away?”

“Romance has obligations. You can fail those.” Elizabeth shrugged. Deacon elbowed her, lightly, mostly because when she was being morose, she wasn’t thinking as clearly, but when she was angry at him, at least she was listening.

“Friendship has obligations and you can fail those too. But not-shitty people talk about that kinda stuff, dating or not.” Deacon corrected. “I’m not trying to bill myself as a romance guru, here, Liz, but you’re being stupid. You’ve got someone who’s so far in your court you could probably kill her and she’d still haunt you just to be near you. Hell, she killed you, for what it’s worth, and you’re both still choosing to be around each other. Just kiss her.”

“It’s good advice, but I think I’m gonna let her kiss me, first. Let her get her brain there.” Elizabeth shook her head, but she bumped Deacon lightly in the side, as though to say thank you in less words all the same. “Now, c’mon. We’ve got a couple lovebirds to celebrate. And, I imagine, a party to plan?”

“What, me? Planning them a party instead of a wedding?” Deacon feigned ignorance, and Elizabeth laughed. “Yeah, well. I’m gonna bank roll something. And hey, maybe you’ll find the courage to just kiss your girl at the party, who knows?”

“Yeah, yeah. Who knows.” Elizabeth shook her head, her eyes returning to her childe, and her new childe-in-law. Happiness had found them, and maybe Deacon was right. Maybe she should just take her own happiness by the horns. What was the worst that could happen?

She wasn’t sure why the blue and red lights had come on behind her, but she knew one thing immediately: it was about to be an exhausting night.

It was January, and it was, surprisingly, a pretty cold evening. Julia Montauk wasn’t disused to the cold, of course - she was dead, and the dead hardly felt it - but being out from Texas, it was still a surprise to find the evening below freezing that early in the year. She was bundled up appropriately, regardless - her leather jacket was red, so it stood out against a crowd, but it kept the wind off of her body and the eyes off of her otherwise lack of warm-weather gear - but it didn’t seem to dissuade the cop that pulled up behind her, flashing their lights to get her to pull to the side. She sighed, throwing the appropriate hand signal to let the cop know she was pulling over, before simply pushing her way into the right most lane and then onto the shoulder, puttering to a stop.

She was on a lonely stretch of road, if her sense of space served her any. Greensboro, North Carolina was, as far as she’d learned in the few months she’d been in town, a series of strangely lonely roads, connected by pockets of activity and commerce. That one - Battleground, an Avenue by any other name - was one that headed towards the edges of the city, the parts closer to the main stretches significantly more confusing than much of anything Julia had encountered, and the parts further onward going long stretches without much business at all. She pulled over on a stretch that had less, trees and houses on either side of the road, a sign for the Tannenbaum Historic Park the only real indicator of use as the road slipped from the frayed edges of a commercial strip - an auto-shop, a buffet pizza, a video-game store, and a fast food chain called Cookout that Julia had only seen east of the Mississippi, which Tim had gone to and apparently enjoyed - into a very wooded stretch of land. She could see a stop light ahead of her, and further business beyond, but it was almost a mile in between, with nothing but lonely little houses and thick pine, oak, and walnut trees between her and anything beyond. There were no street lights, either, casting large, dark shadows over the area as the cop car pulled up behind her bike. Julia pulled her helmet off, going through the motions - ID out, both legs over the side of the bike, arms crossed, hands away from her bike or her things, quiet persona - and tried not to look too put off about the whole business without looking too much like an easy mark, either.

“License and registration.” The cop asked, his accent a different kind of Southern than what Julia was used to hearing. Texas accents had such a twang, where the North Carolina accent was more subtle, softer, rolled around in the mouth rather than chewed up and spat out like used chew tobacco. She passed the appropriate documents, looking at anything other than the cop’s face; she’d learned direct eye contact was a threat, at least in Texas. Talking to a cop down there was like talking to a lowland Gorilla - avoid direct eye contact, don’t push back, but don’t fold, either; let them come to you and let them choose when to leave - and considering her status as a queer woman in the south, she’d gotten damn good at the whole song and dance. It meant she saw the flashlight beam kick up from where it rested, idly, on the ground, and to the lever-action strapped to the side of her bike. It was a legal purchase, back down south, registered and everything. “If you have any paperwork for that, I’ll need that, too.” The cop supplied, and Julia nodded, holding up a hand as she popped the seat up, digging around in the sundry paperwork before pulling the weapon registration out, too. She passed it, putting the seat back down and leaning against it, and she finally looked the cop’s way when he flashed the light over her face, once. She quickly bit back a low growl at the sudden flicker of light.

“Where you headed?” The cop asked, his buddy coming out of the other side of the car, the radio crackle and voices on the other end muffled but audible. The first passed the documents to his partner, who quickly flipped through them, and Julia watched his face as something concerned crossed it. She quickly felt the pit of her stomach shift, just a bit, not full dropping but certainly lower, the spike of dread at the face something she quickly dismissed. Cops often looked at her paperwork weird, especially back home - but she’d recently updated her licenses, mostly to obfuscate her 1953 birthday, and she’d gotten the gender marker changed with it; whatever problem they had, it couldn’t have been with that.

“Nowhere special.” Julia supplied, her answer short. That was another rule of cops that she’d learned the hard way - don’t tell them jack shit. Not where you’re headed, not where you’ve been, nothing. Cops were apt to use her previous location to try and book her for nonsense she wasn’t involved in, on the basis that bikers got into trouble, and she’d had at least one try and follow her to her destination, just to be sure she wasn’t about to commit a crime. The officer that remained at the car looked put off at the answer, like he wasn’t used to the brusque respond from an innocent bystander.

“Bit strange, going nowhere special at three in the morning.” The cop intoned, and there was something about the way he spoke that said Julia had messed up - but where, she wasn’t sure. She could just tell that he was suspicious. She’d done something, or said something - or maybe she’d failed to do something, or say something - that had him wary of her, which was the exact thing she was trying to avoid. Wary cops were one major fuck up from becoming dangerous cops. She watched as the officer’s partner cracked the passenger door and flicked his wrist, quickly, in a come over here gesture. She felt her stomach slip further down in her guts as the officer in front of her gave her a stern, don’t move look, before meandering over to the other. They spoke in low tones, hushed, but she could see their faces, and she could tell from the way they kept gesturing to the paperwork, and then to the computer on the dash, that something wasn’t going right. One pulled the walkie from his vest and muttered something into it, which only made her more tense.

Was she in danger? Well, danger was relative, honestly. She was a vampire - she ate people, regularly - and the cops weren’t. Their guns would have hurt, but not that terribly, and she could have very likely taken the two if things really went sideways. But she was also in a brand new town, with leadership she didn’t know, and the knowledge that killing people willy-nilly was often frowned upon in the kind of polite society they were supposed to be living in. Self defense was rarely enough of an argument to make things okay, considering, and she knew her options were unfortunately limited. Dallas, her sire, had told her explicitly - don’t make waves.

The original officer meandered back over in the same way he’d wandered away, nothing hurried to his steps, though there was something to his shoulders that said he was expecting there to be something more from the situation than what they were seeing right then. He stopped in front of her, his flashlight in one hand, his other resting lightly on his belt - right next to where his gun was. They were having that kind of a talk, Julia quickly realized. Great. “So, there’s been a bit of a problem with your registrations. We’re going to need you to come down to the station with us, and I’m going to need that firearm.” He said, succinctly and with no room to wiggle otherwise. Julia raised an eyebrow.

“On what charges?” She asked. For all she could tell that something was going wrong, she at least knew that was a question she could ask without reproach. The officer narrowed his eyes, however, like he wasn’t entirely sure why she was asking. He seemed to just expect a quick yes sir as she passed him the rifle, and that was it.

“Well, the charges would depend on how you answered a handful of questions.” The officer said, slowly, and Julia could tell she was entirely in fucked up mode. The way he talked, the slowness, clearly told her that he was ready for her to jump at him the second he said something wrong. She’d somehow made herself out to be a threat, but she didn’t get how. “Seems there’s been an error in the system; you have two IDs, and they’re different enough to be of concern. Normally, this wouldn’t be any ol’ thing; we’d go down to the station, clear up a few things, and you’d be on your way. However,” The officer paused, the however heavy, “You said you weren’t headed anywhere special, at three in the morning, while carrying an illegal firearm, with two different documents in our system, one of which has quite the rap sheet. I can abide the idea of a changed woman, ma’am, but it’ll do us all a favor if you pass me the weapon and come with us willingly.” He said.

He really said, come with us willingly or we’ll treat you like the criminal we think you are.

Julia exhaled, slowly, a show to try and pretend like she could breathe, just so they didn’t clock her lack of inhale or exhale while they were watching her react. She could tell her options were, officially, messy, and she didn’t really like any of them. Somehow, when she’d updated her licenses, something had gone wrong on the back end, and she had two IDs. She, unfortunately, knew what was linked to the second, and she very quickly understood their hesitation - if she’d seen her own paperwork from the outside, she too would have thought she was just dodging her previous crimes. Admittedly, she was kind of dodging her previous identification, but it wasn’t the rap sheet that was the real problem. Plus, while she didn’t know the law, they were calling her lever-action an illegal weapon, and she knew how that made her look. But going with them was a non-starter; she couldn’t explain the two IDs, just as she couldn’t explain the fact that she knew one said she was born in 1953, and the other much later. Not to mention, she knew she’d get an earful from her pack-mate, Desmond, on the way home, and she was already far too over it before he’d even heard the issue.

“And if I refuse?” Julia asked. It was a valid question, or, at least, it would have been valid down further south, but Julia was coming to the quick and heavy realization that the cops in North Carolina were not the cops in Texas, and since the rules were different, she was playing the game wrong and losing because of it. This was instantly clear, as the officer in front of her flicked a quick hand gesture down by his side, almost as soon as she spoke. His buddy, in the car, pulled his walkie from his vest and said something into it; whatever he said, it wasn’t on the main channel, as the officer in front of her didn’t even touch his walkie and it stayed silent anyway.

“Ma’am, I’m not asking you a question, here.” The officer said, slowly. For all that he was clearly considering her as some kind of criminal mastermind, he was still somehow incredibly polite, and it was just jarring enough to throw Julia off her game. Especially as he continued to use ma’am for her, even though she was fairly sure her old ID still listed a M as her gender. Though, maybe it didn’t, or maybe they hadn’t noticed, considering that everything else was also apparently wrong. “Hand me the firearm. I’m not going to ask a second time.”

“No.” Julia said, succinctly. She understood how things went, or at least, she understood how things would have gone, had it been in Texas. The firearm, as the cop had said, was not a legal weapon; the very second she picked up the firearm, she was in possession of an illegal weapon and would have likely been holding it in such a way that intent to kill could have been easily argued from the footage. She wasn’t going to touch the damn thing, her arms still crossed over her chest, her hands free and clear from anything that would really label her a threat. The cop tried not to balk, but clearly, his hackles went from mistrusting to actually fearful of her the moment she spoke; she could tell the word no was not something he heard very often.

A second car appeared, in the distance, large and black and heading their way. Julia watched the car speed their direction, and she quickly clocked that it was another set of cops, likely undercover, considering. It wasn’t like there were other cars, then - it was three in the morning, and the area was dead, the road so empty she could have played a sport in the street for fun without consequence. She watched it put it’s lights on as it pull up, jutting off to the side and into the left-hand lane on their side of the road, cutting off all traffic going her way with the nose of the vehicle. The officer in front of her didn’t look to the car as it did, his fingers clearly and quietly fumbling through the clips and clasps that kept his handgun in it’s holster and not in his hand. She felt time slow, viscous around her, the whisper of the plastic against the leather as the cop started to pull his gun out, the flashing red and blue lights and the bright white headlights the only illumination left on the black SUVs now blocking the road.

A loud fuck! ripped its way out of a throat Julia couldn’t see, and then time came crashing back in suddenly and all at once.

She heard the shattering of glass, first. It was all one cacophonous noise, but her delicate ears could pick out that there were two separate, distinct crash noises, one right after the other, instead of just one. The next thing she knew, however, the officer in front of her was turning to catch, not hands or a bullet, but an entire person, as the figure suddenly appeared from the windshield of the newly parked car. They were curled up into a ball, and they collided with the officer at a speed that Julia was sure required her vampiric senses to clock, taking them both out quickly and throwing both the officer and the figure wildly into the distance. She watched the cop topple and then roll, the other figure all but skipping across the ground until they reached the curb, where they bounced up and over the shoulder to collide, bodily, with a tree. The branches shook as they rolled over.

The officer inside the other vehicle sat up from where he’d bent over, the car alarm blaring until he turned it off. In the split second Julia had to process, she could see the driver’s door window, behind his head, was just as shattered as the windshield, which meant the figure likely went through both to get there. But the moment of processing silence didn’t last long, as the other officers - three, two from the new car and the buddy from the first - all leaned out of the window, all drawn, all ready to fire. Julia quickly put both of her hands up, an act that would hopefully buy her time, but luckily, they weren’t looking at her, and she turned her attention to the other figure as they got up from where they’d landed.

They were a bit of a mess, honestly. They were short, small but athletic and kind of stocky, and they rolled from the curb and onto their feet in a motion that felt a little like people she’d seen fight before - Tim had called the style something like drunken master - but also a little like they’d just been dazed. Dazed was interesting, considering they’d just collided with a tree at what Julia was sure was car speeds. They had on a leather jacket, so their arms were fine, but their legs were scraped all down the sides, their dark gray short-shorts not exactly cutting it in terms of protective wear. They reached up, unaware of the plethora of guns pointed their way, pulling their cat-eared helmet off of their head and tossing it, lightly, to the side as they wobbled. Their hair, under the helmet, was pink, pulled back into two braids, and they somehow still had a dark red beanie on, the helmet having not pulled it off.

“Woooo, okay. Ha. Fun. Didn’t think I’d be flying ‘til I went international, but here we are.” The figure shrugged, shaking their head, their eyes busy taking in everything about themselves and their own body and their landing space first. “Okay, body check,” they said, looking to their arms, and hands, and legs. “All ten fingers, pretty sure I’ve got all my toes. Uhh, insides feel all good? Man, I wish I was better at this.” They said, and then they finally looked up. It was like the wall of police suddenly shifted into their view for the very first time, and Julia watched their eyes go from officer, to officer, to officer, to Julia, to officer, and they returned to her and settled there for a long second. Their eyes were brown, glittering, mischievous, and they grinned at the sight of her. “Okay, so, did I cause this mess, or was this already happening?” They asked of her.

“Already happening.” Julia replied, and the other nodded, blatantly ignoring the cops. They, for what it was worth, couldn’t seem to figure out what the fuck to do with the new figure, and that had them stalling. Whether or not the new person was enough of a threat to shoot hadn’t quite processed, apparently. “Did you crash through their car?” She asked.

“Uh, I think so.” The figure put a single finger to their lips, their level of seriousness something that simply didn’t match the mood of the rest of the scene. It was, weirdly, intriguing. “Motherfucker pulled out into the left lane without a signal like a bastard.” They shook their head, turning back to face the group of cops. Now that they were standing and addressing them, the jovial mood had shifted, and Julia watched with fascination as they considered each of the officers - not with fear, but with the kind of easy predator grace that said they weren’t remotely worried. It helped that she could smell them - the blood sluggishly leaking from their legs was dead, clearly, dark and thick and putrid smelling, which only meant one thing. They were Kindred, just like she was. She watched them crack their neck to the right, and then to the left, considering the situation. “Y’know, I’ve not made a lot of decisions in my life, but now’s a good time to start, I think. New girl - what’s your name?” They asked, pointing at Julia with snap of their fingers.

“Julia.” She offered, and they nodded, turning to look down the plane of their arm with the kind of feral grin that said there would be blood that night.

“Brilliant. J-Dog, Julie, Jules, Julia,” They said, running through the series of nicknames like they were trying on shades in a mirror to see which one looked best, “What’s the vibe on cops on this beautiful, dark and empty January evening?”

“All cops are bastards.”

“Ah, music to my ears.” Vyx grinned. “Well, sorry boys, but the decision’s been made. All cops? Are bastards. And there’s only one good solution for a bastard, isn’t there?” They said, and then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, they flicked a wrist out, and Julia watched their fingers split, claws growing from the end of their hands, long and thin and dagger like. Something in her brain recognized the movement, the claws, the method, and the oh that crossed her thoughts was, ultimately, interested.

It was one thing to meet another Kindred in a town that, ostensibly, had Kindred in it; it was another for that Kindred to be of the same Clan that Julia was - Gangrel.

Julia turned back to her bike, quickly pulling her gun from the holster in the side, checking the safety and the chamber to make sure it was loaded, before turning to offer her assistance; now that someone else had popped the top on the proverbial pickle jar of violence, she felt much less bad about pulling her gun or otherwise participating in the combat. She wasn’t the one making waves, after all - no, the little, pink haired gremlin that launched through a windshield was the one making waves, and she was just helping clean up. But by the time she turned back to the fray, she realized that, honestly, she didn’t need to do anything - the stranger kind of had it.

The first officer, the one alone in his car, was basically gone by the time Julia turned around. The stranger had launched themselves forward at a speed that was very clearly vampiric, impossible to reach for a human being, and the momentum had meant going up and over the open car door wasn’t particularly difficult. They dropped down on the officer like a velociraptor from the movies, claws extended, and Julia turned back around just as a large spray of arterial blood fountained out from the now clearly dead cop. Seeing this, she paused, because honestly, there was no reason to waste the rounds if the other had it covered, especially considering her lever-action was hand-fed and not clip-fed; she could fire off the rounds fairly fast, being a vampire, but it still took time to depress the loading gate, slot a round in, and get the weapon back to something like an aimed shot. While she was fast, this stranger was, apparently, just as fast, and she wasn’t even sure she could get a shot off before the three cops were dead.

She was proven right almost immediately; the stranger, having clearly torn the first officer apart, suddenly appeared again, standing on the running board and leaning over the top of the car, the officer’s handgun between their palms. Two quick shots to the body seemed to take out the other two officers, who had taken up position behind the car like it could protect them in some capacity, breaking through the glass and metal in a way that was also, clearly, vampirically aided. Julia had never been quite sure how, of course, but she understood what happened; many vampires were fast, supernaturally so - not just naturally, but trained that way - and somehow, many of those Kindred had figured out a way to make that speed apply to bullets. Never mind that going fast usually had no bearing on the speed in which a bullet exited a gun, of course, but Julia had stopped trying to figure out how that worked long ago. It wasn’t worth the mental effort.

“Sorry about that!” The stranger said, the other two cops on the ground, the third splattered all over their outfit, face, and arms. They hopped down from the running board, slamming the car door closed and stepping over the pile of disparate limbs and body parts that had been the previous officer. Julia watched them flick the blood from their wrists like a bothered cat, already mentally trying to map what they could possibly turn into from their mannerisms; all Gangrel, inherently, turned into animals - it was just part of the clan - and those animals were often telling in some capacity. Geographically, personality, what they ended up becoming would tell Julia many things; she was anticipating some kind of cat, considering, but she couldn’t be entirely sure. There were several mammals that weren’t cats that just ran cat software, after all. “I mean, I figure you don’t mind me stopping your traffic stop, but I also figure this wasn’t how you expected this all to go, so.”

“I’ll take it.” Julia shrugged, quickly reengaging the safety on her rifle and putting it back under her bike. “Julia.” She offered her name and her hand, which the other took, shaking tightly. Blood smeared between their palms, and the stranger seemed to dislike the slickness of their clasped hands, considering they licked their palm clean almost immediately after. Definitely very cat.

“Vyxen. Or, well. I’m thinking of just Vyx, actually. It’s complicated, but. Just Vyx is fine.” They chuckled, wiping the last of the blood from their hand onto their already ruined shirt. “They/them. I’d say I haven’t seen you around here before, but, well, I haven’t seen many people around anywhere before, so I don’t know if I should have. You new?” They asked.

“Relatively.” Julia shrugged; she was going to say more, probably ask about not seeing many people anywhere before, but something caught her attention, and she paused. It was a sound, in the distance, faint - a car, the engine rumbling - and then the fainter ka-thunk of something large leaving the barrel of some kind of launcher. Julia reached out, quickly grabbing Vyx by the wrist and pulling them off to the side, putting her body between them and whatever the fuck else was about to happen out of instinct.

The very next second, the world was white hot and ringing.

The second after that, something large and hard collided with Julia almost entirely head on, sending her flying.

She wasn’t entirely sure what happened, honestly. She knew what she heard, at least - she wasn’t unfamiliar with grenade launchers, though she usually heard that kind of thing at protests more than anything else - so she wasn’t entirely in the dark. Someone had, from somewhere, fired some kind of launchable grenade. It was only in retrospect that Julia was able to put together the idea that the grenade was a flash-bang, the white hot ringing being the result of the impact as it hit the ground just in front of them - in the moment, however, her head rung and her vision swam and she didn’t have the wherewithal to figure out why. She was simply still, laying on her back, her vision too white to pick out anything and her ears ringing hard from the sound. She was still for a long, long moment, longer than she was aware of, and all she could think was that everything hurt. Her legs hurt and her arms hurt and her abdomen hurt and everything just hurt. She wasn’t used to hurting, honestly - she was Kindred, and Kindred were very resilient and tough, leagues beyond Kine and right up there with other, larger, thicker supernatural beings, like werewolves. It took a lot to put a Kindred on the ground, let alone out for the count - yet, laying on the cold ground, in too much pain to think, her ears screaming at her because they were more sensitive than a normal Kine and flashbangs were supposed to hurt Kine - the double edged sword of heightened senses - her vision still too far gone to see through, she would have counted herself down for the count. She could hardly move her legs - she wasn’t going anywhere.

The flashbang had taken her understanding of the situation from her, but it hadn’t stopped the situation from escalating as she laid there on the ground. The thing was, the cops had, unbeknownst to her, called the Swat Team almost as soon as she resisted the arrest, or what would have been an arrest had they gotten to that point. A fugitive, on the run, refusing to cooperate, with an illegal weapon, required a heavier hand, or at least, that’s what the cops figured. So they’d called the Swat Team, and they’d explained the situation and said the traffic stop looked like it was going to get hairy, and the Swat Team had responded in kind - by rolling up to the scene, going sixty in the left lane, with one of the team leaning out of the passenger window with a grenade launcher.

They hadn’t expected there to be a bike in the road, though. That had certainly caught them off guard.

Hitting the bike had really done the damage. The Swat Team’s driver didn’t see it before the flashbang went off, and he sure as shit didn’t see it after, and the bike had done what bikes often did when left alone on a street in the way of passing cars - it got itself very involved with the SUV’s front-wheel situation, much to the vehicle’s distaste. Being up in that kind of business, of course, meant that the SUV’s ability to apply the brakes was fundamentally compromised; being compromised, the SUV simply didn’t stop, colliding straight on, full speed, with the back of the second cop car like it was trying to prove a point. That, then, had forced the cars in front forward, and the transfer of energy from one vehicle brought to a sudden stop had made its way all the way to Julia; she felt the transfer when the second car slammed forward, and she met the grill with the same level of impact. She had gone flying, ass over teakettle, landing hard on her back just in front of the accident - and right on top of a large chunk of wood, which had splintered from Vyx’s initial impact on the tree. The wood had found itself a home in the meat of Julia’s chest, and she could tell, as her senses returned, that it was dangerously close to her heart.

But her hand wasn’t wrapped around the other’s wrist anymore. She honestly wasn’t sure if that was better, or worse. Worse, of course, because she could have very well had the wrist in her hands, and nothing else.

Gunfire, however, told her that someone was standing, and that meant she also needed to be standing, too, especially as the ringing finally dulled down long enough for her to hear. However, the wood in her sternum wasn’t a small shard; a branch had fallen from the dead tree on that initial impact, and it was long, thick as Julia’s arm, and wedged between the meat of her ribs in a way that said just trying to pull it back out wouldn’t be a good idea. It weighed her down, and even if it didn’t, a quick self assessment told her that the wood wasn’t her only problem; her leg was also broken, shattered somewhere in the section of her hip if the pain told her anything, and while she could heal that, she couldn’t do so on the fly, in the middle of the road. But leaving, with one leg, wasn’t exactly a peachy idea, either.

Her vision came back slowly, and she pushed herself to her elbows, trying to take in the scene. She couldn’t see much, still, though not for the flashbang - it was due to the large car that was, more or less sitting on her shins, which also blocked her vision from the rest of the combat. She could see, beyond the car, movement, another car, possibly, but not much else. However, she could hear again, and that told her more: there were multiple guns, and she could pick out the differences. A handgun, one of the cop’s, the plastic sound of the slide easy to identify, likely the one Vyx was wielding. But there were others, too, and the rat-tat-tat said they weren’t sidearms, but assault rifles of some capacity, heavy fire echoing over the empty street. A further bang sounded, and Julia winced as the ringing returned - she was shielded from the majority of the second flashbang, but the sound still hurt, and she hid her face under her arm as it went off.

When she pulled her arm back, Vyx was leaning over her, concern on their face, covered in blood and silhouetted by the red and blue flashing lights like some kind of fucked up angel.

“Brilliant, you’re alive. Can you walk?” Vyx asked, quickly. Julia shook her head, gesturing to the car actively sitting on her legs, and Vyx snapped their head to look at it. Fuck. “Okay, cool. If I can move that thing, then can you walk?” They asked, and Julia reached up, pulling lightly on the wood sticking from her chest; it didn’t budge, though she could tell from the texture that it was crumbling. She hissed, however, because it certainly hurt.

“This is heavy, and I can’t get it out.” She said, and she watched Vyx consider the scene in front of them with a heavy concern on their brow. Now that she had a second, she could tell that some of the blood on Vyx’s form wasn’t Kine, and they’d absolutely been shot at least once during the second bout of gunfire; further, the rat-tat-tat-tat of a rifle hadn’t abated, so clearly, there were still SWAT team members present and active, and they weren’t happy, either. “My hip’s broken. I can heal it, but not quickly.” She added, and she watched Vyx inhale, slowly, before blowing the unneeded air through their gritted teeth; there was something behind their eyes, gears turning, calculations, and it was fascinating to watch them process what were likely a hundred thoughts in several seconds.

They turned to Julia, and for a moment, their expression was desperate, scared, and it wasn’t of the cops.

“Okay, here’s the deal.” They said, ducking a little as a bullet pinged off the hood of the car that sat on Julia’s legs. The SWAT was getting better at shooting. “I can’t take that. I can take a lot, but we’re running on half-empty and they’re gonna keep calling more out if we don’t do this fast, which has been all but compromised.” Vyx gestured, to the car, to Julia’s legs, before lifting their shirt to indicate that they had, actually, been shot quite a few times. “Pushing the car off your legs, easy-peasy. But… I’m gonna have to do some things to get that stake from out of your chest, and… honest to Cain, I don’t know if you’re gonna like it, but you gotta promise me that if you’re gonna freak, you freak after we get the fuck out of here.” They said. Julia furrowed her brow in response, because that… was certainly a way to word whatever the hell it was that they were afraid of. But she didn’t have time to think, as another bullet pinged off the hood, and she realized her options were limited. Either trust the stranger, get the wood out of her chest, and get the fuck out of there, or probably get dusted when the SWAT team emptied a full clip into her out of spite. They were already multiple-murderers. It wouldn’t have been out of the question to just kill them.

“Alright, sure.” Julia just had to agree, because whatever the hell was about to happen was certainly not going to be dying and that was what was most important to her right then. Vyx nodded, first turning to the car and giving the bumper an experimental shove, which elicited a groan from the engine. It hurt, and Julia winced, but they determined the thing they needed to know - the car was still in park, but it was on and still idling, which meant the wheels could be unlocked and it could be pushed or moved. They nodded, turning back to Julia and then scanning the area, eyes landing on her bike. It was, surprisingly, unaccosted, having been parked just out of the circle of combat that had cropped up. They pursed their lips, calculating, as Julia spoke again. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m gonna shove that thing out of your chest, first. Then I think I’m gonna see if I can slap this puppy into reverse to get it off your legs.” Vyx slapped the car’s bumper, their eyes still locked on Julia’s bike and the surrounding woods. “Once you’re free and walking, we hop on your bike and book it, yeah? I figure I’m driving.” Vyx finally turned their gaze to Julia, who pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes slightly at the plan. She didn’t usually let people drive her bike, but… her hip was broken, and she knew she wouldn’t have a good time steering like that. “I’d get mine, but it’s currently having a very tender affair with the front wheels of that SUV, and I know better than to get between two machines canoodling. I might not know much, but I know that.” Vyx added, and Julia finally just shrugged. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t exactly have a choice. “Cool. ‘Prece. Stake time, count of three.” Vyx turned, quickly, to the large chunk of wood in Julia’s chest and put one hand on the woman’s breastbone, the other on the wood. “Don’t freak, remember.”

Julia nodded, remembering, but the moment the wood moved, she had to bite down on the urge to do just that. It wasn’t that it hurt, it was that it didn’t hurt at all, the wood sliding out easily and without any discomfort. It almost felt like the muscles around the piece of wood retracted themselves from their grip on the thing, individually pulling away as it slipped through her. It left a rather large hole behind, but Vyx quickly tossed the stick - it was shot out of the air; someone was a marksman and a bit impatient, if that said anything - and slapped both hands over the open, gaping hole. Heat pressed through their hands, invading the wound like they’d flushed it with hot water, concentration on their face as they continued to apply heavy pressure, teeth grit, and then when they pulled away, the hole was… it was just gone. Like there had never been a stake in Julia’s chest in the first place, the muscle and flesh knit back together with considerable effort.

Panic bubbled up in Julia’s chest for just a moment, watching Vyx turn, bullets pattering off the car door as they popped it open and scrambled, under it, into the depths of the cop car still on Julia’s legs, but she fought the sensation down as best she could. The thing was, Julia was not an idiot. She’d been around for a long time - she’d been born in the 50’s, ghouled in the 80s, and sired in the early 2000s, so she’d lived quite a few years by then - and that meant she knew quite a few things about vampires. Notably, her clan, Clan Gangrel, grew claws, not to mention the fact that they were often fast and fairly lethal, and these were all things Julia was certain Vyx could do. She’d seen the claws, after all, and that was one of those things her Clan sort of kept to themselves. However, Julia was also certain that the power Vyx just used - the ability to yank the stake without hurting her, moving her flesh away from the wood instead - was not something her clan could do, and that… didn’t make any sense. Vyx couldn’t have had access to that power - it was well guarded, well kept, and not often taught outside of the clan that kept it. But Julia had been asked to not freak, and right then, she was more than willing to comply, especially as not freaking and complying meant she was more likely to get the car off her legs and get the fuck out of there than doing the opposite. So she took a breathe and tried not to think too hard as she watched Vyx open the other car door and roll, fluidly, out of it.

As soon as they touched ground, the car started to roll, backwards, and it quickly picked up speed. Vyx blurred over as it did, supernaturally fast, pausing to throw one of Julia’s arms around their shoulders as the SUV really figured itself out and went careening backwards into the other cars. It didn’t cause much damage - it could only get so fast - but it was space, and it was enough space, the SWAT throwing themselves out of the way as the thing rolled; Julia noticed, funnily, that Vyx was missing one shoe, and realized quickly that they’d jammed their boot on the gas so the car wouldn’t know what stopping meant until it was far too late. She didn’t have time to think about that much, either, as Vyx helped her stumble over to the bike and then got on, throwing their leg over the front and giving the thing a once-over, like they were placing all of the controls. Julia threw her leg over the side, and her hips screamed at her, but she ignored it, wrapping her arms around Vyx’s waist tightly and pressing her face against the other’s back - mostly to muffle the pained scream - as the other throttled the bike on, the motor humming.

They smelled sweet, like sugar and spice and yet also like gunpowder and the kind of detergent used at second-hand shops that always smelled just a little musty and a little too much like a grandmother’s attic, with the heavy weight of dead blood trying to cover all of it. If Julia hadn’t been in an intense amount of pain, running from the SWAT team, with bullets plinking balefully off the metal back fender, she would have had further thoughts about the smell and the way it made her brain hum, but she didn’t dwell on that, either. She didn’t have the mental space, too full of hurt and panic and questions and too much happening too fast to process it. Vyx didn’t hesitate, gunning the engine and ripping from a full stop, right down the street. But, instead of keeping on the pavement, they pulled back on the handles, and with a quick, “Hold on!”, they hopped the curb and careened into the wilderness beyond.

Julia’s bike was not made for off-roading, yet, it was only sort-of uncomfortable to ride as they bounced through trees and over roots and bushes - sure, her hips hurt like someone was injecting fire into her veins, but her hips hurt on the pavement, too, so it wasn’t all that different. There was no trail, nothing visible anyway, but Vyx drove like that didn’t matter, dodging pine and redwood as they maneuvered through the forest - or, as far as Julia understood, a park. Eventually, however, they seemed to lose the sirens, which had been following for a long time, and Vyx skidded the bike to a stop. Julia tried to relax, but Vyx shook their head, still full of panic, instead gesturing to a series of exposed roots and making the motion as though they needed to go. Julia didn’t question it, half falling off of the bike and scrabbling over to the roots, shoving herself bodily underneath them as Vyx quickly jammed the bike into a large bush. Once hidden, they hopped over the roots as well, pressing themselves against the dirt like they were expecting something to be coming.

The car tires were only a few seconds behind them. No sirens, but Julia could tell a cop’s tires from the sound regardless. Apparently, they had turned their lights off as they gave chase, which meant they’d likely been right behind the whole time, even after the sound ended; the fact that Vyx figured that out was yet one more moment of intrigue that Julia couldn’t really think too hard about, too busy pressing herself against the back of the roots and trying not to let herself get seen. The car stopped, and there was silence for a long second, breathless, tense. One door opened. Two feet on the gravel, and then another door, and a bark. Dogs. Scent dogs. Scent dogs that would smell canine and lose their fucking shit. Julia internally swore, cutting her eyes over to Vyx, trying to determine if this weirdo that had rocketed into their life had any level of a plan. Of course, all she saw was panic, but that panic was also a thinking panic, and that was, at least, a comfort. A comfort, right up until Vyx cut their eyes back at Julia and she could tell that the only idea they had was a bad one but they didn’t have other options.

“Hope this doesn’t go poorly.” They hissed, a whisper of a thing, barely audible, bracing themselves like they were about to do something very, very stupid, before they put their hands against their mouth and let out a howl. It was loud, it was long, and it was decidedly wolf-like, high pitched and keening. Julia heard the footsteps stop.

Silence descended. Julia was grateful she didn’t have to hold her breathe.

Just as she was about to ask what that did - and just as Vyx was clearly about to lean forward and try a second time - a different howl cut itself through the trees. Julia felt her hackles rocket to defense, because that howl was not a wolf howl. It wasn’t exactly that different from a wolf howl, not to a layman, but Julia spoke several dialect of dog, and she knew the accent that filtered through the trees: Garou. Werewolves. She turned, this time giving Vyx a look that was concerned and panicked and not entirely sure why they had just summoned one of the few creatures in the world that could really hold their own against a Kindred, while they were both very injured, low on blood to fix it, and hiding from the cops. However, Vyx held up a hand, and their face said that… was exactly what they’d expected.

A second howl joined the first. A third. Then many, one after another, overlapping, chattering, echoing. Calls from across the forest, pinging off each other like messages sent in a group text with audible notifications, all around them. Julia waited, holding breath she didn’t need - she was in no condition to do anything, especially fight - but Vyx put a hand out, lightly pressing their fingers to the space just below Julia’s chest, holding her there with a finger to their lips. Silence. She didn’t need to be asked, but she liked being told, because it meant Vyx had a plan and whatever that plan was, it was working.

“Station, I’m heading back. It’s not safe out here.” The cop said, into the radio, as the dog began to whine and keen and paw back and forth. Something had gotten the canine’s hackles up, and Julia understood what; dogs were highly in tune with the world, even the supernatural, and they likely understood the tone and dialect of the call and response. Clearly, however, even if the cop didn’t understand the howling, the agitation of his dog and the sound alone had him nervous - she could smell the wave of fear that had hit him - and he quickly retreated to the vehicle. It sat there a moment, before it, too, pulled from the trail and disappeared, leaving Julia and Vyx finally and truly alone. Vyx let out a breath they didn’t need to hold, all but collapsing against the roots behind them, no longer stiff.

“Fuck, sorry about all that.” Vyx chuckled. Julia looked at them, and suddenly there were so many questions and all of them were important and none of them were more important than the others and none of them wanted to be first in line. Vyx didn’t wait, shifting over so they were hovering over Julia’s hips and legs. “I can fix that, quicker than blood.”

“Who are you?” Julia asked, the only thing she could think, even as Vyx’s hands pressed themselves to her thigh and she felt the muscles shift and knit themselves back together under her skin. A Kindred with claws, who could bend blood and bone, who was supernaturally fast and who understood the world in a different way and who was indescribable as much as almost fake sounding when it was said out loud. Julia simply couldn’t place them in her mental map of how the world worked. But Vyx, having healed the fracture, simply grinned.

“A Malkavian.” They said, which was not actually helpful, as it didn’t explain or answer basically anything besides the fact that they were weird and it wasn’t entirely their fault. “Now, c’mon. The wolves are gonna wanna check this spot out, and while I’m very happy the cop picked up on it and left, we should also jet before they get here.” They said, holding out a hand and hauling Julia to her feet. While her hip was still sore, it wasn’t broken, and she could stand on it, which was better than before. It meant she could drive, and she quickly headed over to her bike and hauled it from within the bushes. Surprisingly, besides a few scratches, it was intact. She hopped on, and Vyx hopped on behind her. “If you could run us back to the scene, I wanna get my bike. They’ve probably cleared most everything by now, but hopefully they left my shit behind.” They said, and Julia revved the engine, working her way out of the grass and onto what looked to at least be some kind of trail. If nothing else, it was the path the cop cut through the forest, which was good enough.

“Sure, but I need some answers when we get there.” Julia said, and she felt Vyx shrug.

“Okay, but… don’t get your hopes up.” They chuckled, against Julia’s back, and she tried not to think about where that slotted in to the mess that was otherwise Vyx’s existence. Mostly because it didn’t.

~*~

“Argh, fuck me running, they impounded it!”

Julia hadn’t needed a lot of help to get back to the road, though she moved much slower than Vyx did, and it took them a minute to get back. By the time they did, however, the scene was clear, as expected, nothing but the glittering of broken glass on the street and the concept that something had occurred there. The SUVs were gone, the cop cars were gone, but most importantly, Vyx’s bike was gone, taken by the cops and very likely stored with the rest of it. Julia sat on her bike, leaning against the seat, and watched Vyx stare at the shards of glass and splatters of blood like they would materialize the bike in front of them. Like if they just thought hard enough, it would appear. From the way their fists were on their hips, it wasn’t working.

“If you know where the nearest impound lot is, we can see if it’s there.” Julia offered, and Vyx sighed, throwing their head back. “It’s the least I can do. You… I don’t know if you saved my life, but I didn’t have a better way out of that, so, I should do that much.” She paused. “Who are you, Vyx? And not just Clan, though... Malkavian? Really?”

“Is that so unbelievable?” Vyx asked, turning back to face Julia with a half-smile and a hand on their hip. Looking at them - pink haired, covered in blood, scraped to all hell from the road, and still grinning - it didn’t sound that unbelievable, at least on the surface. “I’m… I’m complicated, J. That’s the long and short. But I’m not lying - I’m a Malkavian, and right now, I’m trying to get my bike back on the pavement, because… honestly, the biggest thing you should know about me right now is that I don’t really wanna be here.” They said, and the way their face flickered, the way pain splashed across their eyes for just a second, Julia quickly understood - they weren’t just moving, trying to get to a new place, they were running.

“From, or to?” Julia asked, understanding. Vyx, hearing the question, almost relaxed, because it meant she got it. She understood.

“Right now, mostly from.” Vyx chuckled, heading back over and leaning against the bike next to Julia. They pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from their pocket - Marlboro Reds, though they looked like they had gone through a war - putting one between their lips and quickly patting down their pockets; when they increased the tempo in frustration, Julia produced her Zippo from her pocket and gave the striker a flick. It lit, and while Vyx jumped a little at the sudden flame, they leaned into it with a sheepish grin and lit their cigarette. They chuckled. “Speaking of from - Texas Ranger? That you?” They asked, gesturing to the lighter, which was emblazoned with a symbol for the Texas Rangers. Julia chuckled.

“Texas, yes, until recently. Ranger, not so much.” She shook her head, pulling her own pack from her pocket - American Spirits, menthols - and producing one for herself. If they were taking a smoke break, might as well. Vyx looked up, quirking an eyebrow and blowing the smoke out and away from them.

“From, or to?” They parroted, and Julia laughed at the repetition.

“Well, we were trying to get out here to help with some kind of war - one of Dallas, my sire, one of his cowboy friends apparently asked us to come help out - but we got locked up in Tennessee and apparently, we missed the whole thing. Now we’re just… figuring out what’s next.” Julia shrugged, taking a long draw off the cigarette and blowing the minty smoke away from them. While she didn’t get anything, buzz wise, from smoking, it was still a comfort to do. “You’re not…” She started, unsure how to phrase what it was that she wanted to ask, but Vyx snapped out a cackle that said they understood what Julia was getting to without the end of the sentence.

“Nah, the from isn’t ‘cause I was the bad bitch who should be dead.” They shook their head. “He’s dust, for the record. I’m not… I shouldn’t really be your Al Jazeera article on what happened with the whole thing, but I can say for sure that the dude who tried to play games got his shit rocked, at least two Antediluvians got dusted, and now there’s a super powerful Infernalist running around being a little shit about things.” Vyx shrugged, but Julia looked at them for a long, long second, almost like she could not believe what it was she just heard. “My from is more… post war feelings. I, uh. I’m not really the same person I was, back then, and I… trusted that someone would help me pick up my pieces, and he said no. So. I’m gonna just. Go, see what the world’s got to offer. Touch a cactus or something, piss on a California Redwood. I dunno, I just… staying still around people who don’t want me feels like a punishment and while I’m still figuring out me, I’m not the bitch that sticks around just to be hurt.”

“I get that.” Julia nodded, trying to process. She had, in fact, found out a lot of things in very short order, and they didn’t make Vyx any clearer of a person. Knowing that at least two Antediluvians died - which, first, Julia had to process that this war was apparently one that included that kind of thing, and that was certainly not in the mission brief that Dallas had given them, and they were definitely not prepared to fight at that kind of power level - meant that Vyx had likely met at least two, or possibly even more, considering the at least. Vyx, the Malkavian - and now it was starting to make sense, though they were both verbally clearer than Julia expected but definitely just as weird - who could bend flesh and bone, who could grow animal claws and who had apparently bumped elbows with Cain’s grandkids like it was no big deal. It was a lot, and Julia didn’t leave the moment with a firmer understanding, just a broader one. “You think you’re gonna come back?” She asked, and she tried not to make that feel like a selfish question, but she couldn’t help it - she wanted to know more. It was almost like an addiction - she’d gotten a taste, an idea of the person that was standing in front of her, but now the rest was denied, and she was jonsing for a second hit.

“Probably, though fuck if I know for sure. I’m not… I’m getting to be me for the first time, and I don’t wanna rush it.” They shook their head, stubbing their cigarette out on the back tire, tucking it behind their ear. “I just want to get on the road, honestly, so if we could like, go, that’d help a lot.” They said, and Julia finished her cigarette, flicking the butt onto the curb. It wasn’t like the street was clean, anyway. She turned, swinging her legs back over her bike, and Vyx hopped on, wrapping their arms around Julia’s waist. A quick google had Julia with an address, and she quickly slotted her phone into the holder made for such a thing, before kicking off and rolling away from the scene.

For all that Vyx didn’t make sense, Julia was certain she understood at least some things - she, too, had gone on a sojourn of personal self-discovery, in her time. And Vyx, with a new name, what were clearly new pronouns, and basically nothing else on their person, well, that seemed far too much like the Julia that had begun her personal journey, back in the day. Especially with the rejection they’d mentioned, she understood entirely too well how Vyx felt. But it didn’t make the cold arms clasped around her waist not send shivers up her spine, and it didn’t make the sinking pit in her stomach that Vyx might never come back feel any less deep. She wanted so much more, but she was going to have to be patient. Eggs didn’t scramble quickly, and she knew this.

The impound lot, however, was closed when they arrived. Julia pulled into the parking lot, walking the bike over to the fence that separated the lot from the road. The building was dark, the doors clearly locked tight and alarmed, but Julia could see at least one of the cop cars in the back of the lot, so she knew they were in the right place. Vyx hopped off the bike almost as soon as it was done rolling, heading over to the fence and clinging to it with a groan. Their bike was also visible, just beyond the gate. Julia dismounted, walking, tender, over to where Vyx stood, arms crossed. “I didn’t think they’d be open this late, but…” She said, and Vyx sighed.

“Luckily,” they said, turning to the gate. It had a padlock, and they approached it, pulling a bobby pin from their hat and opening it. Now that they were close, Julia could actually see that their hat was pinned to their head, likely to keep the helmet from dragging it off their head. “I believe I’m still an ace hand with a lock, so gimme like, a second.” They said, pulling a second pin from their hat. They unbent both, using their teeth to put a hook in one, before inserting both into the lock. Julia watched them work, their tongue stuck out of their mouth as they fiddled with the pins, but after a few moments, she watched the lock pop, and Vyx grinned like they honestly hadn’t been sure they could do it. “Voila! Hell yeah.” They bent the pins back, stuffing them back into their hat, before taking the padlock and pulling it off the fence. Once inside, they ran, first, to one of the cop cars, popping open the unlocked door - it wouldn’t have closed properly anyway - and pulling their shoe from the seat, which they shoved on triumphantly, before trotting over to their bike, rolling it back out into the parking lot. It… didn’t look great, but it looked like it still ran, well enough, and now they had both shoes again.

“So… I guess you’re heading out?” Julia asked, awkwardly. She knew Vyx needed to leave, but she didn’t know how to ask the other to stay, because she wanted to know what any of this was and couldn’t figure any of it out in the next ten seconds. Vyx readied their bike, pulling their helmet from where the cops had clipped it to the bike, making sure they had everything in place so they could just go. When they were sure, they turned to Julia with a grin.

“Yeah, I am. Sunup’s soon and I wanna get out of the city before I have to stop.” They said, before fishing a card from their pocket, flicking it Julia’s way. It listed a club - Geometry - and their name as the owner. That, in terms of things that had happened that night, was the least surprising one of them. “When I get back, though, I’ll head there. Maybe we can find each other, once I’ve found myself?” They raised an eyebrow, and Julia realized that everything she was hoping for might just actually work out, just… in the future. She had to wait. She could wait.

“I’ll keep checking.” Julia said, seriously, and Vyx nodded, slipping their helmet over their head. It had cat ears, and it looked right. They grinned.

“Well then, Julia, I’ll be seeing you.” They popped the visor on their helmet down, and without any further pomp or circumstance, they throttled the bike up and onto the street. They drove like the thing was indestructible, hopping the curb, and then the next thing Julia knew, the bike and person were simply gone, the vampiric ability to vanish ripping Vyx unceremoniously from her sight. That left her, standing alone in the parking lot of a closed impound lot, holding a card for a club she had never been to, staring at the empty space where a bike had just been.

She stared at the card. She could wait. She just had a lot of questions, first, which was why she dialed a number as she moved back to her bike, answering as she threw her leg over.

“Yeah, Dallas? It’s Julia. I just had a weird experience, and I’ve got some questions. Can we have a pack meeting?” She asked, finding her helmet and setting it on the seat. She listened, briefly, as Dallas confirmed they could and then asked why. “Well, I just met a Malkavian who said two Antediluvians died during the war, so I think we need to talk.” She said, and the response told her Dallas didn’t know much, either.

Jess did not recall the last time she was nervous. Yet, the tingle of anticipation sat heavy in her guts all the same, even though the stakes of her worries were, as compared, low.

She was at a party. It was a party in the Giovanni Senate, full of the Giovanni elite, and thrown by known dancer and Maestro, Luca Rosselini. Of course, the Giovanni hadn’t turned down the idea of a party when he’d pitched it, especially as he’d promised to bankroll it, too; there had been a level of distaste, however, when they found out the party was, ostensibly, to re-integrate the Giovanni’s current boogeyman - and the subject of Jess’s nerves - Molly de l’Argonne. Most of the Giovanni weren’t fond of the woman, and Jess knew the list of reasons was long, and mostly true, though some crimes - like her hand in the war in 2018 - had been overblown. Some, however, were not - Molly was, after all, the bastard child of the Giovanni line, and after her trial in the 2020s, it had come out how that had been managed. One of Augustus’s early lovers, a woman called Eveline Durine, had produced a child from the man’s son, and had been sired for her trouble, that child then begetting a long line of bastards until they’d ended in the spunky, spiteful blond that had rolled in from New York full of piss and vinegar and turned the whole process on it’s head.

Jess had come to find that attractive, honestly, but that was also sort of the thing that had her nervous.

See, Jess had fallen for Molly. This was not exactly an expected thing, but Jess had learned over her many, many years, that feelings were not often a thing one could predict well, if at all. It had started slowly; at first, she hated the woman, and found her frustrating. When Molly had shown up in Paris, ahead of the trial, Jess had all but told the woman to never come back - and, if Martha hadn’t protested, and they hadn’t fought about it, she likely would have stayed gone - but Martha had insisted that they reconcile, and Jess had agreed. Of course, Molly had been affectionate, and Jess had questioned this, only to discover that her worries were, somehow, true and also misinformed: Molly did, apparently, have a thing for Martha by then, but she hadn’t been the one to cause Martha that kind of pain, so while her affections were true, she wasn’t going to hurt the other woman. No, she was going to suffer in silence, Jess had realized, and that was strangely admirable.

They had kissed, once. Jess hadn’t disliked it, and that had set her on a different kind of trajectory.

It had taken a few decades for Jess to really come to terms with the whole thing, however, because she was a not a woman that worked quickly when it came to romance. She had to vet Molly first, and she did, one moment at a time. Molly spent some time in Paris, after, running strike teams with Martha, and Jess had watched her fall into sync with the group and had decided that this was a good thing, first and foremost. While Martha sometimes had a bit of trouble with the team, Jess trusted them, and if Molly wasn’t good enough, they would have absolutely brought that to her attention. But it wasn’t just the strike team - though, that was a big part, mostly because it was what prompted Martha to come running back to her wife to tell her, hey, I may still like Molly quite a bit - nor was it the just the burgeoning affections from Martha that really did it. No, it was quite a few things: it was the way she held herself when she was in public, and the way she dropped her facade the second she was out of sight. It was her word choices, her fashion choices, her friend choices.

And, it had helped quite a lot that Molly loved cars just as much as Jess did, even if their styles differed. Jess remembered, vividly, one evening, coming down to try and find their house guest, only to find the woman under Jess’s car, having heard a strange sound the night before when they’d been driving and determined to find it. That, Jess had determined, privately, was the moment, the lightswitch, the oh in her head that let her know what she really felt for the woman; she couldn’t get the image of Molly, half-dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, covered in oil, rolling out from under her Lamborghini with a wrench in one hand and a fastener in the other and started babbling about loose fuel lines and problems with Lambos and I knew what that noise was the second I heard it. Jess had hardly paid attention, too focused on the sexy, bombshell of a blond, under her car, giving it service without being asked, half-dressed and delighted in herself.

There were a few years where Molly didn’t find much delight at all. Seeing her smile, well. Jess immediately understood the moment Martha had come running in to tell her, because she’d felt it, too. There was simply something too good about knowing she made Molly smile.

Martha hadn’t waited too long, once she’d figured things out, and when Martha had approached Jess with the news that she’d fallen back in love with Molly, Jess hadn’t protested. Instead, she’d explained that she understood, because she, too, had fallen maybe a little too hard for the New York Giovanni. Of course, Martha had been delighted, because that was honestly the best news - if Jess was into Molly, that meant that Martha being into Molly wasn’t a problem, and even better, could be pursued, by either of them. Or both of them, which had become the plan, as Martha had asked Molly out that previous evening, and Molly had, after some waffling, said yes. Not that she had been unsure, or unwilling, but that she was a worrier, and she was concerned she’d have hurt Martha more for saying yes than saying no.

Now, though, it was Jess’s turn, and she stood against the wall, leaning against it languidly, a glass of wine in her hand, watching Molly. Molly, who was talking to Martha with delight in her face; Molly, who she’d watched dance with her husband - and oh, she was a little jealous, only because it was so close, so tantalizingly right the fuck there - and who seemed to take a lot of joy in doing so. Molly, who carried herself like she owned the place, even if she knew the rest of the Giovanni wanted her bleeding and stained on the floor. Molly, in a silver, dripping, 30’s style dress that made her look lean and long, legs visible under the split hem silky and smooth. Cain help her, Molly was hot. But, trying to find a time, let along the right time, was hard with a woman who had nine family in attendance and many other friends in the crowd.

“Hell of a glower, that.” The voice shook her from her thoughts, and she turned to find Issac Varnhagen, Molly’s second in command and son-in-law, standing next to her, leaning against the wall and mimicking her posture. He was tall, lanky, sharp in the face, with soft eyes and strong eyebrows and this sense that he was always holding a cigarette in hand, even when both were empty. Then, he had one of his hands in his pockets, the other holding a glass of wine, trying to force ease he didn’t really feel. Of course, it made sense - Jess was not like her wife, and didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve in the same way, so of course Issac wouldn’t have figured her out. He raised one brow at her, slowly. “Almost makes me wanna ask you what are you intentions with my ma?” He chuckled, mostly trying to joke. Jess, however, was not in a joking mood.

“I intend to ask her out on a date, if you must know.” Jess replied, entirely serious. Issac, unfortunately, had taken a large swig of wine as though he were proud of the joke, and proceeded to spit the entire mouthful back out at the words. Several heads turned to look at him, and it took both of their glowers in order to get people to stop looking. “I see you were not prepared for a serious answer, Consigliere Varnhagen. I have spoken to you before about asking questions you don’t want a serious answer to. It seems you’re still learning.” Jess replied, once she was sure no one was watching anymore. Giovanni were often decent lip-readers. Issac, patently, ignored the light dig.

“Wait, you’re serious, serious?!” He asked, trying to chuckle like she was going to finally break and tell him very good joke there, old sport, as she laughed at him for thinking it was true. But Jess simply sipped at her wine, turning her gaze back to scrutinizing Molly again; at that point, she was talking to the host, Luca, in a strange mix of Italian and English. She couldn’t speak Italian, and he preferred not to speak English, but they understood each other well enough regardless. Issac took a moment to collect himself. “God damn, alright. Not exactly what I’d expected, but, y’know what, if it makes you ladies happy at this point, I’m not gonna ask questions.” He paused. “Okay, one question: Martha know?”

“Martha and I spoke, yes.” Jess shook her head, but Issac saw the faintest little smile cross her features, and he grinned. Oh, this was serious, serious. She actually liked Molly. And not in a she’s very powerful and so am I so let’s hook up kind of way, either. Issac didn’t doubt they’d spoken; he knew of Martha’s affections from both sides of the fence. “She came to me, over a year ago, to apologize for the fact that Molly’s wiles had captured her yet again. I happily informed her that this wasn’t a problem, because I had also become taken with Molly, and would willingly accept her into our… situation.” Jess admitted. Issac narrowed his eyes, squinting at her over his now half-full wine he had yet to enjoy, a sly smile on his face.

“What was it?” He asked. Jess didn’t need him to clarify; she knew what he wanted to know.

“She fixed my Lamborghini without my request, or my knowledge.” Jess admitted, and Issac made an ah shape with his mouth, nodding along at the explanation. Yep, that was definitely Molly. She was a cars girl, through and through. “I might be a woman with staff, Consigliere, but that is staff I have to direct. To have her act, without burdening me with it, only because she wanted to care for me and my property, well.” Jess shook her head, a loving smile on her face. Oh, Issac quickly realized, this wasn’t just a light thing; the woman was hooked. Somehow, Molly managed to do that to people, without really even trying, though Issac never really understood how; maybe it was the fact that he saw her as a mother and not a lover, or the fact that he more often leaned towards the masculine when it came to his partners - there was a reason he went straight for the woman’s son almost as soon as they’d met, as adults - or just that he’d been around her for so long and he had the wrong set of parts for her interest. Regardless, he’d never been hooked, but he’d seen people fall for her before, and he knew what it was he was seeing, without a doubt.

“And now that Martha’s popped the big one, you’re next in line?” Issac asked, and Jess nodded, finding her gaze drawn to the woman again and a soft smile crossing her face. She liked watching Molly move, and talk; it was like watching a tiger prowl, passing, half hidden, through the landscape, easy in the fact that she was seen because she wasn’t hunting yet. Issac shook his head, trying not to roll his eyes. The women around him sure didn’t know how to do anything half-assed. “Well, first, happy for you. But, second, you should know, uh. She’s gonna freak.” He added, and that had Jess finally looking at him, her dark eyes scrutinizing him like he’d finally said something interesting but not necessarily good.

“Is that a sign that she wouldn’t want this?” Jess asked, only a little concerned that she had somehow made a bad prediction - and it was a prediction, but one she was fairly sure of, considering the way Molly treated her, the affection and closeness a sign that she definitely wanted more than just what she offered, even if she wasn’t entirely aware of it - and Issac laughed, not a bitter thing but laugh that said Jess was asking the strangest, stupidest questions he’d ever heard.

“Jess, you apologized and she kissed you, just ‘cause she could. Look, I can’t say what she feels, exactly. She’s been a bit distracted.” Issac waved a hand, referencing Martha, standing nearby, her black dress falling off her shoulders, split at the hem, showing leg and chest and arm where there wasn’t a black glove, a trail falling over her biceps and accentuating the heart shape of her top. She, too, was hot. They all were. It was almost a little unfair, putting all the hottest people in New York in one space to date each other, Issac thought. He was lucky he didn’t want in. “But I know a few things, for certain: She thinks your hot. She thinks your wife is hot. She’s bad about not noticing how she feels until she’s far too deep in the pool, and she’s the kind of woman who’ll bolt if she gets unsure. Also, she’s very nervous around pretty women, for all that she doesn’t seem it.” He explained, and Jess nodded, turning her eyes back to Molly with a face that said she was starting to figure out a plan. “Is she into you? No idea. Could she be into you? Not unlikely, and honestly pretty possible. Will she notice she’s into you before you say something? Not unless you’re willin’ t’wait a hundred fuckin’ years, she won’t. Will she try and run the second you mention, even if she is? Absolutely.” He shrugged. “Martha kissed her and she ran to call me, even though she wanted it. Unfortunately, she’s a runner.” He chuckled.

“Then I guess I’ll have to make sure she simply can’t run, now won’t I?” Jess asked, pushing herself off of the wall and stepping into the crowd to find where her missing mistress went. Issac’s words had certainly given her something to think about, but the longer she thought, the more she understood, and the more her actions began to shape themselves in the mind’s eye of her future. Did she think Molly was into her? Considering what Issac said, it was honestly more likely than less.

Molly was, as far as Jess was aware, a smart woman, but not one who was particularly internally observant. She noticed things, sure, but what she noticed and why was not often driven by the achings of her heart, but the workings of her brain, and that meant that she seemed to miss quite a few things that Jess would have otherwise thought solidified their relationship already. For instance, the three of them had spent many evenings together on the sofa, half-curled against each other, for all intents and purposes cuddling while they watched television or something akin to it. Martha had, of course, been in heaven the entire time, sandwiched between her girls or, sometimes, with Molly sandwiched between them, and it was clear from the way Molly relaxed around them that she, also, enjoyed the time together. But, Jess knew that, if she had described such a thing in a vacuum to an unassuming third party, they would not think her relationship with Molly was remotely platonic. Friends didn’t spend their days standing hair’s-breath close, almost touching or sometimes touching anytime they could. Friends didn’t spend their evenings cuddling on the sofa, curled around each other, holding each other while watching TV. Friends didn’t seek each other’s company out quite so constantly, like being apart for a few hours was a travesty, like staying in the same house wasn’t good enough. And friends certainly didn’t offer the level or depth of affection Molly offered Jess and Martha; they didn’t give such tight hugs, or touch each other so constantly, slight things, little brushes of fingers and ankles, hands on shoulders, waists, backs.

Individually, Jess could see it. A friend might touch her back, in passing, or might stay a few days and want the company. But friends didn’t stick like that. Friends meant distance, a gap between affections, boundaries that were enforced in some capacity. Molly had yet to enforce any level of boundary, not really. Jess was almost certain she could walk around her house without a shirt on, and she’d get nothing but pink cheeks from Molly; no hey, maybe don’t, or anything similar, and that had Jess understanding more and more as she thought. Because if Molly didn’t want to stop the train from rolling along the tracks, and didn’t want to put boundaries in place, and didn’t stop them, that had to mean that, somewhere, in her brain, she wanted what they had already achieved, and just hadn’t thought to name it. Likely because naming it made it real, and real seemed to make Molly nervous, like if it was real, she could ruin it.

That, honestly, made Jess’s heart ache, just a little. It was, honestly, a little silly, but it pointed to how young Molly was in the grand scheme of things. Molly was, as far as Jess was aware, terrified of the effects of her own hand in her life, because, while much of her distress came from other people, there was, at least, an observed leveling of willingness to participate in such things, and she seemed to conflate one with the other. She seemed to be under the impression that, because she did not actively choose to leave the bullshit she was asked to participate in - even if leaving might not have been possible, safe, feasible, or even the most important thing on her mind at the time - she was therefore culpable to the crimes others committed, even if those crimes were against her. It meant she now seemed to view any possible future as something else she could fuck up, as though any ending she might bring herself to would be as painful and horrific as any of her endings with Marie, or Mae, or the other people that had done wrong by her over the years. It was so, achingly clear to Jess that Molly could not see a future with her happiness in it, because she thought that she was the ringmaster of the unfortunate circus she attended, and thus thought every performance would end like the one the night before. That a breakup was inevitable - that she would hurt them, because everyone had convinced her that she was capable of it and had - and that there was no future in which Molly could remain friends with the people she’d once dated, because there was no future in which Molly didn’t ruin things for herself.

But Jess knew that couldn’t be true, because she’d been taught, firsthand, that Molly was not the cause of the pain they’d experienced, over the years. Marie had been the cause; she’d soured the pool, sullied the sacred, pulled flowers and left weeds behind, and convinced Molly that the inability for the garden to grow was due to Molly’s actions and not Marie’s. And, when Marie, and subsequently Mae, wouldn’t remain - even though both were, as far as Jess saw, shitty, bitchy people - Molly had convinced herself that she was the reason. It was, as far as Jess was concerned, just one more tally mark on the board of reasons why Mae didn’t make it through the next decade, but Jess also understood that killing the woman wouldn’t actually bring closure. Maybe, eventually, but not then. Molly had to heal, first, to be shown that people with maturity and sense weren’t like that; that she could date Jess and Martha with no risks, because the worst case scenario would be going back to friends that cuddled on the sofa. That it was all a discussion of boundaries and comfort at that point, not whether or not they were dating. They were already, basically dating. Molly just hadn’t realized it yet.

Jess found the woman after a few minutes, right where she’d expected to find the woman - a balcony. Molly was a woman who gravitated to a balcony like nobody’s business, Jess had found - it, apparently, had a lot to do with the fact that the woman was a pack-a-day kind of smoker, blowing through Lucky Strikes like they were made of nothing, which, considering, they were. However, in the States, smoking had been banned indoors in the mid-90s, whereas it had only been banned in the later 2000s in France - Jess had less time to adjust than she did, and had simply decided not to - and Molly was apparently the kind of woman that cared enough to find a place to step outside when she wanted a cigarette. It meant she found herself balconies whenever she could, just so she could light up without being accosted for it. Jess didn’t hesitate at the door, letting the dark hem of her two-toned black and white dress linger on the threshold just slightly as she stepped out into the cool, Venice night air. It smelled like salt and the ocean breeze, cigarette smoke and roses and whiskey. Jess smiled, trailing over to the railing and leaning there, lightly, watching Molly smoke. Watching her press the filter between her lips, the sticky leftover lipstick print cutting through the tan of the cigarette butt, the embers on the end glittering when she inhaled.

Martha said she saw stars in the woman’s eyes, constellations strewn across her vision like windows into another world. It had been a long time since Jess saw anything that vivid, but looking at Molly right then, the glitter of embers lighting up her face, the red and yellow warmth making her eyes, watching the sky, seem reflective, well. She could see it, too, just a little.

“I hope you’re enjoying the party.” Jess said, effortless, sweet, pulling a pack of Gitane cigarettes from within the folds of her dress and lighting up a cigarette of her own. She didn’t have pockets, but her sleeves were hollow, and that was good enough; besides, it always put people off when she produced items she simply couldn’t have stored. Molly finally seemed to notice her, straightening from her slouched posture with a sigh, flicking the butt end of the cigarette off the railing and into the sea. “Luca certainly went to a lot of trouble to get you in here. I’m impressed at his dedication - you’ve made quite the valuable friend.”

“What, you mean how he basically swindled everyone into letting me come back?” Molly asked, with a little laugh, an almost sad thing beget by the fact that it was all just so silly. Vampires always wanted to kill each other, that was sort of the whole thing they did, but he simply wasn’t about to let it be them and her. It made Molly feel cared for, in a strange way, but like by an Uncle with ulterior motives and a sketchy past. “He’s a character, for sure.” She laughed, this time properly, shaking her head. “I think he likes that I ain’t scared of him, but t’be fair t’me, Bernardo didn’t exactly give me a binder full of roles when he told me I was officially Capa of New York. He decided t’kick it, instead, so hell if I even knew who Luca was when I met him. Apparently, that made an impression.”

“And that you’re a proper Giovanni.” Jess added. That had certainly been a fun result of the trial; Molly’s main defense, beyond Luca, was one of Augustus’s lovers, and she’d put the record straight; she had beget the bloodline that beget Molly, and that if anyone else called her a bastard, she’d have thrown hands. And Evaline Durine was old, as old as Jess, a precursor to the proper idea of a Giovanni due to her age, so no one wanted to question her. Besides, Jess knew the woman well - they’d been in association most of their lives, after all - and she knew that the threat was not a bluff. Evaline would have killed anyone in that room, and brought a smile to her Auggie’s face as she did. It spoke a lot that he let her call him Auggie. “He, like many, understands where that places you, Molly. You are no simple presence, here.”

“God, I wish, though, huh?” Molly laughed. “Imagine if it was really simple. Waltz in, listen to them yammer about god knows what, weigh in with what I got, and leave again. Issac probably has it made out here. Or, well, more made than he does in New York, y’know.” She shook her head. “I, uh, I know we’ve… you and I’ve been… off and on about things, but, while I’m always grateful for Luca’s support… I’m glad we’re better than we were when this all started.” Molly said, softly, sincere. Jess blew the smoke from her cigarette out over the balcony, watching the plume flutter, spread, and disperse on the ocean breeze. “I wouldn’t have wanted t’make a mess of the only good thing Martha had, y’know?”

“I understand,” Jess started, turning to the woman with a smile on her face. It was a very different countenance than she had offered before; before, she’d been angry, or bitter, or distrusting, but now, Molly felt like there was something deeper to her smile, something more heartfelt and open. It made her shiver, and she didn’t know why. “And I understand, too, what you’ve done for Martha now, better than I have before. I know I have apologized for my transgressions before, individually, but… I think I should apologize for my actions as a whole, as well.” Jess said, and Molly looked at her with surprise at the words, raising a single eyebrow at the turn of the conversation. “I made judgements against you, without a full understanding of what it was I was judging. Because of that, it took too long for us to reach the place we are right now, and it should not have. You and Martha should not have reconciled so late, and you should not have had to wait that much further to have her properly in your life.”

“And you’re really good with that?” Molly asked, almost a little fearful, and Jess chuckled, finishing her cigarette and stubbing it out. Molly followed suit, though, when she reached for another - she rarely ever smoked one - Jess put a hand on hers, stopping her with a light touch. Molly’s cheeks went a little pink without her consent, and Jess grinned. Everything was coming together, slowly, a little at a time.

“Would you like me to prove to you that I am more than good with that, Madame?” Jess asked, and Molly looked confused at the words, like the idea of proof was strange. “Come, dance with me. Let me ally myself to you, in front of the entire Clan, and if you don’t dislike what we do, I have further offers for you that would assuage any of your fears. Does that sound acceptable?” Jess asked, offering her other hand out, palm flat, like she was waiting for Molly to take it. Molly stared at the offered hand like it would bite her.

“You’d really… you’d really dance, with me, in front of God and everybody? For what, Jess? Political suicide?” Molly asked, laughing, but Jess didn’t retract her hand.

“I am asking you to dance with me, Molly, and right now, it shouldn’t be your worry about the political fallout. I understand what it is I do, and I ask knowing this.” Jess raised a brow. “Unless you’re declining my offer, of course. I wouldn’t want to pressure you into something you’d detest.” Jess’s words were specific, pointed, barbed; detest, pressure, she knew what she was doing with every syllable, and Molly was falling for each one like a row of dominoes. Of course, Jess could tell that the woman knew something was up - she was subtle, but Molly was clever - but she could also tell that the nature of what had yet to catch up to her. “Would you, Molly de l’Argonne, join me for a dance? I do not ask three times.”

“Pushy, pushy.” Molly chided, but she reached out, putting her own hand in Jess’s, an acceptance in no uncertain terms. “But fine. Color me curious about these other offers.” She added, and Jess grinned, a broad thing, leading Molly by the hand - gently, so gently - back inside. They crossed the threshold, Molly’s fingers dainty in Jess’s palm, no resistance as Jess led her through the crowd and towards the middle of the room. There was a proper dance floor, though that was expected - Luca was, beyond anything else, a phenomenal dancer, so it made perfect sense that he would supply his own party with space to dance - and Jess paused at the edge of it, letting Molly catch her as the previous song finished and the active dancers fled the space. The band, at the front, began another, Begin the Beguine floating languidly over the flute and horns, and Jess stepped out onto the dance floor with confidence and poise at the first note. Molly followed, though there was a little resistance against their twined fingers, like she wasn’t sure when and didn’t know they needed to move that fast - and partially because moving that fast meant that the pair hit the dance floor before anyone else, putting them right, front and center.

Jess turned to Molly, and when the other woman stepped up to her, she slipped one hand down, lightly landing on Molly’s hip, the other taking her hand, held aloft. She was used to dancing the men’s parts - being tall and into women often meant that she was a better fit, physically - and Molly slipped into step with her naturally, her hand in Jess’s, her other pressed, lightly, to the woman’s shoulder, her fingers dainty against Jess’s dress. There was something about Molly that seemed to thrive in that moment, skirting across the dance floor, composed and poised like a painting, but Jess could tell there was part of Molly that wasn’t… entirely sure. It was the way her hip was stiff under Jess’s fingers, her skin soft, her hips plush with fat and muscle but somehow still hard with tension; it was the fact that her hand never quite made full contact with Jess’s shoulder, the lightest touch of the end of her fingers and no pressure from her palm. And it was the fact that, while she didn’t move her head, and never looked away from Jess, her eyes constantly darted to the edges of the room, watching the Giovanni watch them, trying to catch faces with something like fear in her eyes, even as she couldn’t turn to look properly. No one else came out to dance, everyone too busy staring, and it was clearly starting to make Molly nervous.

“If you’re against this, we can stop.” Jess said, giving Molly an out, but she shook her head, unwilling to exit a dance while being watched; it helped that, after a few moments of staring, others started to file onto the floor, making them much less obvious amid the crowd. She seemed to relax, just a little, though only just, no longer trying to catch the eyes of people staring. “But I see no errors, here.” She added, with a smile, and Molly went through several stages of something on her face - confusion, sure, and then doubt, and then a quick flick of her eyes around the room and this strange sense that she wanted to relax but simply couldn’t force herself to do so - before she finally settled on a chuckle.

“I guess you and I see things a little differently.” Molly chuckled, nervous, still, and Jess could tell she was fighting the urge to leave, to just bolt and get out of the situation she didn’t understand yet. “Though, I don’t… I’m not entirely sure how dancing with me tells me you’re good with me and Martha, but you said there were… other offers?” Molly asked, raising a brow. The temptation of knowing was what was keeping her, at least on the surface; Jess felt the woman’s hand tightened as she tried to adjust, which told her the rest. Molly wanted to dance. She was enjoying the dance, even - when she wasn’t aware of the others around her, when she had spun just enough to lose sight of anyone but Jess, she was smiling - but she was terrified. Terrified of what people would think, would say, would do, to her and likely to Jess. Even if the answer to all of those questions was nothing at all. Even if she was powerful enough to not have to care, even if Jess was powerful enough, she was a bundle of anxiety trying to find joy and failing at it. She was, unfortunately, in her own way.

“I did.” Jess said, and she pressed slightly forward, using her hand on Molly’s hip to pull her close until they were all but touching at the stomach. She felt, more than heard, Molly gasp at the sudden shift in position, and she felt the way the woman’s hand was forced to press against Jess’s chest and found it trembling against her skin. This was a risk, it was a gamble, but Jess was not the kind of woman to back down, and she grinned in a way that bared her teeth and Molly didn’t flinch. Good. “First, I want to confirm - you have been purposefully affectionate with me recently, yes? Not just with Martha, though that has been understandable, considering what I’ve known, but with me, specifically?” She asked, and she felt Molly pull at her hand again, but she clenched down, not allowing Molly space to exit. She watched a flicker of fear pass Molly’s eyes.

“I… look, Jess, I don’t know what it is you’re askin’, here, but can we cut to the chase?” Molly asked, breathless, nervous, laughing, trembling, the rollercoaster of fear and hope and nerves and anxiety making her seem like she was going to launch into the sun. Jess smiled, and held on tighter, keeping her grounded even as she reached liftoff.

“Fine. Molly, I would like it if you would go on a date with me.” Jess said, simply, and she felt the sudden snap of resistance against her hand, Molly pulling away, the brief misstep as she tried to flee and found the hand on her hip was steady and strong and the one holding hers would not let go. She looked at the hand, and then other hand, and then at Jess, and her face went from shock and panic and a need to remove herself in order to process to brief, brief, irritation. “Would you be willing to talk about it while we danced? That’s all I ask.”

“You bitch,” Molly hissed, but it wasn’t mean, it was, surprisingly, affectionate. “You got me out here t’ask, didn’t you?” She grumbled, and Jess simply grinned, giving the woman a spin and scattering the grumpy feelings with it, considering Molly was wholly unprepared to be spun and shrieked with what sounded like delight at the motion. When they came back together, Jess’s hand settled on the small of Molly’s back, pressing her close, their bodies touching.

“A little birdy told me you had a habit of leaving when you got nervous, so I wanted to make sure we could talk before you left.” Jess shrugged, but the way Molly set her lips was honestly cute, and it made her laugh. Sure, it was a pout, but it was cute. “Now, I’m not holding you hostage. You can leave. But, could I ask for an answer, at least?” She asked, and Molly looked at her, and her shoulders dropped, and she looked away. For a moment, Jess feared that her gamble had fucked up.

“I don’t… god, Jess, you and your wife have fucking bullshit timing.” Molly chuckled, and Jess grinned at her, understanding that it wasn’t an insult, but a fact. Martha had only asked her the previous day, after all. “She didn’t put you up to this, right? This isn’t some date her so we can be a throuple thing she requested, right?” Molly asked, and Jess looked at her, no sigh or frustration evident in her expression. This, however, seemed to startle Molly, like the idea that someone wouldn’t be annoyed with her constant need to be reassured was strange.

“I wouldn’t say my wife’s affections for you weren’t, at least, taken into account, but Molly, what I enjoy about you has nothing to do with Martha.” Jess elaborated, spinning Molly around the dance floor. The song had changed, but she didn’t stop, and neither did the band - they understood that a dance floor was a place for political conversations as much as anything else. “Admittedly, she and I have spoken, at length, about you, in all manners, both before she realized she’d fallen back in love with you and after. But the moment I realized you were more important to me than just a friend was back when you fixed my car. I don’t normally have people act without my request, you understand.”

“So you… you actually want this, for you?” Molly asked, now breathless from shock and intimacy more than anything else. Jess felt her hand tighten, not loosen, at the words, and their steps locked back into each other in a way that said Molly wanted to stay, not flee. Did Molly love Jess? That, she wasn’t sure about. But Molly certainly found comfort in Jess, and that was enough of a place to start.

“Yes.” Jess responded, simply. “Whether or not Martha brought you to my attention, Molly, I think I would have found you worth asking out regardless. I find you endearing, I find you attractive, and I hope that you find me at least similarly.” She raised an eyebrow, and from the way Molly’s cheeks went pink, something about that statement was, in fact, true. “I don’t expect your feelings for me to be as deep or as meaningful as your feelings for Martha. You and she have history I could not remotely conceive of matching. But I have enjoyed the way we have been, and while I would not necessarily want to change anything, I would like the comfort of knowing I could. Is that acceptable?”

“So you… wouldn’t actually change anything.” Molly said, softly, and Jess nodded. “What we’ve got is… good enough already?”

“For the moment, yes.” Jess agreed. She pressed the hand on the small of Molly’s back just a little tighter, and she felt the woman shiver. “It should be understood, Molly, that from my perspective, we’ve been dating. I know this, because the way I treat you and the way I treat Martha are identical, beyond two points: physical intimacy, and assumed comfort. Physical intimacy, of course,” Jess said, and she pulled Molly close, pointedly close, enough to smell the faint rose on her wrist and the cigarettes on her breath; Molly gasped, again, this time more visibly. “Includes kissing, and everything further. Of course, I understand your aversions to such things, and I have no plans on pressuring you into them.” Jess gave Molly a reassuring grin, and she watched the woman relax. “Assumed comfort, however, is honestly more what I’d want to seek, but that cannot be achieved until we are honest to ourselves about our situation.”

“I, uh, I don’t get what assumed comfort means. Are you not… comfortable around me?” Molly asked, missing the mark entirely, but the way Jess shook her head said she wasn’t miffed at it.

“On the contrary, Molly, I am too comfortable around you, and that is the problem.” Jess said, and she said it with comfort, with mirth, no blame or even agitation at the words. This was a problem, yes, but not one Molly could do anything about before the dance, regardless. “Let me put it this way - when Martha and I are alone in the house, and I find that I need her assistance changing, but I have not yet finished making myself decent, I will still find her and ask her for help, even if, say, I am not wearing anything as a top.” Jess explained, and she paused to let the flush roll over Molly’s cheeks at the image of her wandering around topless. Even if everything else hadn’t felt that positive, that was a good sign. “Because we are dating, I know she’s comfortable with this, and I do not have to ask. However, if you were in the house, I would neither feel comfortable going without, nor would I feel comfortable asking to go without, as the idea of us being friends automatically means you’d likely find that distasteful.”

“You wanna go topless when I’m home.” Molly tried, but she was, at least, warming up to the idea.

“Not necessarily, but that is included, yes.” Jess laughed, and it seemed her laugh, this time, actually brought a brightness to Molly’s face, like she was proud that she’d caused it. “The example was meant to provide context, not necessarily capture all options. The point is, you and Martha are, as far as my heart desires, the same. And, in many ways, the treatment my heart allows for you is the same. Yet, we’re not dating, we’re just doing everything dating people would do, but it’s without the comfort of the label. If we were dating, I would not feel uncomfortable asking to go topless, because it would be understood that you and I are at a point where that is on the table. It would be uncouth to ask, otherwise, because friends don’t go around topless around their friends. So, by existing as both, at the same time, I find myself acting as though I could be that comfortable and then catching myself and taking that step back. I don’t mind, of course - I would rather you be comfortable, even if it means I have to pay attention to myself more - but I realized that, with my affections towards you, and your acceptance of Martha’s proposal, it was worth asking to see if we could move to somewhere more comfortable than where we are.”

“Jess,” Molly started, softly, her lips pausing, half opened, pert and dressed in bright red lipstick, “I… I love Martha, I do, and I’m… I’m so happy, but… I’ve not done this poly thing before, and… if we fight, that’ll get back to you, right? And then I’ll fuck up her marriage. I wouldn’t want you t’get a divorce ‘cause I’m a mess. And I am a mess, Jess. I make everything a headache just to exist. Why the fuck do you want that?”

“Oh, Molly,” Jess purred, leaning down so she was speaking almost entirely to the crook of Molly’s neck, pulling her as close as she could with the hand on Molly’s back, “There are many things I want about you, and the fact that you are a mess and yet somehow so competent is one of them.” She said, and Molly looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “You call yourself a mess while successfully running a much busier city than my own, while fielding complaints from all sides, including your own Clan. That’s impressive, and along with everything else, I find it makes you the most endearing person I’ve ever had the chance to spend time with.” Jess chuckled. “I think, Madame, if I may, you worry too much about the future.”

“Yeah, well, sorry that I gotta plan for a company to outlive me.” Molly tried to deflect, but Jess didn’t let her.

“That’s what I mean - why plan for a death you don’t even know is coming?” Jess asked, cocking her head to the side like that was such a curious thing to do she had to know why. “Martha told me what you’ve been through. You have spent so much of your time trying to plan for a future you understand, trying to outwit the world, but before, you knew what you’d face. Now, all you have left is the unknown, and it seems you fear it - but Molly, you’ll have the unknown coming for you whether or not this culminates into the beautiful thing I think it can. Why not live as much as you’re able, while you still can? If your death is so inevitable that you must already be planning for a company to outlive you, why can’t you spend your time before you go enjoying yourself?”

“You, madame, are a temptress.” Molly said, but she looked at Jess, turning her bottom lip under her teeth and sucking lightly on it. “You… you really think this won’t fuck things up?”

“I don’t think it’s worth spending our time, right now, dwelling on what might happen in a future we have yet to reach.” Jess replied, and she’d stopped dancing, standing in the middle of the dance floor, Molly pressed to her, close. She could smell the rose and the cigarettes and the faint hint of strawberry that carried from her wife’s arms through Molly’s form, and she knew the other could smell the faint scent of dark, pine forest that Jess always seemed to carry. They were being watched, again, but Molly didn’t notice, this time, her eyes locked onto Jess’s, her mind clearly running through her options. “So, right now, Molly, you have two options: you can either accept that the future will come at you fast, no matter what you do, and simply kiss me so you can enjoy what time you have, or you can walk away into the unknown. I would not say I’d not be dissapointed if you left, of course, but I asked you to hear me, and I’ve been heard. What happens next is up to you.”

Molly watched her for a long, long second. The music hadn’t stopped, but the dancers had, everyone’s eyes locked onto the drama in the center of the room. And in that moment, Molly made a choice; she freed her hand from Jess’s, but she didn’t step away, instead, reaching up to put both hands on Jess’s face as she pulled the woman down into a kiss.

The music ground to a halt. Someone whistled. The sharp ow that followed said they’d been punched for the indiscretion.

When Molly pulled away, she honestly looked surprised with herself, like she hadn’t honestly expected that she’d do what she did, but it didn’t look like she didn’t enjoy it. It honestly looked like she’d very much enjoyed it, her face split with a breathless, shocked, little grin. However, that was quickly overtaken with a sudden thrill of fear as Molly quickly realized that every single eye in the room was staring directly at her. Jess watched her eyes catch the crowd, and it was like Molly had a sudden desire to simply be elsewhere, the idea of her getting seen kissing Jess a fear that bubbled up from deep within her. But when she stepped back, like she was going to turn and run, Jess snapped a wrist out and, with no small amount of force, pulled Molly back, bodily, to meet her. Molly froze, pressed front-to-front with Jess, her wrist in Jess’s firm hand not allowing her to leave.

“You have made a choice, dear. Own it.” Jess whispered, and while her grip was strong and her tone maybe a little harsh, her words weren’t wrong. She didn’t let go, even as Molly tried, once, futiliy, to move. “Are you not the Padrona of New York City? Have you not saved the world, as far as I understand, five times?” Jess asked, and Molly finally looked at her again and not the crowd, and she could see the fear in her face battling the need to be the woman Jess clearly was asking about. “Are you not a bad bitch?” Jess added, and that seemed to do something in the woman’s face, as she stopped backing away, though she didn’t step any closer again, either. Jess could feel the tension in her shoulders, in her back, even as her other hand snaked its way around the small of Molly’s back again.

“Jess…” Molly started, a hiss, a whisper, the everyone’s watching tone so easily understood. Jess just simply grinned.

“The reason these people do not like you, Molly de l’Argonne, is that you have always been destined to rule them. I understand the trial was a difficult time for you, but it was not about blame, but about taking your teeth from you before you could bite. But we both know nothing could disarm you fully.” Jess said, and Molly felt the breath she didn’t need leave her, because honest to god, that was hot. The feral energy, the grip - Jess held power, so much power, and she was using it to remind Molly that she wasn’t the only one. “If you leave, you will prove to them that they won. So - are you the woman I fell so deeply for, or have I been mistaken and have found myself tethered to a coward?” Jess asked, and that, that beyond all things, seemed to spark something like spite in Molly. The woman stopped pulling away, though she did incline her head like she wanted to look over a pair of non-existent glasses, the glower just enough to let Jess know this wasn’t appreciated as much as it was needed.

“If that wasn’t hot, I’d be pissed.” Molly grumbled, but she sighed, and something like a smile crossed her face, because Jess was, fortunately or unfortunately, right. The Giovanni had done their best to cow her, to push her down and make her smaller, weaker, more palpable for them. And she had, for a long time, played that game, afraid of what they could do to her - but she was realizing, quickly and in real time, that the answer to that question was fucking nothing. They’d tried to kill her, and failed - why the hell did she think they would succeed a second time? Especially considering that, at the time, the evidence was all but clear that she’d been culpable to the issue. Molly might have been worried, and overwhelmed, but Jess was right. She was a bad bitch. And now she was a bad bitch with a husband and two badass girlfriends.

She turned, her head snapping over to the band, who was watching in a light amount of shock; a quick snap of her fingers got their attention and brought them from their stupor. “Why the fuck did the music stop?” She asked, loudly, and they scrambled, suddenly worried they were facing the wrath of a very powerful person. Molly, seeing this, smiled, because it reinforced what she’d already determined; she wasn’t just a bad bitch, she was the bad bitch. The band quickly picked up a song, this one a jazzy swing number, and Molly found her attention brought back by the feeling of Jess’s fingers on the bottom of her chin, which made her shiver with delight, bringing her face back around like she would go in for another kiss. This time, however, Molly extended her hand to Jess, instead. “I… I’m sorry I almost bolted. Can we try this again?” She asked, and Jess laughed, taking her hand and stepping into the quicker swing step with little to no effort. It was a faster thing, and they weren’t pressed quite so hard together, but that was fine - they’d done all the talking they really needed, anyway. It helped that the dance floor quickly filled again, people flooding in around them as the music started, both desperate to talk about the new gossip but unwilling to leave the pair alone again, should they do something that would further upstage them.

Molly tried not to think too hard about the people around her, just for the moment, and instead, she focused on Jess in front of her. Jess, smiling, proud, full of vigor and energy and laughter. Jess, the woman who believed in Molly so strongly that she wouldn’t allow the other to fail. Jess, the woman Molly was starting to really find love for, in a way she hadn’t yet discovered. She loved Martha, absolutely. And she loved Konrad, too. But those were loves garnered over hundreds and hundreds of years; meanwhile, this was a love that bloomed almost instantly, the ashes of the trial fertilizer for something new and brilliant and probably a little venomous, if Molly was making the metaphor apt. And it was a love that bubbled up from her core as Jess spun her out, twirling her to the music, and she laughed as she did. She laughed as they cantered around the dance floor, and she laughed when Jess spun her, and she even laughed as she felt Jess’s hand leave hers, the spin out landing her face to face with a redhead in a black dress. Said redhead quickly took Molly’s hands in her own, a grin on her face.

“Proud of you.” She said, leaning down to give her girlfriend a quick kiss. Molly almost jumped, but it was a happy surprise, and she threw her arms around Martha’s neck at the kiss, melting into her. When she pulled away, she turned to find Jess standing behind her, abandoned, and Konrad standing behind Martha, also having apparently been drug onto the dance floor and then left behind. “Have a good time dancing?” Martha asked. Molly grinned.

“Mmm, think I need another go around. Care to go for a spin?” Molly asked, taking Martha’s hands and turning to Jess. “Think it’s time we switched it up a little, just for the moment?” She said, and she asked, but she also didn’t wait, pulling Martha back into the crowd and into the dance without really waiting for an answer. Jess shook her head, finding that Konrad had approached, hovering at her shoulder, the pair of them watching their now shared significant others dance.

“I’m grateful that you seem to have broken her of the slump that has plagued her these many years.” Konrad said, offering up an arm. Jess took it, and they stepped into a slower, less rushed dance, though it still fit the music. Konrad was just not a man who danced swing. “And I look forward to what may arrive from our future partnership, considering that you and I will be in much closer proximity than before.” He added, and Jess nodded. Something about his hands, the stiffness of his shoulders, or even the fact that for once in her life, Jess wasn’t dancing the lead, settled into the depths of Jess’s brain, in the place where her curiousity about Molly had lived before she’d determined what it was. She didn’t dwell on it, but she did grin, and that was enough for Konrad.

“I believe, Konrad, that we are in for quite the future.” She said, turning, briefly, to catch Molly as the other pair spun by.

Was Molly terrified? Absolutely. She was dancing with a woman she loved dearly in front of every peer she’d ever feared, having just made out with the woman’s wife in front of the entire Clan. Augustus Giovanni was aware of her, and her transgressions, and her relationships, and what that meant for his people, and she was honestly kind of sure that she was more of a thorn in his side than a boon. Yet, the Clan had failed to kill her, more than once. Fish people had failed to hurt her. Eldritch gods had failed to do her more than give her a little trauma to get through. She’d fought demons, and gods, and wolves, and hunters, and everything else in between. She owned more real estate in New York City than most, and while her money was often liquid and moving, she had more of it than god.

But Molly was a bad bitch, after all. And bad bitches didn’t let the fear get to them. Bad bitches took what they wanted, without remorse. And now, Molly had everything she’d ever dreamed of - two girlfriends, her stalwart husband, and a future that was looking brighter and brighter with every passing second. Was it unknown? Yes. Was it scary? Yes. But she wasn’t going to do it alone. And that filled her heart so fully, she could burst. Especially as she hadn’t expected Jess to ask.

“This feels weird.” Vince said, softly, opening the door to Al’s Hyundai Inster and piling out onto the front drive of Konrad Varnhagen’s home in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was a beautiful evening - cold, certainly, the bitter chill of a brisk December evening having already settled on the landscape, though there was no snow to be had, and the sky was full of glittering, bright stars. It was beautiful, and it was cold, and Vince shivered as he adjusted to the outside, staring at the building, the home, in front of him. It was a house, one that belonged to a man that Vince should have called his enemy, for a hundred separate reasons, and yet, he was, instead, doing them the biggest favor anyone could possibly do for them.

Vince was having a daughter. He was still getting used to thinking that thought, and it had been nine months since he’d found out - or, well, since they’d asked. See, vampires, Kindred, couldn’t have children - they were dead. While Vince still had genetic material stored in his body, it was as limp and dead as a worm on the sidewalk after a rainstorm, and there was no way he was ever going to produce anything concrete with it by himself. And by god, had he and Flidais tried, though they were certainly people that appreciated the journey as much as the results. And Vince had, due to this, resigned himself to being the Cool Uncle for other people’s progeny, however they managed it; whether or not his friends had kids wasn’t really his to comment on, especially not on how. If they’d wanted to adopt, he would have happily been of assistance, though something about the idea for himself just didn’t take. He almost didn’t feel like he wanted kids enough to adopt them himself. Or, maybe, he’d thought, once, he was scared of getting a kid too fucked up for him to handle, and at least a kid of his loins would have his problems, and he knew how to deal with his problems. They were numerous, and mostly involved spacing out.

But then Konrad, Vince’s friend who shouldn’t have been, had approached them, earlier that year. Konrad, see, was a geneticist at his core, and his main experiment since the early 1940s had been on the hypothesis that Kindredism, vampirism, was genetic. That there were components to vitae that altered them fundamentally, down to the basest level, and that these could then be identified, isolated, and reproduced within a lab setting. Was it eugenics? Vince preferred not to think too hard about that question, honestly, because the answer was probably a lot closer to yes than anyone was comfortable with. Konrad was Sabbat, so the idea that he’d consider killing people that weren’t up to his standard was not out of pocket for him, and with that in mind, it was certainly not a great look. But Konrad wasn’t killing people; instead, he’d approached Vince and his wife, Flidais - who was also Konrad’s child, at one point; this was no longer the case, of course, because nothing with Vince was simple - with the offer of providing him a child. His wife, Molly de l’Argonne, was a woman who wanted to put the blood relation into The Family, so the fact that she already had three kids was clearly not enough; thus, she’d asked her recently aquired girlfriends - her longtime mutual pining partner, Martha, and Martha’s wife, Jess - if they would like to benefit from the fruits of Konrad’s labor. See, he’d succeeded - Molly’s third child with him, Evaline, was showing clear signs that she was to become a genetic ghoul, thus proving Konrad right - but Jess had been wary. The process was new, and unproven, and only had one successful result. She had, at the very least, wanted to see him go through it, once, just to be sure.

And Vince had always been that man’s willing guinea pig. At least, this time, he was getting a whole ass baby out of it.

“It’s not that weird.” Flidais said, stepping out of the car as well, flattening her skirts. She was in a yellow dress and a green sweater, her red hair braided down her back, and she thought she looked nice. They’d settled on nice, not formal but also not casual, after about an hour of dithering. It left Vince in a dark blue button down and white slacks, his leather jacket not really making up for the fact that the shirt was open down the first three buttons. He hadn’t wanted to go too formally - that made it feel like something it wasn’t - but he didn’t want to dress down, either, because didn’t people take pictures, and did he really want to be in pictures with his new kid in a stupid t-shirt? Vince had gotten a lot more fashion-conscious once he’d gotten his color-blindness involuntarily fixed, Flidais had noticed. It was yet one more weird thing about her husband. “People adopt kids all the time, Vince. Not every kid is picked up at a hospital.” She said, her Irish lilt giving Vince comfort.

“Flid, people don’t put in a pickup order for a baby. This isn’t adoption, this is-this is Doordash for Infants.” He paused. “Cradledash. No. Cradlerobbers? No, wrong direction. UberStork? Eh, I don’t know if this is the place.” Vince shrugged, shaking it off. He went for the back, grabbing the car-seat they’d bought, which they’d also stacked with blankets. It was cold, and while Vince didn’t care for beans, the baby certainly would. “But this - this is science fiction, Flidais.” Vince paused, again, standing outside of the house, handled car seat in one hand, keys in the other. His life was changing. And he was scared. “This can’t be real.”

“Vince, it’s real.” Flidais said, taking his hand - and keys - into hers and giving it a - sharp and pointy - squeeze. Vince sucked on his own lips.

“How do I know I’ll see her as she is? That I’ll know what my daughter looks like?” Vince asked, whisper soft, staring at the windows of the house like eyes into his soul. Like they were watching him, like they were judging him, like they were finding him inferior. Flidais took the keys from between their fingers so she could give Vince’s hand a squeeze that was much less pointy.

“Vince, the blood might be a lot, but it isn’t cruel. You’ll see your daughter’s face.” Flidais reassured him, pulling him to her. She was taller, and he wrapped his arms around her waist and she slung her arms over his shoulders and they kissed, slowly, softly, sweetly. Vince melted in her arms, because that was how he always was, with her; he loved her, desperately, deeply, truly, and he wouldn’t ever stop loving her, and they both knew that. Even if he was scared. “Now, c’mon. Konrad’s not a patient man.” She added, and she pulled him along by his wrists, dragging Vince first to the threshold and then up the stairs to the door, where she rang the doorbell.

Unsurprisingly, Yuri was the one who answered the door. He didn’t say anything - he was expecting them - leading them instead to a set of stairs buried inside a different set of stairs, a half-hidden doorway down that he didn’t stop at. The stairs were clean, white, almost medical in appearance, with silver steel supports and dark gray floors. They wound down, not one floor but two, ending at a second door with, surprisingly, key card access. Yuri pulled his wallet from his pocket and pressed it flat against the scanner, which beeped green, and allowed them access within.

Inside, it was a lab in every way conceivable. There were white walls, with the same dark gray flooring, and white desks with silver supports to match them. There were tubes, tall things and small things, some full, some empty, and racks of glassware and beakers. A whiteboard sat, used, wheeled, with scribbles and shapes Vince only vaguely recognized as reproductive and a language he couldn’t read, and several computers sat stationed at various desks around the room, with readouts of all sorts. There were graphs, and tables, and even several that seemed to be pulse oximeters, though only a few were on and fewer still were monitoring anything at all. There was even a scientist, Konrad himself, in a white lab coat - Vince hadn’t actually been sure the man owned a lab coat, honestly - sitting at a desk at the far end of the room.

A bassinet, simple, plain, sat at the end of his desk.

“Ah! Yuri said you’d pulled up. I was worried you had changed your mind. This is not exactly a project you can turn away from, unfortunately.” Konrad was up from his seat the moment he noticed the pair in his labs, thick in his German accent and positivity chipper in his tone, taking the bassinet in on hand as he moved towards them. “Of course, any unwanted progeny will be taken in by my wife, but I would prefer we add purposefully to our brood and not just form a collection of strays.” Konrad grinned, an uncanny thing; he was getting better with things like emotions, but not so much with the part about showing them, and he showed so much teeth when he smiled that it was hard not to take it as a threat. Of course, Vince ignored the impending threat - he understood that Konrad was just a strange and unusual man, and there really wasn’t much else to it; he, himself, was strange and unusual - peering into the bassinet with fascination on his face, setting the carrier down as he did so.

The bundle in the bassinet was about the size of a football, give or take, and very pink. That was the first thing Vince noticed about the little girl - she was pink, from the tip of her button nose, through her little cheeks, right to her little ears. She was pink, though she wasn’t all that pale, and Vince watched her work her tiny, pink mouth, like she was figuring out what a tongue was in real time. Her eyes were closed, large on her face, and she was wrapped in a tight swaddle, a little cap on her head. Vince stared at her, reaching down, gently, to brush the softest finger against one of her little cheeks; she moved her face, but into the gesture, her mouth still working like lips and tongues were strange things to navigate. “You can pick her up, Vincent. She is yours.” Konrad said, leaning over Vince as he leaned over the baby. He pulled back at the words, and there was a sudden nervousness to his face as he did so. Flidais figured it out instantly.

“Have you not ever held a baby before, Vince?” She asked, sweet, heartfelt, tender. Vince chuckled, putting a hand on the back of his head.

“I have… skillfully avoided being handed an infant, yeah. I’ve just… before I was Kindred, I had really shaky hands, right? And I didn’t want to drop one. And then I died, and then nobody was having babies, and then, with… with Nyssa, I didn’t… neither of us wanted to touch her, so I didn’t… I wish I had, but I didn’t ever hold her, and then… I died and now we’re here.” He explained, with a shrug. “So I’m just… I don’t know how.”

“Well, Vincent, it is time you learn.” Konrad said, reaching into the bassinet without any further pomp. “As a newborn, your daughter has no strength in her neck, and cannot hold her head up. Until she is able to sit up on her own, you will want to support the back of her head and neck with a hand or elbow at all times.” He reached down, and surprisingly gently, slipped one hand under the little girl’s neck and head - her whole head fit nicely into his palm - and the other under her bottom, lifting her. “Cradle your arms, Vincent.” He said, and Vince followed the instructions, allowing Konrad to put the baby in his arms. She was heavier than he anticipated, and she smelled warm, like soft milk and baby powder and a hint of plastic. She pressed her lips together, her eyebrows screwing up slightly, a cry coming on, and Konrad tutted. “Vincent, remember, she is Kine. You are quite cold to her.” He said, and Vince realized, quickly, that he hadn’t warmed his arms. As soon as he thought to do so, she stilled, and he breathed out a sigh he didn’t need.

“Sorry.” He said, softly, holding his daughter close as Flidais moved past him to Konrad’s desk. Vince didn’t watch them, because he just… he couldn’t stop looking at the little girl in his arms. There were seats, and he moved for one, slowly, settling into it without looking up, letting the little girl settle more into his lap so he could use his other hand and unswaddle her. Freed, one little hand shot out, and he couldn’t help but stare at the pink fingers, the sharp, needle like nails. He pressed one finger to the softness of her palm, and she held on, tight, tighter than he’d ever thought something so small could hold.

“Now, I will need you both to provide me a name. Once I have that, I can finish processing the birth certificate, which you will want before it gets too late. Otherwise, unless you have questions, I have nothing else for you, nor need anything else from you.” Konrad said, gesturing to paperwork on his desk. Flidais turned to look at Vince, to see what he wanted, and found that he wasn’t with them, anymore. He was in his own little world, occupied by him, his daughter, and no one else. Flidais sighed, slipping into the seat next to her husband, watching him pry his finger from her little grasp and push, gently, back on the beanie on her head. She had hair, just a little, thin and whispy and dark already. Flidais slipped the beanie back on.

“We have to keep her head covered. It’s soft, still.” Flidais whispered, and Vince nodded, willingly letting her into the little world he’d made with the girl, adoration and love in his eyes to the point of being nearly sickening. He was enamored immediately. “Did you ever decide what you liked, name wise?” She asked, now that she was in with him, and not on the outside. They’d decided, the week previously, that they would each come up with one name, and then decide what order to put them in afterwards. Vince turned back to the baby, gently tucking the beanie back down over her head, running his hand behind her soft, little ears.

“Riley.” He said, a whisper. She stirred at the sound of his voice, like she could feel it echo through his chest. He could feel her heartbeat, quick and steady, like a flutter, and he could smell all of the blood in her veins, but the scent of fresh baby, the warm of it, was overpowering. Flidais nodded, pressing her palm lightly to the beanie.

“I was partial to Grace, but Grace Riley sounds like a pop singer.” Flidais chuckled, using her thumb to gently stroke the little girl’s forehead. “Riley Grace sounds fine.”

“Riley Grace Renato.” Vince whispered the name with reverence, like by saying it, he was breathing real life into the little girl’s soul. She made a noise, a soft thing, a babble, like she supported the idea. “I think she liked it.” Vince said, softly, finally looking up, like he’d forgotten a world existed outside of Riley Grace’s little smile. Honestly, honestly, as far as he was concerned, it didn’t. “We can call her RG for short.”

“Riley Grace Renato. Quaint.” Konrad said, writing the name down on the form on his desk. “Fantastic. With that said, that is all I need of you, so unless you have pressing questions that are not the panicked first-parent drivel, you may head out.” Konrad tapped the paper, giving them another smile; this was strained, like their company was already grating. He did have work to do. Vince nodded, standing again, RG still in his arms, until Flidais also stood and put a hand on his bicep.

“Vince. We need t’put her in the carrier.” She said, and he looked up at her, and for a moment his heart was in pieces on the floor, because why would anyone be so cruel as to ask him to set down the last remaining piece of his soul that he hadn’t realized he’d lost to the void; Flidais gave him a sympathetic smile, soft and loving, like she understood how much it hurt but it had to be done. “You can’t drive with her in your lap. You’ll be able to hold her again when we get home.” She said, and Vince nodded, relenting without any protest, because he knew it was for her safety. He didn’t like it, but he knew. He gently, gently, set Riley Grace Renato down in her carrier, buckling her in, and taking a moment to indulge and wiggle her toes. She didn’t smile, but she made a face kind of like one, and that was good enough.

He stood up, picked up the carrier, turned to Konrad, and smiled, a sincere thing. “Thanks, Konrad. I knew you were a good person in there, somewhere.” He said, and he turned trotting for the door before Konrad decided the words were actually an insult and went after him. He narrowly dodged a scapel all the same, heading up the stairs and into the foyer, where Flidais was waiting. He paused there, grinning, finally looking at her, and he was looking at her like she was the sun and he was holding all of the stars in his hands and his heart was so full he would have burst. “Flidais.” He said, holding back laughter. “Flidais, we made that.”

“Aye, we did.” Flidais said, turning to her husband and putting her arms on his shoulders. This time, he set the carrier down.

“Not in the like, traditional way, but…”

“We could always try that again, later? Once we get her settled, of course.” Flidais asked, seductive and elated. Vince laughed.

“Oh, I’m always down to try for more, though. Maybe we can let her get a bit bigger before we talk about more more.” Vince pressed his face against Flidais’s neck, giving her a kiss and laughing, there, the smell of lavender and gunpowder and cigarettes mixing with the warm milk and baby powder and plastic and making his knees weak and his brain happy. “God, Flidais. Marrying you was the happiest moment of my life, hands down, but this? This is getting really close.” He said, half laughing, almost crying. Flidais pulled his jaw up, giving him a kiss.

“I think they can be tied.” She said, against his lips, pulling away. “Now, do we want to tell people she’s here?” She asked, pulling her phone out of her dress pocket. Vince picked up the carrier, and held it between them, Vince on one side, Flidais on the other, and RG in the middle, happily snoozing.

Flidais sent the text to all of her group chats as Vince drove them home:

Welcome to the World, Riley Grace Renato. December 20th, 2049.

~*~

Vince always forgot how quiet the world got in the early morning hours.

The pair had come home to their polycule and an elated little party about half an hour after picking RG up from Konrad’s lab. Vince’s other partner, Haytham, had seen the text and beat them home, bringing with him his own little polycule that included some of his very dear friends. This meant they spent a few hours passing the baby between them, telling stories, talking, drinking, and having a good time. But, eventually, RG had to be returned to a quiet place, and Vince volunteered, bringing her carrier up to the room that they’d set aside for her.

Inside the room, it was quiet, the noise from downstairs not able to be heard due to soundproofing that Al had insisted on using on the walls. Vince slipped into the dark room, closing the door behind him, and set the carrier down, taking a breathe out that he didn’t need. They’d set things up earlier, so there was a crib, and a small lamp, and a rocking chair already out, ready for whomever made it into the world that evening. Vince slipped his jacket off, hanging it on the end of the crib, before lifting his daughter out of the carrier, holding her, gently, to his chest as he padded over to the chair. His shoes were lost along the way, leaving him in his slacks and soft shirt as he reclined in the chair, letting RG settle against his chest. He rocked, lightly, and he felt her warmth like he’d grown a new heart himself.

“Hey, RG.” He said, softly, his voice barely a whisper. She murmured something, half asleep, as newborns often were, her mouth still working, though this time it was mimicking a suckling motion; she’d been given her first bottle that evening, and she finished the thing quickly, clearly having enjoyed it. He knew she could feel his voice in his ribs, rattling around the empty cavity of his chest. “I hope you like everyone, downstairs. They like you. I know they’re a lot, though. Especially Vyx.” He chuckled, and RG made a soft whine noise at the motion, though he couldn't tell if she didn’t like it. He pressed a hand to her back, fascinated that his palm covered her shoulders and lower back entirely.

“Vyx is my twin.” Vince explained, softly. “They’re fun, but they’re a lot. You’ll probably think they’re the cool Aunt, which… is what they want. They’re dating Donnie, the big guy. I know you haven’t opened your eyes yet, but… you’ll know him when you see him. He’s cool. He’s… he’s perspective, and we need that, a lot.” Vince laughed, this time displacing RG less, and she made another noise. From the way her mouth worked, he could tell when she liked something. Konrad had said smiles take a few weeks. “His wife, April, is a badass. Though, I think she’s going to be the first to crack and get you a little sibling.” He shook his head. “Al’s… I don’t know what Al and I are, it’s complicated, but I love him, y’know? And he… he might not seem like he likes you, yet. He’s got some stuff to get through, it’s not you.” Vince sighed. “Haytham’s the tall one. He’s… I think he gets worried about getting locked in, so that wasn’t you, either.”

“I can’t wait until you can see, though.” Vince added, softly, rocking, lightly, as he stared at the stars they’d stuck to the ceiling. “Then you can see your Mom. She’s… you’re gonna hear stories, RG, about princesses, and monsters, and heroes, and knights, and all that good stuff, and… Flidais, your mom, has always been my princess. She’s my Elvenstar. The things we’ve done for each other… I hope you find someone who loves you that much, one day.” Vince said, and he paused, and then went silent, rocking lightly. He stopped, and he listened to the sound of her breathing, and he warmed his chest so she wouldn’t be too cold. After a moment, she fussed, not quite asleep, and Vince exhaled, slowly, sitting up to shift her gently into his arm. Holding her out, her legs tucked up to her chest, and he smiled at the way she scrunched. Once she was in his arm, he settled again, and she squirmed.

“But you need to sleep.” He said, and she fussed anyway, ignoring him. Ah, babies. He chuckled. “Would you want me to sing to you? I’m… I’m not much of a singer, and I… I didn’t really learn many lullabies.” He said, but it seemed that, when he was talking, she was at least still and at peace. When he stopped, she fussed, and he sighed again. “Oh-kay, then. Uh… I mean, I had this CD when I was a kid? I can sing what I remember.” He paused, thinking back to the little boombox in his bedroom as a kid, after he’d left Spain. He’d missed his mother, dearly, and his father had found him a CD of lullabies, something that he could listen to and feel like his mother was there. He cleared his throat.

“The moment I saw you I wanted to hold you, and keep you warm on a cold days morn. The moment I held you I wanted to kiss you, and welcome you here on the day you were born…” Vince sang. It was a simple tune, repetative and concise, and he was no singer, but his voice was soft, and sweet, and clean enough. He watched RG yawn as he repeated the phrase, watched her screw her little face up as she opened her mouth and filled her lungs with air, and then he watched as she slipped into a state of sleep, her breathing shifting shallower as she did so. He watched her, and she smiled, and he hummed the tune for a while longer, simply looking at this miracle that sat in his arms.

“You know, if that all there is to this, I’m gonna start traveling by portal all the time.” Molly said, stepping out of a portal into Jess and Martha’s living room in Paris.

The reconciliation had gone well, as far as Jess could tell, though she had operated so much on the outside of things for so long, she wasn’t entirely sure. Martha’s arrival into Molly’s office three years previously had, thankfully, kicked off a series of events that had only brought the pair closer and closer, rather than drifting further apart; Martha had invited Molly out to Paris that next year, and Molly had visited with the family, bringing her kids and her husband along with her. Jess had gotten a chance to meet her children - polite, well mannered, if her daughter was a bit techy - as well as learn about Molly’s unfortunate fear of planes - it said a lot that she was willing to get on Konrad’s just to visit - and Martha had gotten a chance to catch up with her favorite niece and nephew, who she hadn’t seen in a very long time. She’d quickly learned that Issac had moved in with Elias, mostly because Molly’s second was working more in Venice and couldn’t maintain his own apartment - or, at least, that was what she was told - and that Konrad had started work on trying to manufacture them a third child that wasn’t quite so much of a mess as their second. This was said affectionately, of course, though Jess got to have a crash course in understanding Konrad Varnhagen and how, somehow, he could be both incredibly mean while also being very kind at the same time.

After the first visit, however, it took a few years for them to get Molly back to Paris, mostly due to the plane issue. While she was able to force herself onto a plane when needed, it was clear that it caused her a lot of stress to do so; Jess had learned, quickly, that one of Molly’s good friends during the ‘20s had been none other than Amelia Earhart, and suddenly, her issue with planes made a lot of sense. Having witnessed one of her few friends - who was also a Malkavian - suddenly vanish on a plane, Jess understood why her trust for them was so low. That had prompted some research, which had culminated in Jess, standing in her living room, having just opened up her first major attempt at a cross-Atlantic portal, hoping that the others made it through without any issue. Necromancy was not a class of magic that often employed portals, but Jess had borrowed some logic from Thaumaturgy and cut a swath through the spirit, bringing the two ends together and, as she hoped, bridging the gap. Of course, at first, it was a proper gap that had to be navigated, but she’d perfected the process over the course of a few months, until there was no gap at all. She had made sure it worked locally, bringing parts of Martha’s strike team through from one end of Paris to another, and it had even stretched so far as London, but Jess hadn’t yet tested a full, ocean crossing portal before, and worry gathered in her guts. While even a small gap wasn’t the end of the world, the things that existed in the spirit between the ends of the portal were unknown, and the unknown was dangerous. Luckily, Molly and her brood stepped through without any issue, and Molly stood in Jess’s living room in her yellow and white striped halter-sundress, sunglasses on her face, yellow heels making her just a little taller, her husband and kids behind her, with a grin on her face. She, clearly, enjoyed not having to get on a plane.

“Does that mean you’ll visit here more?” Martha asked, stepping over to the other woman, her red blouse and dark pants offset by the yellow on Molly’s frame. Molly stepped forward, throwing her arms around Martha’s neck in an affectionate hug, before putting both of her hands on Martha’s face like she might kiss the woman for the trouble of it.

“Martha, if I can get over to see you and never touch a plane again, I’d visit every week.” Molly replied, giving Martha’s face an affectionate squeeze. Jess pressed her lips in a tight line, watching them interact with hesitation, and no small amount of trepidation, crossing her arms; her hands settled on the sleeves of her black and white striped blouse lightly, like she was worried if she didn’t keep her posture light, Martha would see her concern in her face. The issue was, however, that Molly had certainly gotten a lot more affectionate than she’d been previously, and Jess could see it in everything the woman did. It was in the way she looped her arms around Martha’s shoulders, or the way she leaned on Martha when they sat next to each other. There was nothing untoward, of course; Martha only lightly returned the affection, enough but not really leaning into it, and the moments were fleeting and innocuous. Part of Jess worried that she was simply jealous, that she was reading into the woman far too much and taking things out of pocket when she shouldn’t have.

This was why, when the portal had closed and the others had gotten settled, Jess had quietly touched Konrad’s arm and asked for him to join her in her office, pulling him away without attracting anyone’s attention. It helped that Martha was, luckily, locked in conversation with Issac and Molly, likely something about the man’s affections for Molly’s son - Jess could tell from the color of the man’s ears that, whatever the conversation, it was embarrassing for him - and her kids were busy with Claire trying to claim who got to sleep in what room, leaving Konrad free to be pulled aside. He followed, quietly, his dark bronze vest matching Molly’s dress with an ease that said he matched her outfit often, and when he arrived in her office, he didn’t sit, hovering by her desk. Jess didn’t sit, either, facing the large window that opened onto the Paris skyline.

“May I ask you a question, Konrad?” Jess asked, prefacing what she was going to say. Konrad quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t know if you’ll like it.” She added. Konrad shrugged.

“No question has ever brought me harm, Madame, only the intentions behind it. I imagine, since we are private, that your intentions are not, at least, that poor. So you may ask, but I reserve the right to refuse an answer without judgment.” Konrad replied, and Jess shrugged, because honestly, she wasn’t getting a better response. It was Konrad.

“Where is your wife, when it comes to her feelings for Martha?” Jess asked, turning, finally, to face Konrad. He looked at her quizzically, like the idea that this question would be something he wouldn’t like was so strange that he couldn’t conceptualize why she thought that. “I have noticed, recently, that her affections towards Martha have increased. I don’t want to act based on biased information, however.” Jess added, her reasons clear enough - she could tell something was going on, but what, and if it was normal, she couldn’t quite tell, and that had her wary. Konrad inhaled, slowly, watching Jess with an intense stare that said he was putting his answer together carefully - and that only worried her more.

“How much has Martha told you about their time together, before the War?” Konrad asked, first; Jess understood why.

“Enough. I am aware of your escapades through the 1960s.” She replied. Konrad nodded, glad to have that cleared, stepping up to the desk so he, too, could look out the window. Le Tower de Eiffel stood, tall and lit, in the distance.

“Then you likely know that what exists between my wife and your girlfriend is not something that can be quantified in a single answer.” Konrad answered the question, and it did not make Jess happy to hear him speak it, even if it was exactly what she was worried to hear. “Their affections are complicated, and their history is vast, and I know you seek reassurance, though of what, I cannot say, so I will say this,” Konrad paused, turning to Jess with a serious expression. “I understand that my relationship with Molly seems, on the surface, to be monogamous. This, I can say, is likely false. I understand there are things I bring to this relationship that others cannot, and I am certain in this - but I also understand that, in some ways, I will never quite be what my wife truly deserves out of a life partner.” Konrad said, and there was something… almost sad about his tone. He had grown, quite a lot, after the war, Jess realized, and his ability to admit that Molly deserved more spoke to that more clearly than anything else. “It has taken a lot for me to reach this point, but I have come to the conclusion that, if my wife finds another person, or other persons, in her life that bring her what it is she needs from a life partner, I will happily make room for them. I am confident that I cannot be replaced, and she is confident that I will never leave her, as that is the one thing I am certain no one else has ever given her.”

“Konrad,” Jess said, turning to him, watching him with a frown. For all that he’d given her the answer she’d expected, it was also not the answer she wanted to hear. “Are you saying that your wife is courting my girlfriend?”

“I am saying that I have no intentions of stopping her if she is, nor do I see such a thing as terrible. I am also saying that, between the two of them, it is not my place to explain what it is they feel. If that was something easily said, we would not be standing here.” Konrad shrugged. “I would speak to her, instead, if you are so under-confident about where you stand with Martha that her affections offer you threat. She might be able to at least shed light on that subject. Shall I fetch her?” He asked, and he asked with a grin that said he knew he’d gotten under Jess’s skin with the comments, just a little. She didn’t show it, but he had, and she pressed her lips into a tight line as she did so.

“Please, if you wouldn’t mind.” She said, hissed even, though she tried not to show how much Konrad’s words had really hit her. That was her concern, honestly - Molly’s affections offered a threat, but not in a way Konrad really grasped. Molly had hurt Martha, badly, during their time, and if she was ramping that up again, Jess feared Martha’s reaction. She feared the woman getting hurt again, falling into old patterns, spiraling back into the woman she’d been nearly a hundred years previously, and what that would mean for them, let alone Martha’s happiness. It was not a comfortable place to be, and it meant Molly entered the room to Jess’s stark frown, back lit by the Eiffel Tower.

“…Everything alright?” Molly asked, cautiously. The last time they spoke, Jess had all but banned Molly from Paris, and while they had very clearly reneged on that particular order, Molly was very clearly still wary of Jess’s tone. She was right to be, of course, though she didn’t realize it at first. Jess simply looked at her for a long moment, let her close the door behind her, and then let out a long suffering sigh.

“No. I have a question to ask you, and I need you to be honest with me.” Jess said, trying not to come on too hot and finding it hard, because Konrad had riled her up and egged her on and the way Molly was staring at her with a bit lip said that she knew things were about to get bad but didn’t know why. “What are you intentions with my girlfriend?”

“My intentions?” Molly laughed, like this had to be some kind of joke. “What are you, her father?”

“Molly,” Jess said, calmly, trying so, so hard not to rise at the words, the idea that this was over protective and shitty lingering, making her think about their conversation when Molly had left that first time, before the trial. She couldn’t over step again, but she had to know. “Firstly, your husband indicated to me just now that you and he are polyamorous. Is this not true?” She asked, first, but from the way Molly looked at her like she’s grown another whole head, Konrad had clearly done a few things out of order.

“He said what now?” Molly asked, incredulous, before shaking her head. “For fucks sake, that man’s useless. Yeah, I guess we’re fucking poly, now!” She threw the one hand she had that wasn’t holding her wine in the air, refusing to slosh her glass on Jess’s carpet. “Sorry, he hasn’t—he decided you were the first person to know about that, not me, and yeah, okay, I’m… I’m okay with that, and apparently so is he, but you can see how that’s a surprise.” Molly sighed. “Why does that have anything to do with Martha?”

“Well,” Jess started, trying to roll with Konrad’s indiscretions. That wasn’t honestly her circus, after all. “Considering, you have come back into our lives again after many years of absence, and you are immediately affectionate with Martha, and then I find out from your husband that you are not monogamous as I had been informed previously, I have questions. And, further considering how much you hurt her, before, I simply want to be sure that you have no intention of hurting her again.” Jess explained, softly, though her voice had bite and bitterness to it. She’d watched Martha crumble over the woman once, and she wasn’t doing it again. She watched Molly process the question, and something in the woman seemed to snap; the glass in her fingers cracked with a pop that didn’t even make her jump.

“I hurt her?” Molly laughed, bitter, cackling, even, quickly setting the dribbling wine glass on a table before all but rounding on Jess; blood ran down her palm, but she only clenched her fists, making it worse. “Why the fuck do you think I’m the one who hurt her?” She asked, but then she shook her head, hardly waiting for a response. “No, I fucking know exactly why - because it’s always me! It’s always fuckin’ me. Everyone loves blaming the blond from New York, right? I’m tough. Bullshit. I didn’t do a damn thing.” She snapped, crossing her arms, and for a moment, Jess couldn’t help but rise to meet her.

“So, then, your choice of Konrad, a gentleman, during the 60s, had absolutely nothing at all to do with how Martha felt about you?” Jess countered, stepping around her desk and trying not to build and finding it nearly impossible. “That your choice to always fill space with people, space that you wished would be someone else, wasn’t motivated in part by your inability to reciprocate to someone who cared about you?” Jess snapped, and that, she saw, seemed to really light a fuse, but it was slow, burning in the depths of Molly’s eyes, beyond the stars, a super nova on the edge of the event horizon slowly reaching forward, one light year at a time. “Martha has told me plenty about your time together. How you always chose her second, how you never loved her. How the second Marie simply wasn’t enough, you moved on, and wouldn’t even look at the woman who devoted her time to you? Do you not think that hurt her? Do you not think your choices hurt her, Molly?” Jess asked.

Molly picked up the wine glass, crackled, dribbling down her arm, and considered it with tightly pursed lips and an expression that was unreadable but potent. She then, suddenly, brought the thing to her lips, skulling the wine - never mind that there was probably glass in it - before turning and, without missing a beat, throwing the glass against a far wall. It was immediately clear that her bodyguard had done more than smashed heads for her, and had, at some point, taught her how to pitch, and the glass shattered with an impressive pop. “I didn’t make any fucking choices!” Molly all but screamed, and Jess realized, in that exact moment, that something had gone terribly wrong.

“I never fucking chose this!” Molly continued, her fists clenched, blood running down her knuckles, broken glass glittering in the dim light of Jess’s office. She cut quite the stature, standing there, bloody, furious, hurt. “Everyone always thinks I chose this fucking life, and I’m sick and god damn tired of it! I’m tired of always being put on the fucking chopping block for other people’s bullshit! You want a bitch to blame for Martha’s hurt, and you picked me, but you ever think that maybe the abuser who fucked us all up got one over on your smart fuckin’ ass and that maybe, maybe, you’re fucking stupid?” Molly snarled, and she advanced with a purpose, making Jess retreat as she did, forcing her back behind the comfort of her desk, something in between them to limit her ability to swing. While Molly was not a violent person - her bodyguard did most of the violence for her - she was definitely not against causing pain, and Jess understood this. “Because, guess what! Guess fucking what?! There’s an abuser out there and her name sure fucking starts with an M but it ain’t mine! It’s never been mine! It’s always been Marie, you fuckin’ cunt! It’s always been that piece of shit, but noooooo, no one ever believes me about it!”

“Martha mentioned Marie came to visit her, over the years.” Jess elaborated, trying to seek clarity in some capacity, but that didn’t do anything to Molly’s anger, though Jess wasn’t entirely trying to sooth as much as she was trying to understand.

“Oh, yeah, I bet she fuckin’ did!” Molly threw her hands in the air, scattering blood from her palms as she did so. “I bet that snake came and fuckin’ whispered into poor Martha’s little ear every chance she fuckin’ got, and all she ever whispered were lies, Jess. Lies!” Molly paused, tried to contain herself, her fists clenched and her body tight, but she didn’t succeed; she only managed to lower her volume by a little, her fury unabated. “Marie was always the problem, Jess. I know that probably runs counter to what you’ve been told, but at this point, I don’t give a fuck what you think. I don’t! You’ve threatened me every god damn time I’ve stepped into this office, so fuck it! I ain’t ever gonna be good enough for you, so I’m done trying. But I will not let you make me take the blame for that bitch like everyone else. So, I’mma tell you a story, and you’re gonna listen, and then if you have anything t’say t’me after all this, I’m gonna suggest you zip your fucking pretty little lips and don’t, ‘cause I don’t care!”

Molly turned, crossing her arms, leaving bloody prints on her biceps. It was easier to be calm when she wasn’t facing Jess. “This story is about a girl. A young girl. Twenty fuckin’ years old, no ma, no pa. A domitor who thought I was his fuckin’ playtoy, a sire who died almost as soon as he gave me this curse of unlife.” Molly shook her head, the pretense that it wasn’t her gone in an instant. “I meet a couple girls, right? Mae, Marie, not Martha. And one of them is so damn bright, that’s all I can see. She said everything right, Jess. She had me around her pinky in an instant, and yeah, we fuckin’ slept together, and I thought that meant something. I thought I fuckin’ mattered, so when she fucked off to war, I waited. And then she didn’t come home.” Molly sighed, the fire in her not gone, but not necessarily fueled, smoldering embers and not a raging flame. It was hard to maintain that for a long time, and clearly, she had to let it simmer, or she’d explode. “She never came home when I wanted her there, Jess, because that wasn’t who Marie was.”

“Do you think Marie ever loved you?” Jess asked, softly, trying not to stoke Molly’s ire back to fire but needing to know the answer. Martha hadn’t forgone discussing Marie, in her tales, but what Jess knew seemed very different than what Molly was providing her. She’d been told of a Marie who had tried to save Martha her heart, who knew Molly never loved Martha and who’d come to warn the woman that her affections wouldn’t ever work out. Marie, as far as Jess had been told, was a prophet, and she knew the future’s shape enough to know that Martha and Molly would never work out. That Marie would always be the woman’s sole person. But that was not the Marie Jess was seeing in the smoke from Molly’s fire, and honestly, it didn’t even seem like the history that had passed - because if that was the case, where did Konrad fit into the equation? Molly had two kids with the man, and for all Jess found their relationship interesting, and maybe a little dubious, she knew Molly loved her kids dearly. If Marie was her sole person, then none of that would be true.

“Back then? I hoped, desperately, that she did.” Molly shook her head, staring at the floor. “Now, though, I know I was a fool. Like, I get it, Jess. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I loved that woman and she barely gave a shit about me in return. She wasn’t a fuckin’ person, she was an inevitability, and honestly? Honestly, that woman made it her fucking life’s mission to make sure Martha never got anything that she hadn’t stepped on, first. You know if I had said yes to dating Martha, Marie would have shown up in a heartbeat just to make sure I never got the fuckin’ chance. That’s just how she fuckin’ was! She couldn’t handle being anything other than the center of every single motherfucker’s universe. Hell, I don’t even think that prophet shit was real! I think she said stuff would happen and then fucked things up ‘til they did just so she could feel fuckin’ special!”

“And Konrad?” Jess asked, a little bitter, a little hurt. That was the only thing that didn’t make any sense; if Molly really didn’t want to ruin Martha’s life, why did she rub that in the woman’s face? But, even with that hurt, that bitterness, Jess was otherwise starting to get the impression that she had been horribly mistaken. That somewhere along the way she’d been lied to, or someone had been lied to, and she’d failed to question the lies.

“What about Konrad?” Molly asked, the fire redoubling. “Oh, that when Marie left, I chose him? That I didn’t fuckin’ want Martha, so I filled space with someone else?” She scoffed. “I picked up Konrad, Jess, ‘cause I didn’t want anyone in our coterie. I wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’ with him! It was a fucking summer god damn fling!” Molly threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “The one woman I thought I was already with didn’t fuckin’ want me, the woman I couldn’t do anything for was pinin’ over me, and the third in our fucking messed up bullshit of a coterie thought I was the devil because I didn’t give Martha the time of day! So I thought, hey, this chick - ‘cause she was a chick at the time! - doesn’t know any of that. She doesn’t give a fuck. So let me have some unrestrained summer fun for once in my miserable little fuckin’ life and be with someone who I don’t have to worry about hurtin’ when we’re over.” Molly sighed, still angry, but not so hot. “I thought we’d go our separate ways, after everything. That’s what a fling is, and I wasn’t about to have that kind of thing with a woman that would have taken it way too seriously. But then Konnie… she offered me her house ring, and told me she wanted t’find me again, and you know what it’s like to have someone look at you and want t’stay, for once? Someone who doesn’t ask nothin’ of you, who has no expectations, who doesn’t fuckin’ care about your drama?”

“What expectations?” Jess asked, softly. She had, certainly, fucked up, but now all she could do was weather the ride.

“You know what fuckin’ expectations, Jess. There’s a lotta stuff that comes with bein’ someone’s partner, and I operate at a deficit. Martha got all she’d want from me anyway, back in the 40’s, and I wasn’t about t’tell her that she couldn’t get that again if she’d wanted, not if we were datin’.” She shook her head again, turning to Jess with a deep, deep wound on her face, in the way she held her shoulders. She was damaged, more-so than anyone had ever expected, and it showed, finally, for once. “You know what it’s like, Jess, to live your life as someone else’s disappointment? ‘Cause that’s all I was, for a fucking century. Everyone blamed me for making a bad choice, but nobody asked me if I even made a choice. They just assumed I’d picked Marie over Martha, but the fact was, I didn’t get a say. Marie wouldn’t have allowed it! She was blinding, all fuckin’ consuming, on purpose. She showed up just long enough t’tug at my heart and remind me what I wasn’t gettin’, and I didn’t get a fuckin’ choice t’dump her, not without riskin’ ruinin’ everyone’s lives. You know what kinda stink Marie would have made?" Molly paused, laughing, bitter and sad. “But no, everything’s always my choice ‘cause it’s always gotta be my fault. That’s just easy for people, I guess. Doesn’t matter if it’s a war and a trial or just my own fuckin’ love life, I’m not allowed t’have my own wants and desires, not without it becomin’ about someone else’s hurt.”

“Molly,” Jess started, to try and do something, because Molly was still going, and things were starting to spiral, but there was nothing to be done.

“Like, I get it. What Marie did to us was abuse. I get that now. I got caught, and wooed, and leashed, and there was nothin’ I could do about it. But no one’s ever asked about how much that hurt me, Jess. Not even Martha! Yeah, your fucking precious saint of a girlfriend fucked up, too! Not a single person ever cared that Marie hurt me, too, ‘cause everyone was so distracted by how badly Martha hurt. Everyone was so caught up in what I did t’Martha that nobody ever looked over t’see what Marie did to me, and that was the fuckin’ life I lived for over a hundred god damn years, Jess! And maybe that was the fuckin’ point! You ever think Marie wasn’t out there fannin’ the flames so someone else could distract everyone from the bullshit she put me through? You ever think I wasn’t sittin’ there, watching Martha like if I so much as peeked at her, I’d call that inevitable bitch back into our lives? I was the only one who did anything for that woman, but no one notices because what I did was save her from a world of hurt by takin’ all of it on my own damn shoulders! But no one sees how bad that could have been ‘cause they’re so focused on Martha’s immediate pain!”

Molly threw her hands in the air, and Jess knew she was no longer listening, she was just going, yelling, tears on her face, blood on her hands. “And the best fuckin’ part, Jess?! The best part?! It doesn’t matter! None of it fuckin’ matters! It doesn’t matter that Konnie’s poly now, it doesn’t fuckin’ matter that Marie’s gone! None of it matters, ‘cause Martha went and got herself a fuckin’ attractive, protective, better girlfriend that I could have ever been. Martha finally gets her happiness, because that’s all anyone ever fuckin’ cared about! The only person who’s ever cared about my god damn happiness is Konrad and you know how much it sucks t’have the only kindness you get be from the fucking Iceman?!” Molly built, again, back to real anger, turning back to Jess with fire in her eyes and hurt in her heart. “Martha gets her happiness, and I just get blame! Blame for not pickin’ her, blame for not being enough, like I’ve committed love crimes against my whole fuckin’ coterie. But the only crime I have fucking committed, Jess Briatta, is realizing that I loved that woman way too fuckin’ late, and now there’s nothin’ to be done but watch her take her happiness and leave me behind!”

That stopped Molly like she’d just eaten a lemon. Her mouth screwed up, tight, and she shrunk, quickly, from her forward anger. Watching her was almost like watching a star implode. “Look, I’m. I’m just gonna go.” She said, softly, quickly, desperate, and she didn’t give Jess any kind of time, turning quickly for the door and powering for it, closing it, loudly, behind her and leaving Jess alone with her thoughts and the wreckage of her understanding with all the glittering glass on the floor.

She had, for all intents and purposes, been horrifically mistaken, as she had been under the impression that Molly was the cause of all of Martha’s issues. Now, her impression of this was not because she had erred, and she had to accept that, even if blaming herself for her errors was easier - instead, her impression of Marie came from other people’s explanations of things, and those people had, in some capacity, erred. Likely, some of those people were on Marie’s side, and Jess hadn’t vetted them properly; not only that, it seemed like part of that error was that other people had taken Marie’s words at face value, too, rather than questioning her. Which, considering she billed herself as a prophet, made sense - it wasn’t often one questioned a prophet, especially considering one that was likely right fairly often. She’d built herself armor out of her identity, and challenged anyone who thought differently to try and find the fault in such an armor - and when they did, when they asked her questions that doubted that perception, Jess knew they were likely vilified as not being trusting, good, kind people, but monsters. No one had had the space to consider the idea that a prophet could possibly make her events turn out how she indicated, forcing the result she wanted in order to be right rather than predict them that way, and that included Jess. She’d fucked up, badly, and she had learned that in real time, but it didn’t help heal the rift that had formed because of it. Instead, it had grown the thing wider, split it at the seems, and the looming, last words on Molly’s lips hovered in the gap. She was in love with Martha. The thing that Martha wanted, the thing that she had pined for for nearly a hundred years, was finally true - and now Molly was right. Martha was monogamous, in a relationship, and unavailable - for as long as she decided to be, anyway. And there was a possibility, Jess knew, that it wouldn’t be that way forever - that Martha would possibly leave her and never return - but she had to trust that wasn’t the case. She had to trust, and she had to apologize, and she had to figure out what forward looked like amid the wreckage of her office.

That left Jess sitting in her chair, the cavern in her floor outlined by shards of glass and dripping blood, her hand on her face, trying to figure out what she could do about what had been done. There were so many issues, and a lot of them stemmed from the one person - and while Marie was a problem, and while her actions causing pain was a problem, it was a long term one, not short term. Short term, Jess had a more pressing problem to deal with, and that was the house guest that had just called her a cunt and thrown her glassware across the room. She owed Molly an apology, and a big one.

“Jess?” Martha’s voice was soft, concerned, hesitant. She’d seen Molly go, likely storming across the house to someplace else, Jess realized. Martha didn’t wait, peeking her head into the room, finding the glass with her eyes first and grimacing. “Is everything alright? What happened?”

“How much did Marie actually have a hand in things, Martha?” Jess asked, almost bitter, a little angry, maybe, kind of tetchy; clearly, she’d been put on the spot about the whole thing, and how she responded ate at her. She shouldn’t have ever put a guest in that kind of position, after all - but she did, and the easiest way to own it was to find out what she didn’t know for sure, first. If she learned what her mistake was, she was in a better position to apologize for it. Martha pursed her lips, pushing the door closed behind her, watching the spots of blood on the rug like they were the pinpricks of stars that she watched so intently otherwise, trying to mentally jump from blood on the floor to Marie. Jess didn’t actually give Martha a chance to answer, leaning back in her chair instead. “Because I have just found out that, apparently, I have spent the past six years mistaken about who, exactly, caused you so much grief over the previous decades.” Jess said, and Martha winced, again, realizing what the issue was.

“It… it took me a long time to admit that she - that Marie was more the cause than anyone, Jess.” Martha said softly, apologetically, catching the fact that she wouldn’t even name the villain in her own story and forcing herself to say it. “Being in love with Molly hurt, and I know I’ve blamed the wrong person for it, too. But, by the time I realized it, it had… we were past all of that. She wasn’t around, then, and… I didn’t think it mattered, since she isn’t… since Marie won’t be coming back.” She said. “And then it just… it slipped my mind. I’m sorry, love.” She added, apologetic. Jess nodded, sighed, understanding. She couldn’t blame Martha for being the abused, nor for wanting to forget her abuser. That would be shitty of her. “What did you tell her?”

“I asked her what her intentions were.” Jess said, steepling her fingers. Martha bristled, like that was entirely out of pocket, but Jess shook her head, holding up a hand. She’d already been chastised once that evening, and she didn’t need it from both ends - she wanted the chance to explain that she was already deeply aware how fucked that was to do, before Martha went off. “I understand that you’re likely not fond of the fact that I did, but Martha, her affections towards you have only increased. In seeing that, I spoke to Konrad, first, just to get an idea of where she might be - clandestinely - and he mentioned the fact that he considers his relationship to Molly open.”

“He what?” Martha asked, unsure how to take the revelation, face split somewhere between incredulous shock and confused delight. Konrad was not a man that seemed to be poly, not on first blush, nor on the second or third, either. He certainly seemed like a one-person kind of guy, but Jess hadn’t misheard his words, nor misunderstood his intentions. She nodded, staring, not at Martha, but the splatter of wine on her wall, the remnants of the blood she’d finished like little stars. It was always stars, with her.

“I told Molly he said this. Apparently, this was also news to her.” Jess said, and Martha sighed, the long suffering sigh of a woman who understood that the man they were discussing operated at a deficit, and not one they could really blame him for. “But, you can see why that answer would lead me to ask her what her intentions were. I did not assume Konrad hadn’t told her, which I don’t regret, and thinking she knew, I was concerned. I simply wanted to know what she wants, Martha, but… the way I framed things, I made a mistake.” She sighed. “I was under the impression that she had hurt you. That she had chosen to hurt you.”

“Jess,” Martha started, softly. She didn’t have to ask why Jess had that impression, because she knew, immediately. It was her - she’d been the one to talk about their past, about her time with Molly. She’d been the one to issue blame, and cry at night about the woman who didn’t love her, and she hadn’t taken any time after her realization to correct the record. All she’d done, in her grief, was cast a shadow over the woman, and now, suddenly, it was apparent that Jess couldn’t see anything without a little light, and in that darkness, she’d hit someone unintentionally, and hard. It made Martha’s heart hurt to think, but Jess held up a hand, like Martha shouldn’t blame herself, either.

“I think, however, there may be more than just your recounting of the situation that needs to be discussed. She… she might have let me have an earful, thanks to my commentary, but I learned quite a bit from it, and I think I’m better for that.” Jess pushed herself to her feet, stepping over to Martha with a sigh. “She thinks, for the record, that there is an expectation you have of her that she can’t fulfill. I don’t know if she’s ever spoken to you about this, but she said you got what you’d want from her in the 40s.” Jess pursed her lips, knowing that Martha understood her. She’d known, from the start, that they’d slept together, before. This was no secret, though she didn’t often talk about it openly, just for the sake of their shared comfort.

“Does she…” Martha paused, running the words through her head like she could make them make more sense if she just rattled them around a bit longer. “Does she think I only wanted her for the sex?” The question was almost like she believed it to be right, and almost like she had to be wrong. Jess shrugged.

“I don’t know. What I do know is that I asked her about Konrad, and her marriage to him, and she said that she’d started it as a summer fling, but that, after, he was the only one who didn’t expect anything of her, and that was why she chose him.” Jess explained. Martha frowned, her brain going as she put together Molly’s thoughts third hand. A lot of things made sense, with that in mind - Konrad was about as sexual as a stocks graph, and expressed no interest in doing the deed in the first place. Even with two kids, Martha knew that neither was created in the traditional manner, and the idea of such was so abhorrent to the man that he would have made a childish face for it to be mentioned. If Molly saw sex with Martha as an expectation that she had to fulfill, and not something she desired from Martha, no wonder she gravitated to someone who’s desires matched her own. Martha felt immediately bad, but Jess put strong hands on her arms in comfort. “I’d talk to her, of course, and set the record straight - but later. Right now, I need to go apologize to her for my misstep, and I don’t want you to take the brunt of a mood meant for me and my error.”

“I… thank you, Jess.” Martha’s words were sincere, heartfelt, open, her hands on Jess’s. Sure, there was a chance that Martha would leave her, but it was unlikely. They’d be poly, first - and the thought seeded itself in Jess’s brain, planted there for the winter of her discontent, ready to sprout at the first thaw - but Martha wouldn’t abandon her, not then, not like that, not for Molly. It was a comfort. And it was a comfort, too, to Martha, that Jess was so willing to apologize to her best friend, to the woman she pined for, to the woman that took up space in Martha’s heart regardless of the labels.

“I would never want a guest in my home to be upset because of my error.” Jess replied. “Even if she called me a cunt and broke a glass on my wall.”

“She what?!”

~*~

Molly had stormed out, as Jess had predicted, to go have a cigarette outside, blowing past her husband, secretary, and kids, all of whom seemed like they’d rather not deal with her right then, anyway. Issac, seeing her move with speed and finding himself yet again in the hot seat of fixing her bad moods, had quickly joined her, sliding out of the glass doors and onto the balcony, finding her curled up against herself, cigarette between her lips. A butt on the railing said this wasn’t her first, and she was sucking them down like air, which she also didn’t need. There was blood on her hands, splattered across her arms, and tears on her face. “So, I imagine that didn’t go well?” Issac asked, leaning on the railing. Molly shook her head no. “What did she even want?”

“She wanted t’know my intentions.” Molly said, her voice bitter at the words. Issac made a face, a grimace, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and Molly shot him a look in return. “Exactly. Apparently, Konrad told her we weren’t monogamous. First I was fuckin’ hearin’ of it, of course.” She shrugged, though Issac almost dropped his cigarette that he was trying to light when she said it.

“I’m sorry, he what?” Issac asked, and Molly shrugged again, like she knew he’d heard her and she didn’t actually need to say it again. “Are you okay with that? Being poly, I mean, not the whole not tellin’ you thing. Figure you’re gonna give him an earful when you get back on that.”

“Honestly? I don’t think it matters. That would mean me actually findin’ someone else, and considerin’ my track record with that, I’m not hopeful.” Molly shook her head. “I mean, if it was… it it was Martha, I’d… you know how I feel. But it won’t be that. I fucked that up royally.”

“What did you do?” Issac asked, and he asked it a little like he was asking a child what they’d done to comfort them, and a little like an accusation. Molly looked at him, and for a moment she was a shattered woman, scattered on the floor, glittering and cavernous, before she looked away again.

“Threw a wine glass at her wall, called her a cunt, chewed her out, and then told her I was in love with Martha.” Molly dropped, all at once, staring out at the Paris skyline, before taking the kind of draw off her cigarette that was trying to suck down half of it in one go. Issac sputtered on his.

“Ma! What the fuck?!” He asked. Molly shrugged, not looking at him, blowing the smoke out over the buildings, watching it vanish into the blackness of the evening. “Why the hell would you go and do a thing like that?”

“Because I’m fucking sick of always being someone else’s mistake, Issac.” Molly had to fight to keep the snarl from her voice, sucking down more cigarette to displace it. She got no buzz from the thing, but the inhale and exhale felt like it dredged a memory of when she felt it, and that was close enough. “She thought I was the one responsible for Martha’s hurt. That I chose t’not pick her. She didn’t know that much about Marie, so… I told her.” Molly pursed her lips, popping them lightly, like this was the mistake. “Very firmly. With very strong language. And then… I let it slip that I found out I loved her girlfriend way too late.”

Issac sighed. He, of all people, understood, because, while he hadn’t iterated like the rest of them had, he did join Molly’s brood, as it were, in the early 20’s, and he’d seen first hand what Marie did to them. Hell, Marie had even stopped by, once, like she was testing him, and he’d told her in no uncertain terms to fuck off. Was Issac a genius? No, and with Konrad nearby, he clearly paled in comparison. Was Issac the most perceptive? He certainly lauded himself as being able to pick up on things, but he knew he wasn’t top tier. However, the man was familiar with the breeds of shitty people in the world, as he’d encountered many before he’d met Molly and many others after, too, and he could tell someone with bad motives from the way they held their lips before they spoke. And Marie held her mouth together like the devil trying to whisper sweet nothings into Molly’s ear.

“Y’know what, Ma?” Issac said, and he noted that Molly hadn’t protested the ma label; she was like a mother to him, considering she picked him up as a teenager, back in the day, though she usually protested his need to call her mom like they were honestly related. Now, however, the closeness beget enough comfort, and she was without, so she allowed it. Issac leaded over, pressing a hand to the small of the woman’s back and making slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of her dress, a calming thing. “I’m proud of you.”

“For what, Issac? Getting us punted back through the portal we rode in on?” Molly asked, the idiom taking over where her language failed; she didn’t know if they’d teleported or jumped or what have you. Issac held back a snicker at the use of language, shaking his head.

“For standin’ up for yourself.” Issac elaborated, and Molly shot him a look that said that was not worth the trouble it brought on them, and he cut his eyes back at her in return. “Don’t give me that look, ma. You know how I feel about that woman.” Issac looked back over the skyline, the place Marie called the most home, and he felt his guts turn over themselves as he tried not to bare his teeth at the Eiffel Tower. He hated Marie, and he hated her honestly more than Molly did. All he’d ever seen in her was a snake, not an angel. “You’ve been playin’ her games and workin’ in her shadow for a long time. But that ain’t been fair t’you, t’be asked t’save face for her and ruin yourself in the process. It’s finally time you set the fuckin’ record straight, even if you aren’t.”

“Har har, very funny.” Molly snorted, but she smiled, and that was better than nothing. “You’ll be sayin’ a lot less of that when we’re back in New York and that cute little Paris vacay you wanted with my kid so you could woo him doesn’t pan out.”

“I’m not tryin to woo him, ma!” Issac protested, ineffectively. He did move in with the man, ostensibly because he couldn’t maintain an apartment by himself, but also because, even after years of dodging Elias Varnhagen as a child, he found himself drawn to the blond second coming of Konrad like a moth to a flame. Molly teasing him about it wasn’t something he’d just let by, however. “And this ain’t even about me!” He tried to return the conversation to the actual topic, and off his interest in her son. “Look, just give it a bit, then you go find her, tell her you’re sorry, she’ll get it.”

Issac paused, feeling someone approach the door rather than seeing it; he turned, and Molly turned too, to see Jess standing at the door as though she were about to open it. Molly closed off, bundling against herself like she could protect her body from whatever nonsense was about to assail them if she just clenched tighter. Issac pulled back from the railing, almost putting himself between the pair of women as he turned. “Speak of the devil,” He said, softly, to Molly, putting his hand back on her back in a comfort. “I got you, Ma. We’ll be fine.”

Jess slipped out onto the balcony, closing the door with a quiet hand, before stepping over to the railing and lighting a cigarette that sat in the end of a long holder, the black pipe and white cigarette matching the stark contrast of her outfit. She put the holder to her lips, inhaling slowly, before exhaling, and Issac could tell she was watching them the whole time, even if she didn’t turn her head. Whether this was a play for intimidation, or something else, Issac couldn’t tell, but he kept his body between the women, turning to lean against the railing instead, which made it easier to body block his boss if he must. He was proud, and that meant he would take the hit if he had to.

“Molly,” Jess said, and she paused, watching Molly flinch at the sound of her own name. God, she really was the epitome of a battered woman, almost as much as Martha, and Jess felt herself hurt at the idea that she hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t noticed the little signs, the desperation for someone to stay, the distance she kept between herself and people she didn’t know well, the fact that she surrounded herself with others that could protect her from outside threats - none of those things were a sign in and of themselves, but together, they painted a very distinct picture, and one Jess had all but ignored. She sighed. “I came out here because I want to apologize.”

The way Molly’s head shot up from her down-turned gaze was almost like a cat hearing a bag of treats shake, but with more confusion than delight. “You, apologize? T’me?” Molly asked, like she had to have misheard, and when Jess nodded, she laughed. “Jess. Jess.” Molly almost chided. “I broke your dishware. I spilled blood on your carpet. I called you a cunt. I don’t call anybody a fuckin’ cunt. The hell are you apologizing t’me for?” Molly asked, bitter and ready to be kicked out, ready for Jess to change her mind. Jess shook her head, taking another long draw.

“I judged you incorrectly.” She explained, simple, brief. Her accent wasn’t all that thick, something between French and the distinct flavors of Italian, but something old, not the modern stuff. Issac could tell, because he’d been around quite a few older Giovanni, and the age of their accents spoke to poets and paintings on a ceiling and a sense that Latin wasn’t all that far off from their mother tongue in a way that modern Italian didn’t. Molly squinted at the woman, unsure of what was coming, but willing to listen. “I, unfortunately, was under the impression that you were the cause of Martha’s distress in her early life.”

“Yeah, I got that much.” Molly grumbled. Jess didn’t take her grumpiness as anything, however, letting it roll off her shoulders like a wave.

“I was under that impression, because Martha had not elaborated well on the nature of your relationship.” Jess added, softly, finally turning to look at Molly - and there was a real apology on her face, something deep, there, something truly sorry. “I don’t blame her for not mentioning, for the record, but I thought I owed you at least the reason why my impression was incorrect.” Jess sighed, shaking her head. “Thanks to you, however, I have realized my error, and I want to apologize for putting you in such a place without knowing more first. You are a guest in my home, Molly de l’Argonne, and I have treated you poorly.”

“Glad t’see you’re finally joining the rest of our reality, Madame.” Issac half-snapped, and Jess cut her eyes to him, but not in a way that said he was in trouble, just in a way that said that maybe he was coming off strong. He didn’t mind - he wanted to come off strong. “Most of us have been walkin’ that path for a long fuckin’ time. Next time, maybe don’t put an innocent woman on the block without checkin’, first? That would save you a lotta trouble.” He almost snarled, but Molly put a hand on his arm, a warning look, and he tried to shrug off the frustration. Jess, however, didn’t look even remotely peeved at him.

“Admittedly, it wasn’t my intention to put you on any block in the first place.” Jess explained, drawing slowly from her cigarette. “I spoke to your husband because I… was not entirely sure about your affections towards my girlfriend, and I sought comfort in what I believed would be the reassurance that you and he were monogamous. As we both learned, this wasn’t the case, and his answer caused me to act quicker than I should have. I know my mistakes in this tale, Consigliere Taylor.” Jess didn’t use the title as an insult, but as a reminder that she understood his station just as much as anyone else’s. It was a sign of respect, more than anything. “I understand your relationship with Martha is complicated, and that it’s best to just… let you both be. But I also had to be sure that this wasn’t about to pull her back into old patterns and habits that she didn’t need to go back to. I know you, too, wouldn’t want her to suffer that again.”

“I don’t, Jess, and I never did.” Molly said, softly, looking back out over the skyline and lighting her third cigarette. She exhaled the smoke as a sigh. “If I coulda done anything, I would’ve. But… you didn’t meet Marie. You never saw her, never spoke to her. She’s… she’s a grenade in the middle of a party. Doesn’t matter if you didn’t want to be blinded by her, she sets herself off and there’s nothin’ left but the white light she puts out. And it’s only when she’s entirely gone and you come back to your senses that you realize how many people got hurt from the blast.” Molly sighed, turning, briefly, to Jess, with a sour look. “Now imagine you had to live that explosion twice, and not only could I not change a thing, I got blamed for bringing the grenade to the party in the first place. Now you get an idea what I went through.”

“Would it make you happy if I banned her from Paris?” Jess asked, suddenly, and that had Molly standing up straight.

“What, like, don’t come back ever kinda ban? Can you even do that?” Molly asked, like she wasn’t sure Jess even could. “Like, I know you and I aren’t dissimilar in our power and everything, but Norman wouldn’t let me ban her from New York. Somethin’ about how he’d have a hell of a time keepin’ track of her, and how you can’t ban someone from the biggest port in the US. She’s banned from all my properties, but she’s slick, Jess. She’ll get through, y’know?”

“She might be slick,” Jess said, repeating the term with a smile, “But I am patient, and if she does not come to me willingly, I will find a way to lure her out. Leave that to me, and it’ll be done. But - would it make you happy?”

“You don’t gotta do nothin’ t’make me happy, Jess.” Molly chuckled. Something in Jess decided to take this statement and label it as false, though she didn’t think too long on it, tucking that away for later. “It’ll make Martha happy as hell, though, I can tell you that. Knowing that she’s gonna be able t’be in her city without that bitch around? You’ll make her year.” Molly chuckled. “Which… you heard everything I said, yeah? We’re not… we’re not dodgin’ a line ‘cause you didn’t hear it, right? Or are we?”

“I know how you feel about my girlfriend.” Jess said, and that was a little short. Trust. She had to trust. “I can ask you not to act on it, for now, but I cannot ask you to not feel it. Just as I can not ask her to not feel what she does for you, only to not act on it.” Jess paused, pursing her lips, and it looked like she had something that she knew would hurt and she was already sorry she had to say it. “I will be asking her to marry me, however. I imagine you hold no qualms with that?”

“Jess, you make that woman very happy. I might… I might be a mess, but I want her happy just as much as you do, and I ain’t gonna step on your toes just ‘cause it ain’t me that gets her there.” Molly said, and her smile was genuine, and heartfelt, and sincere, and so, so sad. “You don’t need it, but you’ve got my blessin’, at any rate.” She shook her head, trying to scatter the heartbreak among the wind, like if she just let the pieces flutter away, she wouldn’t have to feel them anymore. Instead, she forced a grin onto her face - Issac could tell she didn’t really feel it, but he had no idea if Jess could; likely, if the way Jess’s face felt sad said anything - and stubbed out her cigarette. “Sorry I called you a cunt, though. That was uncalled for.”

“I deserved it.” Jess shrugged, trying to put the mood away with Molly; it wouldn’t have been fair to force her to dwell on a mood she very clearly didn’t want to dwell on. Molly chuckled.

“Yeah, well, I should do somethin’ to apologize.” She said, and Issac looked at her with a quizzical expression, and the way she looked back at him said that she had an idea and maybe it was a bit selfish and maybe it was a bit uncouth but she wasn’t leaving that balcony without some kind of win. Issac narrowed his eyes at her - those were usually her bad ideas. “We could… kiss and make up? Not like I haven’t kissed Martha once already, just a long time ago. We can make it even, if you’d want.” Molly asked, batting her eyes, lowering her gaze. Jess felt something in her guts stir, and she quietly shoved that part of her down into the pile of things to address later. She was not someone who rushed her feelings, after all.

“If that would put a button on this apology, I’ll indulge it.” Jess said, setting her cigarette on the railing and stepping forward. Issac watched as Molly stubbed hers out, leaving it, too, on the railing, stepping forward to meet Jess in the middle. They weren’t dissimilar in height, either, and Molly didn’t let it just be a kiss and nothing more; she reached up, letting her hands lightly settle on the front of Jess’s shoulders, Jess’s hands landing lightly on her hips, Molly leaning forward to press her lips to the other woman’s. It was a chaste kiss, and it was brief, and then Molly was pulling away with a satisfied smile and Jess was grinning all the same.

“Now we’re even.” Molly said, softly, her lipstick still perfect, and Jess nodded. “Now, you have a girl to go ask to marry you, don’t you? Don’t let me keep you. I’m gonna finish this cigarette.” Molly gestured, and Jess nodded, heading for the door with only a nod as a goodbye. It wasn’t like they weren’t going to see each other in ten minutes, anyway, and Molly watched her go with a long, long sigh. Issac watched her, letting the door fully close before he spoke.

“Really, ma?” He asked. Molly laughed, turning back to her cigarette and the skyline.

“Look, if I’m gonna get my heart broken a couple times in one night, I’m at least gonna kiss a hot girl for the trouble.” Molly chuckled, sucking down her cigarette like she needed it. Issac shook his head, leaning back on the railing so they were facing the same way. “Married, though. Damn. But, Martha survived mine. I can keep a stiff upper lip for hers.”

“Yeah, well, who knows, Jess might tell you she’s poly in private and scare the shit out of Martha.” Issac chuckled, bumping into Molly’s shoulder with his own, and Molly sighed. “You’re a fuckin’ mess, Ma.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the only one allowed t’call me that, so consider yourself special.” Molly shook her head. “I’ll live, though. It’ll be fine.” She said.

L'embarquement pour le vol 887 à destination de LAX est en cours ; le vol 657 à destination de JFK est retardé.

Ding-DING-ding - three little chimes went off after the overhead announcement halted, signaling that it was the end of the report, echoing from the tall ceilings of the airport that Molly de l’Argonne found herself in that September evening. It was a garbled thing, tinny and muffled, though Molly could barely hear it over the chatter and hubbub of the airport in the first place; it was packed, people of all walks of life and all sorts of languages moving from one gate to another, in and out of the front doors. Molly was lucky she was a New Yorker by birth - she was used to tuning out the sound of people, as New York was a remarkably loud city, and that meant she hardly noticed the crowd as she stared at her phone, trying to make it work for her. Technology hadn’t ever really been her strong suit in the first place, and with everything that was going on with her life right then, struggling with trying to read French wasn’t helping.

She’d asked, once. Marie, her ex-lover, ex-friend, ex-everything had promised she’d teach Molly French, and like everything else Marie did, she never followed through.

She sighed, giving up on her phone and stuffing it, roughly, back in her handbag. It wasn’t like she was honestly going to make much headway, really; she hadn’t learned French, and she was starting frustrated, so it was only a recipe for further frustration, and she didn’t need any of that in her life, as she was already in a bad way. See, she had - unfortunately for her - been on the wrong side of a war, and she honestly hadn’t been given much choice in what side she chose. Her city had been put on the chopping block, and her entire world was bartered and bet against the end of everyone else’s. Luckily, the world hadn’t ended, thanks to a bunch of uppity Neonates, a few old heads of Kindred society, and Molly’s least favorite prophet, Marie - but when the world set itself back to rights, Molly had found her ship capsized in the scuffle, and no one willing to help her right it.

She was going on trial. Her clan, the Giovanni, sought to make an example of her. Of course, she knew why - the man that orchestrated the whole affair the first time, a Nosferatu named Marcello, though he went by Pip, was deader that Cain’s sense of whimsy. He’d been de-throned, stripped of his power, and then his previous ghoul and right hand had fired a rocket launcher directly into his face. Honestly, for all that Molly had been fighting her own battles, literally, at the time, there had been a small amount of satisfaction at seeing the man die, because he’d abused her just as much as he’d abused everyone else. He’d approached her, first, months before the War, as they’d all just started calling it, and he’d told her he had power that she couldn’t have ever accessed, and all he needed were a few zombies. She’d declined the power - she knew better than to take any power grab she was offered; only the greedy and stupid went for the first cast, especially as Pip wasn’t particularly forthcoming about the details - but she’d gifted him a small platoon of zombies, just for the trouble of asking. She was a kind woman, after all, and she wasn’t about to let a poor, sad little Nosferatu leave empty handed if he was coming to her, begging.

He’d come back like a stray cat, except instead of a dead mouse as a present, he’d brought an army.

Or, well, he didn’t claim the army, but Molly wasn’t stupid. It had been a Sabbat power play, by all accounts - supposedly, Elise Varnhagen, Konrad’s sister, had swept in and blitzed the East Coast, taking out every major Camirilla city from Florida to New England. A few had held out from the attack, New York City included - Molly wasn’t about to just let her home get crushed by a woman she was sure was lying about her identity; Konrad killed his sister in the 20s, and Molly knew this - but then Pip had called, a few days later, to remind her of his ask. She’d asked him what he was doing, thinking the play was his - and he’d replied that he hadn’t done anything yet. It was never stated, but it was heavily implied - he’d ordered the blitz, and he’d spared New York, and as long as she agreed to do what he asked, he’d keep sparing New York. Molly, of course, put her city above her morals, especially as Pip continued to promise good things for her, that her power would grow, that she wouldn’t regret the choice to work with him.

The promises went, first. The idea of a carrot, the idea of gains, fell away a little at a time as the months went on. The Neonates - Molly knew of them, by then; it was a group of Kine from Greensboro that Pip had apparently tried to groom unsuccessfully, considering, who voluntarily chose to become Kindred to avoid having to work against their friends - were persistent, and clever, and Molly could tell it was wearing on Pip’s nerves, which meant the promises slowly fell off, until there was nothing left but the stick. Make it to the end, and New York lives, he’d say, and for a while, that was… it was alright. She wasn’t doing much other than raising zombies and letting Pip use her resources, like her husband’s private jet, or her trains, and that was fine. But then he’d asked her to raise an army, from Arlington, and Molly had declined. Arlington was a place where both Kine and Kindred were buried, and she didn’t want to defile where several of her friends were entombed. She’d refused, and the next thing she’d known, her secretary was kidnapped, held for the ransom of her cooperation in a water treatment plant, her daughter was caught up in the melee, her son was killed and had to be revived, and she had no where else to turn. Konrad, her husband, had been missing for three years by then, and with everyone else to the wind… she’d still refused, and she’d gotten dominated for her trouble.

He’d been trying to raise Lillith from the dead. She found that out after. She didn’t remember her time under dominate, but she’d been told she really only raised zombies and sicced her terrifying bodyguard on a few people. They had died, and that was certainly not a good thing, and she was certainly to blame for that much - but then Pip had died, too, and the war had ended, and everything had been halted. It was only in the aftermath that the major factions of Kindred around the world really believed that Pip had been doing what the Neonates had apparently said he was doing; they’d gone, as far as Molly had heard, hither, thither, and yon to find Kindred to help them, and told the story to anyone who’d listen. They’d gone to London, and France, and Germany, and Transylvania, and several states in the US, and they’d talked to powerful Kindred in each place and explained themselves - and most had laughed them out of the room, until their specter of a Nosferatu caused enough shit for it to be believable. Many never actually took their words to heart, however, and that meant, after the war had ended and they’d been proven correct, most of the powerful Kindred in the world were all in the same, uncomfortable, not great place - embarrassed.

Molly knew what it was like to be embarrassed. She’d spent two years groveling, begging, and pleading to get her empire back on it’s rails. She was known as the Head Bitch in Charge, the Bull Queen, the woman who ran the biggest city in the country, and she had spent nearly two years prostrating herself in front of her people, her enemies, her friends, and anyone else that would have judged her negatively for her crimes, and it had been embarrassing. But where she was willing to take the lumps, the Giovanni, the Camirilla, and the Sabbat were… less willing to take their losses and lick their wounds. The Sabbat had a lot of work to do, and Konrad had taken the mantle of fixing her relationship with them, considering; Norman, the true Prince of New York, had taken the burden of talking the Camis down from the ledge of invading New York themselves. But the Giovanni - embarrassed, upset, and in search of someone to blame - had decided the quickest way to rid themselves of their own shame was to find someone to slap the problem onto and then censure them into the ground. And Molly, being part of Pip’s front line - even without her consent - was all they had left.

They were taking her to trial. It was a thought that sat, heavy, in Molly’s guts. A Giovanni trial was no small or laughing matter, no; it was the only time she could guarantee that every head of every household would be in Venice, because everyone wanted to see her suffer for what she’d done. It was easier, she knew it was easier, for them to blame her, to slot the problem on her shoulders and then give her due justice, than it was to admit that they also fucked up. That they had been told there was a problem, and that they ignored it, dismissed it, and only realized it was a true issue after it had already been solved - by Kindred that were, on average, only a handful of years dead. It was like they’d brought in a toddler and it had solved quantum physics for them - suddenly, the question of their competence was on the table, and they didn’t like it. It sucked, blatantly - and it sucked all the more because Molly knew she was not well liked in her clan in the first place, and there were likely several out there aching to taste her blood on their hands. It wasn’t that she really did anything - she never did anything, honestly - but that her bloodline was both important - a proper Giovanni, of the last name, out of Augustus himself - and also that of a bastard. No old money ever liked a bastard child rolling in to make them split the pie just a little further, and she knew that, if any of them got her way, she’d be put to death without question.

It had been a bad few years. Facing her imminent death was certainly the worst part of it. Having no one in her corner to help her out - her son, her daughter, her secretary, her husband, they were there, but they had their own things to work through - made it all the worse.

“Okay, so. I’m trying to get in contact with Madame de Bort’s office, but they’re being cryptic? Or, at least, the translator is making them a lot less clear than they need to be.” Claire said, almost to herself, walking by Molly and the skulking form of her silent, brooding bodyguard, Ray, as they headed for the exit to the airport. Claire was Molly’s secretary, and had been since the late 80s; she was the reason Molly had phones and technology, and she all but ran Molly’s company on her own. It meant she was constantly on the run, so even in France, she wasn’t paying attention to the view or the landscape or anything else but her phone and her itinerary as they exited. She was petite, dark haired, in a neutral colored pencil skirt and white sweater with dark hose and dark heels, looking all the world like a professional, especially with her phone in hand. Molly followed behind, her own dress - black, short sleeved, long hemmed, non-descript and not particularly eye-catching; she didn’t want to put off the wrong impression about her current state - fluttering in the wind as they stepped, fully, into Paris, France.

“What’re they saying? They’re not sending Martha, right?” Molly asked, softly, briefly worried, Ray trailing her like a dutiful dog. Martha was… a complicated situation, in every respect. The woman had worked with Molly for decades, starting in the 20s, and she’d had a thing for Molly for just as long. Molly hadn’t necessarily reciprocated, mostly for the fact that Marie’s existence would have made such a thing strange, not to mention Marie was simply distracting in a way Molly hadn’t yet figured out, and then Martha had ended up on the other side of the war. Molly was almost certain that she wasn’t going to speak to the woman plainly again, not without a fight, and she didn’t want to fight. She’d been too broken, too much, over the past few years to hear that from her. “If they’re sending Martha, I say we just go. I know… I know I need Jess on my side, but I don’t think that’s worth it.” Molly added. Jess was another Giovanni, a powerful one at that, and Martha’s active girlfriend. She had, as far as Molly was concerned, gone up in prospects.

“No, they said they’re sending… a fish? The fish?” Claire said, showing Molly her phone. It was French - Restez à CDG; Le Poisson vous mènera où vous devez aller - and Molly couldn’t read it. Claire pointed at the word Poisson. “I don’t know much French, but that? That’s fish. They’re sending a fish, I think.”

“Non, madame!” The voice that answered Claire’s query came, not from behind them, or in front of them, but below them. Molly looked down, and below her was a hole that led into the sewers, and from that hole, there was a face. It’s eyes were massive, it’s lips small and tight on it’s face, though they were split in a fanged smile. The creature below them seemed to have webbed fingers, wrapped over the edge of the storm drain they peered out of, and they quickly pulled themselves from the depths, scrabbling onto the street. They were wearing a raincoat, and they put the hood up over their head - which had ears, but they were pressed tight to the creature’s head, and thus almost invisible, plus no hair to speak of - which hid most of their face. “C’est moi, Le Poisson!” They said, throwing their arms out wide, as though they were a surprise. “Tu dois venir avec moi rencontrer Giovanni; il n'est pas nécessaire de rencontrer le prince et le Giovanni.”

“Okay, so, I think you’re the right person, but dear, I don’t… ehh, Parle-y none Francais?” Molly tried, her butchered French making the smaller laugh. Poisson, as far as Molly figured they were called, was short, the size of a child, their skin a strangely mottled blue-green color. No wonder people called them Fish.

“Ah! Je m’excuse! I was told Madame de l’Argonne would be arriving, and I assumed, from the name, that you would speak Francais!” Poisson laughed, a delighted little thing, shaking their head. “I hope my English is fluent enough! You are to come with moi; you shall meet Madame Briatta toute-suite. As I explained, there is no need to meet the Prince and Madame Briatta - you need only meet the one!” They didn’t wait, pattering down the street, and Molly looked at first to Claire, like she wasn’t entirely sure if they should follow, but a shrug from her - and a further shrug from Ray - had Molly following behind Poisson as they headed down the street to the curb, where a car was waiting. It was non-descript, black, the windows darkly tinted, and Poisson opened the back door. Inside, a driver sat at the front. “Voila!” They said, and Molly looked to them, and then to the car, and then back to them, like she was waiting for more. Poisson giggled.

“Your voiture, Madame!” Poisson indicated the car, but Molly didn’t move. She had lost a lot of trust, in the past few years, and from the way she held her shoulders, she just… she couldn’t trust getting into the back of a car she didn’t know without some kind of explanation. Poisson’s face fell, slightly, as she didn’t move. “Madame Briatta will not wish to wait.”

“Are you, uh… not coming with us?” Molly asked. Poisson, at least, was a friendly face, of which she’d met very few in the past few years; something about leaving them behind sat heavy in Molly’s guts. Poisson frowned, and it looked so sad on their fishy face, like they wished they could provide what Molly suggested, but there were various reasons why they didn’t.

“Non, Madame. Malheureusement, I cannot join you. My method of travel must remain less visible, you see, so I may not travel by car.” Poisson shrugged, like that wasn’t entirely a big deal. “Aussi, she has asked you come alone. She understands you bring with you deux autres, but she asks you leave them in a sitting room, so she may speak to you privately.” Poisson gestured, again, to the car. “Sil vous plait, Madame. You do not wish to keep her waiting. She is…” They paused, muttering, “Je ne sais pas comment leur dire qu'elle est déjà folle… She is… not in a joyous mood this evening.” Poisson tried to grin, but their teeth were very sharp, and for a moment, Molly was looking into the depths of the ocean at a face, rising up from the deep, teeth bared to consume her whole. For a moment, she was back in the 60s, in the darkness of a cave, feeling hands dragging her down into the dark, wet, coldness of the cave floor. She shivered, hid it with a shrug, and slipped into the car, Claire and Ray slipping in after her. Maybe it was better that they didn’t bring the fish, she thought, as Poisson wished them off - “Au revoir, Madame! Et bonne chance!” - closing the door.

Driving through late night Paris was, as expected, stunning to look at, but Molly simply couldn’t think about it as the car whisked them from the airport and deep into the city. It was an old city, lit by yellow and glittering, not the hustle and bustle of New York City streets; Molly missed the bright lights, the color, the way you couldn’t look up without experiencing near blindness for a moment as the transition from the dark sidewalks to the bright billboards took over your senses. This felt quaint, almost too quaint, and it left Molly to her thoughts, which were not things she liked being left to, right then. Jess, not in a joyous mood, wanting to meet her alone, well - it didn’t bode well. Molly had hoped to beg her for assistance, but the idea that she’d get anything out of it at all had started to wane, leaving her empty and hopeless.

Jess’s apartment was smack in the middle of the 4th major section of Paris, nestled between two larger structures, with a warm, wood facade and greenery on the open rooftop balcony, accented with black windows and strong, black lines. It was almost art-deco, and Molly appreciated the style, even as the driver let them out of the car and escorted them to the front. Inside, the apartment was stylish, old in setting but still elegant and minimal in form; a staff quickly attached herself to Molly, pulling her quietly one way, while another staff member started to pull Claire another, neither of them really speaking beyond the formal bonjour of greeting. Clearly, they knew who Molly was, and they knew who Claire was, and they knew their job; Claire lifted her phone, as though to say I’ll text you, and Molly let them be separated, looking down to her phone as the staffer led her upstairs, around a corner, and to the door of a small office.

You’ll be fine, Claire’s message said.

You say that, but she might just kill me herself. Molly typed back, not quickly. She was not great with a phone.

Just breathe. Or the Kindred equiv. Claire returned. Molly didn’t have a second to reply, however, as the staffer dipped, bowing low and exiting in one swift movement, leaving Molly staring at the closed door she knew she needed to open. She took a breathe - she didn’t need it, but it calmed her; she wished, desperately, for a cigarette - before opening the door, letting herself slip into Jess’s office. Inside, it was like the rest of the house - impeccable, well decorated, clean lines and old world charm, no clutter clogging surfaces and the decorations sparse, but clearly meaningful. Jess, herself, stood behind her desk, in a black and white striped blouse and black pants, the stripes making her seem long and lean; her hair was short, coiffed and styled down, her face sharp and her skin pale against the dark parts of the fabric. She was striking, and she was beautiful, and the look on her face when Molly stepped into the room looked like a woman barely holding back the urge to start screaming, and that had Molly trying not to cower in her boots.

Before, she would have met Jess head on; now, she couldn’t afford anything stronger than deference.

“Sorry if we’re running behind, you know how it is, French isn’t our strong suit,” Molly started, trying to cover the awkward silence, closing the door behind her and stepping forward. Jess didn’t speak, watching Molly move like she was the predator and Molly, for once, was a prey item, and Molly paused in the middle of the room, awkwardly holding her purse in front of her. “Thank you for meeting with me. You… it’s nice to see a friendly face again, y’know?” She started. Jess’s face did not split into any kind of smile that would have been construed friendly.

“Sit.” She said, curt and clipped and certainly trying to contain some level of fury, and Molly stepped forward, daintily sitting in the chair offered to her. Once she sat, Jess sat, too, steepling her fingers and watching Molly over her hands. “I am aware of what it is you wish from me. Madame de l’Argonne.”

“Molly, please. Madame de l’Argonne is so formal.” Molly tried. Jess’s countenance didn’t budge.

“Do not presume that we are on a first name basis, Madame.” Jess countered, and something heavy dropped into Molly’s stomach. “I am aware of the nature of your visit, and I must begin by asking where do you even get off?” Her tone, briefly, took a twist towards anger, a biting snap to the way she said words that really showed how much she was holding back, and Molly… shrunk. She didn’t normally shrink from women like Jess, but right then, in that moment, she couldn’t help it. She was watching her prospects for life circle the drain like the last of the suds after a bubblebath - with the full understanding that they wouldn’t stay. But she couldn’t be weak - she knew this. She was fighting for her life, and if she didn’t have the wherewithal to fight for herself, there was nothing else to be done, even with Jess’s help, so she pushed herself to sit up, slightly, to fight the urge in her to grovel just long enough to start talking.

“Am I gonna be allowed to explain myself?” Molly asked, which sounded a lot more smart-mouthed than she’d intended, but she tried not to wince at the way the tone made her sound. Jess pursed her lips, thinking, watching the other woman like a hawk.

“Why should you?” Jess asked, as though that was a real and perfect counter to Molly’s question. Molly had to fight her face from turning sour, and only just sort of succeeded. “You want to come running back into our lives again because you’re not comfortable with the choices you, yourself, have made. Why should I think you’d have anything to say that would make that different?”

“Because no one knows the whole story, Jess - I’m sorry, Madame Briatta.” Molly corrected, and her tone was so sour, and she clearly hated herself for it. For a moment, Jess paused, watching the other woman sit there, and it was clear that she was… broken. Finished. Out to pasture. Even the little bit of bite and spite she’d had then seemed to take it out of her, or at least make her feel something like regret. “Everyone’s been runnin’ off a buncha rumors and the word of a madman. I just.” Molly paused, pursed her lips, and refused to look Jess in the face, her gaze settling on anything else she could find to look at for any length of time. “I want a chance to explain myself. That’s it.” Molly said, softly, finally, achingly, looking back at Jess. For a moment, Jess’s heart hurt to see such a sad face, but the hurt quickly turned to anger. Molly had, as far as she was aware, walked herself into a corner and was crying about not being able to walk out. But Jess relented, waving an open palm as though to say then go for it.

“I… look, Madame Briatta,” Molly said Jess’s name with no small amount of bitterness, but Jess quickly understood that it wasn’t towards her for enforcing the distance; it was towards Molly, likely for banking on the idea that Jess would want to help her, that they were friends. She seemed less mad, and more dissapointed that she’d put all her eggs in a basket that was on fire and actively unhelpful. “I’m no saint, here. I fucked up. I know I fucked up. And I’m owning that fuck up every day of my life.” There was a pause, her tone so desperately sincere, for a moment, Jess actually felt for her; it passed, as the idea of it being Martha’s problem settled in heavier and balanced the scale. “But where I fucked up isn’t… that’s not what I’m getting blamed for, and that’s… I need your help.” Molly asked, softly, achingly desperate for Jess’s yes and expecting a solid, hard no for her trouble. “The Giovanni think I actually wanted t’raise Lillith and eat her. They think I was the one in charge, or… or that I was enough in charge t’be blamed. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want t’raise anybody, I just… they blitzed the East Coast. They’d surrounded New York. I… I chose my city.” She said, softly. Over myself, of course, was implied.

“You actively worked with a man who’s entire goal was to raise Lillith from the dead, and now you claim that you had no hand in this plot?” Jess asked, almost incredulous, definitely bitter, and that stoked a little fire, the half dead ember that was Molly’s heart blushing orange at the brief oxygen it was given.

“I was dominated, Jess!” Molly snapped, sudden, fierce, hurting, her voice cracking lightly as she did. She crumpled, then, the air of holding herself together collapsing under the stress of the admission - and it felt like an admission, like something darker than just being controlled inherent in the way she spoke. It wasn’t just the control, but a full violation of her psyche, and Jess found herself feeling for the woman. Almost relenting, even. “I was dominated.” Molly repeated, her voice choked, and she took a moment to try and control herself. “I… I lost months. He surrounded my city with hostile Sabbat, made sayin’ yes so much easier than sayin’ no, and even then, when I refused, he kidnapped my secretary, killed my son, made the neonates go on a rescue mission, and then dominated me for the trouble when I still didn’t cave.” Molly paused, looking at Jess with a desperation that was unbecoming of her station. “I never told him yes willingly. I just… somebody’s gotta believe me. Or they’re gonna kill me.”

“I see,” Jess said, though her countenance didn’t make Molly feel any better. It was a strange situation, honestly, because what Molly had told Jess was not the information she’d gotten, or at least, not entirely. She’d been aware that the woman was working with Pip, the Nosferatu, and she’d been aware of Pip’s plans. She’d been at the war, after all, and she’d worked with Molly’s husband, Konrad, and he hadn’t said anything about this being out of character for her. Admittedly, expecting Konrad to be verbose about his wife while also body-sharing with one of his childer was certainly a mistake on Jess’s part. She liked how little he spoke, honestly, but it meant it made sense that he likely wouldn’t have gone to bat for the woman just because. But no one had mentioned the idea that Molly had been dominated, and as far as Jess was aware, almost everyone involved in the trial and the Giovanni were under the exact impression Molly had stated - that she had taken her hands and shoved them, on purpose, into the bee’s nest, just to be able to rise in power further. Considering her entire presence made a stink of the politics - she was a Giovanni, but not by the main line, and her parentage hadn’t been fully traced back yet - it made a lot of sense that she would try and rip more power where she could. It just, simply, wasn’t true.

“I know it’s a lot t’ask. I know I’m an inconvenience. I get the sense that you’re not the only person in the house that doesn’t want me around.” Molly said, and Jess knew she was referencing the fact that Martha wasn’t around. She didn’t know that Jess had picked their home explicitly so Martha wouldn’t see her arrive; she didn’t want to burden her girlfriend with the fuckups of her previous love. Martha was trying to get over Molly, and it wouldn’t help. “But the Giovanni think I wanted this, and they’re gonna put me t’death for it. I just… you have power, with them. They like you. Could you… say something? Tell them they’re wrong? That I’m not—that I didn’t do this? Not on purpose?” Molly continued, softly, begging, desperate and distraught and faced with the prospect of losing everything, including her life, over a misunderstanding. Jess, for her part, stood, turning to face the window. It was easier to give bad news when she couldn’t see the other woman.

“No, Molly.” Jess said, and she turned, just in time to watch the other woman shatter. It was like a stained glass window, crumbling a little at a time, the way her knuckles tightened on her bag to white, the way she pulled at her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, or the intensity of her eyes as she stared a hole through Jess, like if she just didn’t blink she’d figure out what was really behind the curtain, why this was the choice. Jess, briefly, hated her. Hated her, because she didn’t even know why. “For one, begging is unbecoming of someone of your station, and I will not indulge it.” She said, and Molly’s expression went from heartbroken to simply sour, like that was the shittiest reason Jess could have mustered. It was hardly one at all, however. “But, even if I did deign to indulge such a thing, I could not support you.”

“I’ve told you, I didn’t do it.” Molly said, soft, pleading, trying. Sure, was she still begging? Yes. But she didn’t have another choice. She would have rather been unbecoming than dead, and that was her trajectory otherwise. Jess rounded on her, the anger that she’d been holding hostage in her heart finally finding its way out of her throat; she slammed her hands on the desk, and Molly jumped, shrinking, involuntarily, from the motion.

“Are you so naive that you really believe this war is your only mistake, or is it that my girlfriend mattered so little to you that you don’t see her heartbreak as your problem?” Jess snarled, and that had Molly looking truly broken, curling her legs up against her in the seat, holding her purse close so she had something to clench in her fingers. Jess could tell she itched for a cigarette, and with how mad she was, denying the woman the comfort felt good. It was a little indulgence. “You say you’re owning this fuckup, but you seem to only believe you can be affected by one mistake at a time, and that refusal to understand is your undoing, Madame. I cannot assist you because of the way you have treated my girlfriend.”

“Jess,” Molly started, and she was near tears, her voice choked, the specter of her own grave looming over her shoulder, but Jess didn’t let her say anything else, leaning over her desk with an intensity that could not be stopped.

“No, you will listen, not speak.” Jess commanded, and Molly did as she was instructed, and shut up, her lips a tight line on her face. “You do not seem to understand the situation, so let me elucidate for you. Your associations with Martha Thompson are no secret; I would not have said the entire world was in on your situation, but after the publicity of this war, I cannot truly be sure that isn’t the case. She, at one point, cared deeply for you,” Jess said, and she watched Molly take note of the past tense, “And whether or not that remains, the idea of that is understood. Now, when she and I began dating, I did not ask her to keep our romance a secret. I would not have asked her to take her only happiness and keep it under wraps.” Jess paused again, the words meant to sting, and she watched Molly take the blow like a champ, even if her lip trembled harder at it. “However, in doing so, I have allied myself to you, tangentially. If I went in to the Senate today, do you truly believe they would see my words as anything other than nepotism?”

“But you don’t like me.” Molly said, softly.

“I don’t.” Jess agreed, and that seemed to hurt more than anything else. But it was hard to like a woman that had all but ruined her girlfriend’s life. “But they won’t see that. Because if you lose this, Molly, you will die, and you and I both know, for all that has happened, your death will end Martha. So, I get to be stuck.” Jess didn’t tamp back on the venom in her voice, crossing her arms. “I cannot help you directly. I cannot appear for you in the Senate, I cannot sway anyone’s vote, I cannot lend an ear, nothing. Anything I do will only put myself in danger. But, at the same time, I cannot not help you, because it’s you.” Jess paused, letting the words settle on Molly’s shoulders. “You do not deserve my kindness. You do not deserve her kindness, but I cannot control the nature of her heart. If I could, I would have soured her to you so thoroughly that I could have laughed you out of my office this evening without even batting an eye. Instead, I have to aid you, against my own better judgment and my own desires.”

“I’m… for what it’s worth, I’m grateful.” Molly said, but Jess shook her head.

“I will contact Luca, among others, make sure they are at the Senate for the hearing. This is all I can provide.” Jess snapped, cutting Molly off again. “This is more than you deserve. In payment, I do not want you to come to Paris again. Do not drop in, do not pass through, do not dare lay your feet on my streets. I am not banning you, as I know Martha would find that idea abhorrent.” Jess inhaled, slowly, through her nose, as though to keep herself calm. “But you cannot continue to be in her life. All you have ever done is hurt her, and I will not continue to allow that on my shores or in my home. So I will put forward an effort to save your life. In return, do not insert yourself into her life again. Or the trial will become the least of your worries.”

“Alright. I’m sorry to have intruded in the first place.” Molly said, quietly pushing herself to her feet. She had tears in her eyes, budding in the corners, but she held herself strong - strong like a woman walking, willingly, to her death. “Once the trial concludes, I’ll head straight back to New York, and I won’t dare cross the Atlantic again.” She said, and Jess stepped around her desk, giving Molly a scan that was, at best, judgemental.

“Good. I understand your relationship with Martha is complicated, but for once, she’s happy. And she’s happiest without you. For her sake, keep it that way.” Jess’s tone was less hostile, but somehow, that hurt more. “Now, get out of my home. I do not wish to see you again while you remain in Paris. You may stay until the trial, if your lodging is here, but I don’t want to hear a breath about your activities. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Molly’s deference was almost painful, but she picked herself up from the floor where her pieces had landed and, giving Jess a nod, turned for the door. She walked slowly, carefully, out of the office, down the stairs, to where Claire sat, and then simply summoned her with a nod, leading them to the door and then out of it. She walked tall, proud, unbothered, all the way until she got to the car, where she climbed into the back - Claire in the front with the driver - and proceeded to collapse into sobs.

Whether or not she lived, she’d learned one thing from Jess - her world was over. She was never to see Martha again, and it was not unlikely that the other woman agreed with this decree. Whatever they had been, friends, more, less, or other, they were never going to be it again. There would never be a Martha in her window, at her elbow, as her hand.

2021

It was certainly work, trying to sneak into a building half a block from Time Square, even at four in the morning. It was times like those that made Martha truly appreciate the time she had put into learning the vampiric power of stealth - Obfuscate.

The building in question was, as far as anyone around was concerned, not a whole lot to look at. It was a classic brownstone thing, clearly maintained, but certainly not able to hide it’s age; while it looked cared for, there was grime caked under the window sills and at the places where the fire escape met the walls, and as far as Martha knew, most of it was original and likely as old as the building - or, as old as she was. It meant, of course, that no one really looked at the thing when they walked past it - it was likely just another office building, they clearly figured, or a series of apartments with overpriced rent and landlord special paint, and they ignored it. This was, ultimately, good - but it also meant that seeing a redheaded woman clamoring up the fire escape at 3:50 in the morning would have attracted a lot more attention than entirely necessary.

Luckily, Martha’s ability to turn invisible - or, at least, unseen by most; there were likely Kindred who could see her, and her powers didn’t necessarily fool recordings, so a decently delayed camera would have clocked her, too - mixed well with her vampiric speed and natural dexterity, and meant she was able to hop onto the fire escape - which was maybe taller than regulation, just to prevent this exact issue - and work her way up to the right floor without anyone seeing her. Of course, she knew what floor she needed to be on, and she even knew what window she needed to head to, because this was not the first time she’d used that particular entrance into Molly de l’Argonne office, and the window in particular was always kept unlocked, just for her. Unfortunately, however, having taken a rather long time between visits, the window was no longer unlocked when she found it. Of course. Luckily, Martha’s skills didn’t start and stop with stealth and speed, and it took her less than a minute to pick the lock, cracking the window open and letting herself inside.

The office of Molly de l’Argonne, Padrona to the Giovanni in New York, controller of the city and the Kindred authority of New England, had not changed since she’d designed the thing in the early thirties, and Martha was pleased to find that even her absence hadn’t done anything to the space. Molly’s desk - a large, heavy, ornate thing, pilfered from an office sale during the Depression; it had been useful, having spending cash during the hard times, as it meant Molly got the lion’s share of her things for dirt cheap - was empty, devoid of people, though it still carried the same selection of items: a desk phone, recent as of the early 2000s, that she had no reason to replace; a selection of photos in frames, including several of young children, several of those same children but much older, and even a few of her more cherished friends and family, Martha notably missing from the set; a notepad and a pen, though it was modern and fine-lined; and a small desk lamp, a green cupped shade clearly indicating that it had once been part of a bank, until she’d gotten her hands on it. Martha knew there were other things, in the desk, little cubbies and hideaways and hidden drawers, as Molly had specifically pilfered the thing off an old rum-runner she’d known, who’d been as close with his secrets as he was with his share of booze.

Martha took a seat in the chair behind the desk, taking in Molly’s perspective on her own office for a long second. Beyond the desk, there were two chairs, plush and comfortable if old in style, set up to face her space like she knew she would get visitors often and in pairs. But this wasn’t the only seating - beyond the chairs, there was a small sofa, a loveseat, and a recliner, arranged as it’s own little sitting room, with it’s own rug to designate the space and even a few side tables and a lamp to really pull it all together. It went with the bookshelves, which took up both side walls of the room, full of everything from books, to knickknacks, to awards and trophies and everything else; Martha knew without looking that a decent selection of the books weren’t in English, with titles in German - her husband’s texts - and Italian - from her friends in Venice - among others. On the other side of the room from the sitting area was a bar, just off from the opposite wall, and closest to the window Martha had used to get in. There had always been a bar, as long as Martha knew the woman, and she also knew it was stocked.

Sitting at the desk, she remembered to drop her Obfuscate, just so she would be seen - and she knew she would, cameras covering most of the building set to detect movement just for that reason - and tried to settle in. She wasn’t worried about being in the room, as she had an appointment, made with Molly’s right hand and secretary, Claire, without her knowledge. She spun in the chair - Molly loved herself a good, rotating chair - taking in the view behind her of the New York City skyline, visible from her seat through the massive window that went from floor to nearly the ceiling. Part of her missed the city, even if she had stayed away; the War in 2018 and everything after had her relocating to Paris, and she’d been there for three years without complaint. It had lights, and it had bustle, and it had her girlfriend, Jess - but it just wasn’t New York, and she could feel that in her bones as she watched the cars trundle by outside of the window. The hum of the city wasn’t something that Martha could honestly shake, no matter how much she tried, the magic of the way the city felt alive, even at four in the morning, getting her blood pumping through her system without her consent.

It didn’t do much to the looming dread that tried to find home in Martha’s guts, however. For all that she had an appointment, she was dreading the meeting to come, and even her love for New York couldn’t shake it.

The issue was that she hadn’t spoken to Molly in three years. They’d been on opposite sides of the War, which certainly put them in an unusual place - and Martha hadn’t really done herself any favors by harboring unrequited love for the woman for over a hundred years before all of that. Their relationship was, at best, complicated; she’d had a thing for Molly, Molly had, at one point, had a thing for her vampiric sister, Marie, and Marie, of course, had used those feelings to her advantage over the years, bringing the three of them no small amount of grief throughout the process. Mostly, the grief was in her inability to remain, to stick around, to be the kind of rock Molly needed when she was running a city, and Martha felt the thought bring more tension to her shoulders. She’d been torpored, at the end of the war, unconscious and unconsenting to her movements and final location; it meant she’d ended up in Paris, with Jess, when she’d woken up - and she’d stayed. Staying. It wasn’t something that she’d honestly afforded Molly before, either, always on the move, going and coming and going again. The unlocked window loomed like a specter of her past mistakes - it was open, because she came and went so often, and now it wasn’t, and what did that even mean for her? Was that a sign? That she was barking up the wrong tree? That she’d left too many times, and now the space that she’d called home was filled with something, or someone, else?

She fished into her jacket pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes; they were French, a brand that she’d grown attached to over her years in Paris, and she lit one, watching the flame from her Zippo flutter as her hand decided to be unsteady. She was, in a way, nervous; Molly knew she had an appointment at four, but she didn’t know with whom, and Martha had done her level best not to be seen. Part of her hoped that this would be a happy reunion, two people who cared very much finally reconnecting after three years of silence; part of her feared that this wouldn’t be the case. She knew Molly had every right to scream at her, to tell her she never wanted to see Martha again, to yell at the woman for doing the same thing everyone else always did. Martha had all but abandoned Molly after the War, and it wasn’t like they were starting from a place of relaxed ease; things between them had always been a little tense due to Martha’s feelings and Molly’s unwillingness, or inability, to reciprocate, and Martha had only found out after the fact that Molly’s time in that three years hadn’t been easy. She’d been in Paris, briefly, and they hadn’t seen each other, and that ate at Martha’s core, too. Molly had every right to just throw her out - and it didn’t seem unlikely, considering all the signs - and that possibility played in Martha’s head on repeat.

She had not, however, been gifted the same kind of foresight that her sister apparently staked her existence on - though there was still doubt as to whether or not that was even real - and that meant Martha simply needed to try. She needed to apologize, for everything, from leaving, to the expectations that she had put on Molly from the beginning, without ever letting Molly agree, or disagree, to the terms. She stood, then, uncomfortable in the chair, uncomfortable with the amount of power it seemed to give her in that moment, turning, instead, to the window, her lit cigarette in her fingers, her eyes taking in the skyline. There was a dread that this would be the last time she saw the city that brought her so much joy, but she pressed down on that. There was no use fretting. Whatever happened, it was going to be something.

She heard talking, first, drifting from the open door and the empty hallway. It was a voice, soft, one she knew and knew well, though it wasn’t the voice she was looking for. “No, your 4 AM's here. Cameras just got a hit, so she’s in the office.” It was Claire, Molly’s second, secretary, and the woman who ran the empire Molly built. She had been brought on in the late 80s, and had overhauled things so spectacularly that she’d made herself indispensable at the right hand of one of the most powerful women in the US - so even though she was clearly overworked, she had brought it on herself, and seemed to thrive in it. She was walking, Martha could hear, heading towards the office, and there was a second set of footsteps with her - heels, if Martha’s ears didn’t deceive her, sharp on soft rugs that Molly bought to line the hallways, the soft clack less jarring than the hard sound of heels on wood floors. Even if she hadn’t known Claire, and known who Claire always had at her hand, she would have recognized the woman from the beat of her footsteps alone, the cadence of her walk something Martha had matched so often that she could have counted the steps like a heartbeat.

“Right, look, just tell Issac that I’ll catch him after this. I gotta figure out who’s thinks being spooky gets them anywhere.” Molly’s voice was not hard to recognize; she was nasally, all brusque New Yorker in her accent and tone, and her voice grew louder as she approached the door, the other set of footsteps peeling off to a different part of the office. The handle turned, jiggled, Martha’s breath trying to catch in her throat and failing, considering she didn’t breathe, and then Molly’s voice came through clearly as she opened the door, still tracking the hallway with her eyes. “Alright, sorry for any delay, you know how it is, running a company—”

She hadn’t been looking, when she opened the door. She was still watching Claire as she pushed the thing open, so it took her a second before she spotted who, exactly, thought being spooky got her anywhere, and then she stopped short. She was, well… She didn’t look great, though great was relative. Molly was always a bombshell, even then, her lipstick still perfect and her short hair still blond and curling, but something about her looked… broken, a little. Like she was something that had been shattered and pieced back together, but poorly, the tape peeling off the sides, light showing through the cracks. She was in a black dress, a wrapped thing with a belt and a skirt to her knees, short heels and her signature curls and red lipstick unable to distract from the darkness to her eyes, like circles that never really manifested, exhaustion present even if her face never strayed from the perfect 20 she’s been sired at. She had her phone in the hand that opened the door, a glass of wine in the other, and she promptly dropped the glass as she saw Martha standing there, the glass shattering over her office carpet as she took in the woman in front of her.

Martha tried, and failed, not to shrink from the noise, and she watched Molly’s face take her in, scanning up and down her form like something about the way she was standing would tell Molly she wasn’t real, or the real Martha, and some kind of doppelganger or clone or mirage or illusion. Martha took a draw from her cigarette, letting the motion calm her, before a small, timid smile made it’s way across her face as she blew the smoke out again. “Hello, Molly.” She started, stubbing the cigarette out on the ashtray that sat on Molly’s desk, next to the photos and the phone. “Sorry if the spooky and mysterious angle was a bit much, but, you know me. Had to make this interesting.” She said, and she took a second to take Molly in herself; the woman was exhausted, beyond the shock of Martha’s appearance, and part of Martha broke at the vision of the woman in front of her. A thousand what-ifs raced through her mind - if she’d been there, would Molly be better? Less tired? Would it have mattered? - and she dismissed the thoughts readily; they weren’t going to help her. “It’s good to see you, dear.” She said.

Molly’s mouth worked like she wanted to start several different sentences, but couldn’t quite figure out what she wanted to say; instead, she worked through the shock, let herself stop and start and stop again as she figured out what she didn’t want to say, and her face fell into something like hurt, though there was no anger there, just the baring of a deep wound. The uncovering of something vulnerable and sacred, something only Martha could have ever asked for or seen. “Where have you been?” She breathed, soft, desperate to know what happened - why she’d been gone, why she’d left. And Martha could tell Molly thought she’d done something else, caused some new hurt that had driven Martha away, that her time in Paris was a punishment for her, a way to wag a finger at some other new, wrong thing she’d done. Martha felt her eyes soften at the words, and she suddenly found she couldn’t meet Molly’s intense gaze any longer. She stepped around the desk, rather than behind it, and leaned on the wood, watching anything in the office with enough interest so she didn’t have to see Molly’s hurt laid bare for her. It spoke to the dread in her guts, the way she knew Molly would tell her to go as soon as she was given reason.

“Well, 2018 was something…” She started, her tone soft and scared but trying so, so hard to not sound like she was pleading, “One moment, I’m leaving for a quick stop in Ireland, and the next I’m talking with some Neonates and… well, they told me that you were in trouble, so… I hopped to.” She pushed herself up from the desk, to her full height, letting herself feel strong for just a second, before taking a slow, timid step forward, towards Molly and not away, testing the woman’s reaction like watching a wounded animal in a corner that she just wanted to help. She knew if the other woman swung, it wouldn’t be her fault, but Martha’s. “I was torpored during the whole fight in Greensboro, and when I woke up…” She paused, briefly, remembering the moment, the first breath after waking, and how empty Jess’s house seemed, after her family in New York and the Neonate coterie afterwards, “Well, when I woke up, I was in Paris. I had… met someone while I was running around with those Neonates, and she took care of me while I was out. When I woke up, she asked me to stay, and… I did.” Martha let her eyes fall to the floor, the irony of her sticking around when asked by anyone else not lost on her in the moment. It hurt to say, and she knew it hurt to hear. The worry in her was almost palpable. “I’m… I’m sorry I left, Molly.”

Molly didn’t speak, letting the silence between them linger for a long, long moment; for a second, it was like Martha was right, that she was mad, that she was exhausted and tired of Malkavians and their bullshit and their excuses and their unwillingness to just stay. It didn’t help that Molly was trembling when she stepped forward, one slow, careful, step, over the broken glass and slowly shattering facade; a facade which Martha realized contained… no anger, actually, just hurt, deep and untended and rotting in Molly’s heart. There was no more pretending, the mask the woman always wore discarded the moment Martha had appeared; there was no pretense, nothing but crumbling, desperate hope, hung by a single thread over the deepest pit of despair. Martha’s next answer, in that moment, would be it, and their friendship, or otherwise, hung in the balance. “…Are you done… leaving?” Molly asked, reaching out, not with a hand but with something less tangible, reaching out with her soul, her gaze pleading, like she was scared that if she really did extend a hand, it would get slapped away.

“Well, that depends.” Martha started, closing the distance between the two of them so that she was just within arm’s reach, so if Molly really did reach out, she could, in fact, touch. “I have to go back to Paris at some point, my girlfriend would be rather cross with me if I left and never came back. Not to mention, they made me Primogen over there, if you can believe it.” She chuckled, an attempt at a joke meant to try and cut the tension between them that had grown thick and dense and worrying. “But, if you need—” She started, stopped herself, shaking her head at her own words, “If you want me here, then I’ll make the time to be here.” She fixed. She wanted to promise, but Molly had almost assuredly had enough of broken promises, and she didn’t want to just give the woman more empty words. She wanted to prove it. Would it take time? Yes, but, she was good for it. She wasn’t going to fail Molly yet again - she just hoped that Molly could see that in her, too.

The phone hit the floor next, tumbling from Molly’s fingers. There was something like hope on her face, her eyes - the stars behind them, the constellations all the irons she kept in the fire rotating behind her eyes - scanning Martha’s face like she could tell if the woman was lying just by the set of her eyebrows. For a moment, just a moment, Molly seemed to reconsider, almost drawing back, like something in her brain couldn’t handle the idea of hope, like the concept of possibly was too painful to bear. Like she was so certain she’d get hurt, again, like she did every time, and for a moment she was a woman that didn’t want hurt anymore, even if pulling away stung just as much. But that moment was quickly chased away, the upwelling of emotion springing involuntary tears to Molly’s eyes, the pinpicks of blood only highlighting her makeup as she stepped forward. For a moment, it was hard to tell what she was going to do - and violence was not off the table, necessarily, not with the set of her lips holding back something deep and real, the hurt present in her shoulders and the tears in her eyes - but then she closed the distance with a quick set of steps and threw her arms around Martha’s neck, burying her head in the woman’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you so damn much.” She muttered, heartbroken, against Martha’s suit jacket.

For a moment, there was no such thing as time, the two locked in an embrace that was three years later than it needed to be. Bloody tears welled in the corner of Martha’s eyes as her arms wound around the small of Molly’s back, pulling her in close, reveling in the feel of her in Martha’s arms again. She smelled like she always did - roses, something faint and floral but distinct and present, but also smoke, cigarettes and the faintest hint of something heavier, boozier, like some kind of whiskey baked into her skin - and Martha couldn’t help but press her face into the crook of Molly’s neck and melt into the comfort of the person who smelled the most like home. Molly didn’t let go, her knees weak, supported by the hug, her whole body shaking as the years between them melted away, lost in the floral strawberry of Martha’s suit and the softness of the skin on her neck or the way she unconsciously warmed her hands against Molly’s back, unwilling to freeze her out. The dam that was Martha’s composure had been cracking since she’d landed at JFK hours earlier, and the levees finally shattered, the tears flowing down Martha’s face in proper earnest as she didn’t let go - and as Molly didn’t let go, either. It was relief - relief that she wasn’t about to be cast out on her ass, that Molly wasn’t going to yell at her, that there was something between them that could be repaired - and it was regret - not staying with her, not supporting her, not helping her, whatever that meant - and it was the sensation of lightness that always found itself the space to fill with tears, like the first breath after waking up from a bad dream. Her arms squeezed Molly tight to her, and Molly squeezed back just as tightly, neither willing to let the other go, like if they let go, they’d fall away from each other again and never be able to return. Martha wanted to savor the touch, the curve of Molly’s back under her hands, the silk of her skin against Martha’s cheek, the softness of her dress or the strength of her arms or the way she signaled that she was alright by supporting herself with her own legs again.

They pulled away, but Martha still didn’t let go, her hands unwilling to leave Molly’s arms even as they gained enough distance that they could see each other again. Beneath the red streaked tears - which Martha wiped away quickly, only keeping her hands off Molly for the briefest of moments - Martha’s smile returned, this time a bit bigger, brighter, broader, relieved. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner. I should have called, at least. But… I needed the time, and I… well, I owe you more than several apologies.”

“Honestly,” Molly started, putting her hand lightly on Martha’s, pulling them off her arms - but not letting go of them, just holding them, fingers twined together - and giving the other woman an almost bitter smile, “It’s… it’s probably better that you weren’t here, for a bit. It’s been… it’s been a mess, and you shouldn’t have to deal with any of it.” Molly shook her head, blond curls bouncing around her face as she did, unwilling to subject Martha to the bullshit her empire put her through in the past three years. For all that Martha felt the need to apologize, Molly didn’t necessarily agree, and her own hand in her problems was clearer to her than ever before. “I… I’m just… I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re safe.” She pursed her lips; that was the important one. “With the war, I… I fucked up, Martha. I fucked up bad. And when I heard you were… on the other side of things, I… everyone leaves, but at least if you weren’t dead you could come back, y’know? And when I didn’t hear anything else after I woke up, I was so scared…” She shook her head again, dismissing the thoughts, leading Martha by the hands, gently, towards the sitting area, settling on the loveseat next to her. There was always reason to have a sofa, and this was one of them. “I spoke to Jess. She mentioned you, but… It really wasn’t my place to intrude on your happy life again, was it?” She chuckled, but it was a sad thing, a soft thing, a heavy thing. “Not with the bullshit I was dragging through your house.”

“Jess told me you came by.” Martha said, settling down next to Molly on the sofa and refusing to keep herself distant now that they’d hugged. She had been aware that Molly had come through Paris, but no one had told her in the moment, and they’d missed each other - this was, unfortunately, according to Jess, part of the point. Molly had come through because she’d been on trial, and Jess had determined that Martha’s involvement wasn’t entirely necessary. Of course, Martha had implored Jess to do anything she could to help, because she knew the stakes just like anyone else - the Giovanni didn’t hold trials often, and they didn’t do wrist slaps for punishment, either. Jess had indicated that her hands were tied, unfortunately, due, ultimately, to Martha and Molly’s relationship to the woman, but she still managed to pull a few strings and get Giovanni into the trial that could put in a good word for Molly’s character. Martha remembered waiting for the news, pacing a trench in Jess’s office, the house so quiet, the ring of the phone echoing as she picked it up to hear the words she’d desperately hoped to hear: Molly had been acquitted.

Martha reached up, running a thumb over Molly’s cheek to wipe the bloody tear streaks off of her face. Molly liked to keep her makeup presentable, and bloody tears weren’t anything close. “But she only told me after you’d left. It was so… politically complicated, we thought it was best that I didn’t get involved anymore than I already was. If it hadn’t been, I… I wanted you there, I did, but I was afraid that if we met while everything else was happening, I…” She paused, trying to find the words, and it took her a moment to find exactly what she wanted to say. “I was afraid that if we met again, you wouldn’t have wanted me around. And I wouldn’t have blamed you - I’ve been a terrible friend to you, and if I’m honest, an even worse employee.” She chuckled. She was, technically, still on the Erineyes payroll, even if she hadn’t done anything like work for them in three years. “Most people don’t go on an unscheduled vacation for three years and come back still expecting to have their job, much less their friends.”

“Martha, most people don’t get an extra twenty-eight years in the bank, either. We’re not most people.” Molly chuckled, taking Martha’s hands back in her own - partially for the connection, and partially so the woman wouldn’t fuss. Martha gave Molly’s hands a deliberate squeeze.

“Yes, well, the important thing is that I’m here now, and I want to make up for everything. Not just the lost time, over these three years, but… but for all of the time that I spent away before. I was running from my problems, and I shouldn’t have been. It took all of this time away for me to realize just how much I’d been adding to the load you carry, and that has never been, nor will ever be, fair to you. And not only am I sorry, but… I want to be better. I want to make this right. I want to be here.”

“And I… I want you here, but… you know, I don’t… I don’t know if I could blame you. I’ve… there’s stuff I coulda done differently, I know that.” Molly sighed, softly, her shoulders falling. “And, yeah, it’s… it sucks to have people come and go so quickly, without any kinda warning. But you… you, of all people, I don’t know if I could blame you for not wanting to stick around. Not with how I treated you, over the years. Not when I was on the wrong side of everything. Not when everyone else blames me.” She paused, looking down at her lap, their twined hands, hers that caused so, so many problems. “Not when everyone’s favorite prophet clearly picked the right side of things.” She sighed. “I get the score, Martha. If I’d been you, I don’t know if I’d have wanted t’come back, either.”

“I don’t blame you, Molly.” Martha corrected, soft, but somehow still firm. “I don’t blame you for anything, for the War, or even before that. I was… unfair to you, putting expectations on you that you never agreed to. Allowing the others to hold you to those expectations, even when I wasn’t there. And, more than that, instead of supporting you, or correcting them, I… ran away. And I kept running.” She paused, her grip on Molly’s hands tight enough to have turned them white, had they any blood in them; she was holding on as if for dear life. “I didn’t care what side of the War you were on, Molly. The Neonates figured out that I was one of your people, and when they told me you were in trouble, I didn’t ask anymore questions. I wanted to make sure you were safe, because a world without one of the only people I trust in it isn’t one I wanted to be in.” Martha pressed back on fresh tears, the battle against her emotions hard fought, but ultimately, a battle she was losing. “I couldn’t have stayed away forever. You’re simply too important for me to never come back.” She said, though she didn’t have to. Molly knew that Martha’s love for her was deep, and sure, it wasn’t the same as it had been before; love was not a stable concept, and the words used never made it easy to quantify when it was so potent. All Martha knew for sure was that the amount of care and love she had for the other woman would never fizzle or go away, even if it shifted it’s priorities on what it wanted from her. “I never wanted to leave forever, even if I wasn’t the best at showing it.”

“I just… everyone left, Martha.” Molly admitted, the hurt back in her voice, deep and heavy. She didn’t have to guess that Martha loved her, of course - but she also knew that emotion brought as much pain as it did anything else to the woman’s life, and it didn’t feel fair to expose her to it over and over again just for Molly’s desires. “That’s what I’ve come to expect from people. Everyone blames me for what happened, and everyone else leaves. I’m sorry I believed that about you, too, it’s just… it really is everyone, y’know? From Bernardo and Frank dying, to-to my mother dying and my father disappearing, to Mae. You know she was on the other side of things? She… she hadn’t spoken to me in so long, I didn’t…” Molly pursed her lips, trying to hold back the depth of emotion thinking about Mae brought. It wasn’t pretty emotions, and she didn’t have space for them. “They shoulda told you more, if trouble was all you got. I… I made some bad decisions, Martha. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, and he… I got dominated for the trouble.” Molly chewed on her bottom lip, unwilling to meet Martha’s eyes; clearly, she hated part of herself for everything, though Martha noticed, with no surprise, that her lipstick didn’t suffer for it. “I fought for the wrong guy, and considering that everyone else blamed me, I just… why wouldn’t you? His people ruined your new friend’s lives. Heard you even lost someone dear ‘cause of his mess.”

“Molly,” Martha chided, slightly, though her grip on the woman’s hands tightened, a gentle thing rather than anything forceful, and she pulled her in close, letting the other woman rest against her head against her shoulder. She’d heard, after the fact, about the losses; they were certainly numerous, and they definitely hurt. Especially Vince, the man she’d begun to consider more her sibling than someone she’d met in an arm’s dealer’s tent, and especially as his death seemed the least related to the war itself, an unpredictable result to predictable patterns. But she couldn’t linger on the thoughts, because even in her darkest moments, she couldn’t blame Molly for any of it. And she knew that if she let her sadness take her, Molly wouldn’t know the difference. She held Molly close, for just a moment, making small circles on the woman’s back, and Molly let herself settle for just a moment. “For all that I spent my time away from you, for all that I left, I still know you, very, very well.” She chuckled, and Molly sat back up, giving the woman a quizzical look at the words; she didn’t understand where Martha was going and why knowing her had anything to do with Martha’s friends dying. Martha didn’t mind, as it meant she could look Molly in the stars that were the woman’s eyes.

“I know you wouldn’t have done any of this on purpose, not if you were in any kind of control. I didn’t know at the time that you’d been dominated,” Martha added, softly, “But… I knew it wasn’t you. We didn’t know the extent that Pip had control over things until much later than was probably practical.” She all but spat the Nosferatu’s name when she said it, and there was something in her tone that was all hard, cold steel at the thought. Beneath the caring, and the apologies, and the softness of their meeting, she was protective, bitter and biting and it spoke to how much she wished she, herself, could have pulled the trigger on the rocket launcher that had ended Pip’s entire existence. The facade didn’t crumble, however, the brief glimpse behind the curtain quickly contained, the amount Martha cared about Molly quickly overtaking any anger that could have bubbled to the surface over Pip’s misdeeds. “I don’t believe for a second that you willingly tried to plot the end of the world, not with everyone and everything you’ve brought into it. We were all thrown off of the rails by this, and I think that was on purpose. Hell, it took a group of Neonates who were in well over their heads to convince the world that whatever was happening, was happening, let alone that it needed to be stopped. No one is really faultless in all of this; we all could have done more, and I know I can’t undo what you’ve had to go through, or what that’s meant for you in the years since. But I can support you while you get your feet again, and I know you will.” Martha smiled, broad and sad, but determined and hopeful, “If the Tremere, fish people, or even the damned Faewild couldn’t keep you down, well, I know this won’t either, dear.”

“You know,” Molly said, softly, her fingers threading between Martha’s, still held between her hands, Molly’s so soft for all the hard work she’d been asked to do. “You’re the first person who’s said you think everyone’s at fault, and that it’s not just me. I mean, first that’s not Issac, or-or Claire, y’know.” Molly quickly corrected, shaking her head. She wasn’t about to bad mouth the only other two people she trusted besides Martha and her husband. “Everyone else got comfortable with the idea that I did want this, that I plotted this, and I just… it’s been hard. It’s been hard ‘cause… ‘cause the guy who deserves their anger is dead, and nobody likes t’have a blameless crime on their shoulders. Even Konrad’s had feelings over it.” She paused, dismissing the conversation with another quick shake of the head. It was too heavy to maintain, with too many feelings too close to the surface to find it easy to dredge. “But, enough about me and all my bullshit, you’ve been gone for so long - how are you doing? How’s Jess? Or anyone out that way?” She leaned in, almost like she was desperate for the connection. For something from anyone that wasn’t just about how much she’d fucked up. “I heard you made friends, in the war. You find any good ones? Or is that pack of Neonates just all assholes at the core?” Molly laughed - and the laugh was the kind of thing that said that, part of her honestly thought that she was also an asshole, at her core, and that Martha just seemed to find people like that. Her, and Mae, and Marie.

Martha chuckled at her question, because… it wasn’t entirely wrong. Some of the Neonates were, in fact, assholes at their core - but, others weren’t, and that was the reason they won. "I wouldn’t say they were all assholes, though some did try. And not everyone you’ve surrounded yourself with are assholes, either, dear - it’s why I'm not surprised about Claire and Issac defending you. They are your oldest kids, so to speak, so I know they have good heads on her shoulders." It was then, and only then, that Martha allowed herself to relax, as the conversation moved from heavy topics to lighter ones. It was like years melted away, and like they’d never really been apart - and she’d missed that more than anything. “Paris has been a bit of a whirlwind, though. When I woke up, there wasn’t much to do for the first few months, and I will admit, I was… antsy. Jess put me on one of her strike teams, mostly to give me something to do, and I’ve been working with them for a bit.” This made her pause, her face souring slightly at the thought of Strike Team Rose - her team. She’d run with the team for just under a year, before Jess had decided that she needed to run the team, and that was not necessarily met with approval. It didn’t help that some of the team weren’t afraid to say it, either. “It’s… it’s been interesting. It makes me miss running with the girls.”

“They miss you, terribly, you know.” Molly chuckled, though there was something sad to it, a strange edge that said that talking about the girls didn’t carry just good news. It had been a weird few years. “Issac’s doing more with them, but you left a hole with them, too, and they definitely felt it.” She paused, then, her face shifting sadder, her shoulders tightening, unwilling to look Martha in the face. “Some… some left, Martha. Almost two hundred of my girls… left. Because of what I did. Because of the war, and that asshole of a Nosferatu. They heard, during the war and after, and they… for one reason or another, they left.” She paused, again, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood that she didn’t notice. It sucked to build up a group of people from the bottom, only to be abandoned at the first sign of failure; it sucked more that she thought they were right to do it. “I went door to door to try and get them back. Met with them personally, explained… everything, how I’d messed up, how I was fixin’ it. Not… not all of them thought that was enough.” She sighed. She knew she couldn’t please everyone, but she’d been so good at it before then, and it hurt to fail now. “Sorry there won’t be all the faces you remember. Not everyone’s willin’ to work with someone like me, and that’s just how it goes.” She shrugged, and Martha’s smiled thinned at the words. For a moment, just a moment, she wanted to pick Molly up and shake her, but she knew that wouldn’t really do anything, even if it would feel good. Instead, she let out another breath, before turning to look Molly in the face.

"Then they've made their choice." She said, and it was sad, but it was also determined. Quitters weren’t ever going to really shine under Molly’s tutelage, anyway. “Time changes people. Who knows where those girls will be in five years - they may even want to come back, if you’ll let them.” Martha paused, letting the words sit - and Molly seemed to realize, in that second, that she was right, and that it was up to Molly whether or not anyone came back after leaving. She was generous with that kind of thing, and Martha was grateful for it, but she didn’t have to be. “But, even if they don’t come back, there are always young women in this city that are going to need a helping hand and the satisfaction of a good day’s work. And knowing you, you’ll be there and ready with open arms. And, while I know the girls I left behind to do the training are good, if you think this new batch needs that little bit of extra attention, I’ll only be a call away.” She grinned, again, something almost mischievous while also motherly, somewhere between the Cool Mom and Wine Aunt. She missed the Erineyes, Molly’s girls, and the idea that she could mentor more honestly had her excited. “How are things with everyone else? I’m sure Claire and Issac are busy as ever, but what about Elias, or Annika? Or, how is Konrad? I know he went through quite the adventure, during the war, but I haven’t heard from any of them since things ended.”

“Konrad’s… fairing.” Molly pursed her lips, not from sadness, but from an inability to explain. He was a hard man to elaborate on, after all. “He’s always been very… emotionless, y’know? But this… I think something finally affected him.” She chuckled. “He’s went and spent a few weeks with Azrael’s childe, Naomi? She had her wedding up here. Apparently Konrad went to Az, she directed him to Naomi. He’s said he’s sorting some things out, but when I called her, she said therapy went well, so.” She paused. “Elias isn’t continuing his doctorate into medicine. I think his, uh. Incident in 2018?” She paused, raising an eyebrow, as though to ask if Martha knew what the Incident was; Martha nodded, because she had been aware that Elias died, very briefly. Necromancers for family made things like that impermanent, but not necessarily not traumatizing. “Made him realize medicine wasn’t his bag. Still wants a doctorate, but he’s thinkin’ it through. Annika… she’s taking things hard. Took her six months not to be Claire’s shadow, and Claire’s… she stayed with Issac, for a bit. Couldn’t sleep. You know, we never actually told her what torpor was, poor girl. Had no idea what happened to me.” She shook her head, pushing herself up to her feet and heading over to a small bar nearby, where she poured herself another glass of wine. “Thinking of sending Issac to Venice, next time they need me. Not really jazzed to see a buncha people who still think I caused all this, even if they cleared my name. But then, of course, if I send him, who’s gonna be Capo? Claire won’t do it, you can’t do it, you’re off elsewhere, now. God, my circles just get smaller every day, huh?”

“Or, maybe you’ve cut the dead parts off, and now there’s room to expand again?” Martha had a bit of a twinkle in her eye, like she was already thinking of the possibilities in front of them. Her mind was running as fast as it could, trying to help solve the problem before her. “If you send Issac to Venice, I’ll put in a good word with Jess. She can give him a little bit of extra support, politically, plus I’m sure Luca is always willing to give one of your people a hand.” She paused, racking her brain for further options, but the rest of the problem didn’t present easy solutions, so she shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest on who could take his position as Capo, but I think you’ll find the right person when the time comes.” She paused, leaning over the back of the sofa, an idea forming in her head as her smile only grew. “Speaking of who might be in charge while people are gone, Molly, in my professional opinion, and, as a bit of a world traveler myself, I think you could use a vacation.” She said, with a grin. She knew it was a long shot, but she could tell that Molly - and hell, the rest of her family, too; they were all a bit busted up, after the war - could use a bit of a getaway. And she just so happened to live in one of the most beautiful European cities that existed.

“Ha, oh god, Martha, don’t joke.” Molly leaned against the bar, sipping on her drink, and for a moment, she was exactly where she was always supposed to be; relaxed, easy, wine in hand, empire below her feet, looking out across the New York City skyline with adoration and love and way too much to do in her head. “I’d love a vacation, but I can’t… I can’t leave, not right now. You thought the Depression was bad - everything almost crumbled, Martha. I lost girls, I almost lost property, almost lost my station with the Giovanni. Norman’s having to glad hand and kiss ass with the Camis, Konrad’s working on the Sabbat angle, though they’re enough of a mess that I don’t think my misdeeds are the topic of conversation, yet. I just… I pissed everyone off, and I gotta… it’s gonna be a minute before I can get away.” She shook her head. “But… maybe soon? I should… I should probably meet Jess when we’re not on opposing sides of a war, or the Giovanni.” She said, and she watched Martha get up from the sofa, heading over to the bar.

She moved around the bar like she’d known it intimately for years, which wasn’t false - Molly didn’t change much about her stock, or her setup, as she valued the speed of fixing drinks over the novelty of something new - reaching down for where she knew the gin bottle was. It was usually a bottle of Seagrams - it had been Marie’s favorite brand of gin, and she had made a stink in the past when that wasn’t kept - but Martha pulled up a bottle of Gordon’s London Dry instead, and her heart felt strangely full as she poured herself a finger, topping it with blood and stepping around the bar. She paused, standing so close to Molly that she could smell the rose, so close that they almost touched, and for a moment, it wasn’t 2021 anymore, but earlier, happier - or, at least, a place where Martha could have pretended it was happier. For a moment, just a moment, it was 1941, Molly, young and fresh and hopeful, almost touching shoulders with a woman who thought she hung the moon and the stars, who thought she could do no wrong, who’s heart hadn’t quite been shattered into a thousand little paper cranes, each a wish, desperate, that never came true.

“Well, I hope you get to meet her properly soon. It wouldn’t do if my favorite girls were fighting.” Martha said, and for a moment, the forties took over, and for a moment, things weren’t so bad anymore, and for a moment, the flirting wasn’t uncouth or improper, but what Martha always did. For a moment, they were close, Molly’s office dark, her heart shaped face and slightly tilted smile and pert lips looking over, and for a moment there was no Marie, no rejection, no history that said things wouldn’t work anymore. For a moment, Martha’s loose hand brushed Molly’s fingers, and in that moment, Molly shivered, because, she, too, wasn’t in 2021 anymore. She was back in the past, back with a woman that was suddenly so visible to her, where before she’d been hidden, the brightness of the phoenix having encompassed everything so thoroughly that Molly couldn’t have seen the other woman properly if she wanted to. But now Marie was gone, done, not dead but dead enough, and Molly’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the room, and suddenly, Martha was… everything. Red curls, red lips, a sweet face, the hint of strawberry and rose and gun oil underneath; Molly could see the outline of a weapon between Martha’s breasts, and she tried not to look, to have her attention drawn to the peak of the woman’s fair skin where she didn’t button the suit all the way, to her breasts under her suit, to the way her smile kicked up at the corners like she always had a little secret. For a moment, just a moment, Molly was back, before she’d made her biggest mistake - before she’d written Martha off with excuses she didn’t need to make and reasons she didn’t need to give.

Reality came crashing back in for both of them, hard, like a wave, and Molly watched Martha take one step back, hardly noticeable save for the distance between them. Of course, Molly told herself - Martha was monogamous, and she had Jess. And Molly had Konrad, who was also, to her knowledge, a one-person kind of man. Whatever could have happened, whatever might have happened, was gone, lost to the sands of time, buried hip deep in an ever sinking pit, and there was no way it would ever come back. Molly realized, with no small amount of horror and sadness in her heart, that whatever she’d finally discovered about herself, and her feelings for the other woman, was entirely irrelevant, and she’d have to live with the fact that she’d missed her only shot for the rest of her life. And her life was destined to be long.

Meanwhile, Martha shook her head. Did she feel something, when she flirted with Molly? Yes, and she always would. But that hadn’t ever been reciprocated before, and she knew this, and right then wasn’t the time or the place to bring those thoughts and feelings back to the surface. Molly had just gone through hell; being reminded of the one thing she failed to do for Martha’s desires wasn’t something Martha wanted to do to the woman, not right then. It wasn’t like they hadn’t flirted before, and this would be just one more empty line to a woman that didn’t want her that way, and Martha knew it. It was better not to dwell, to press, to hope, so she stepped back, that one single step, imperceptible as much as cavernous. “But, you’re right, everyone is terribly busy. We’ll find the time when we can, but the invitation will be open until then. I would love to have you and the family in Paris with me and mine.” Martha smiled.

A second passed, and something dawned on her - Molly hadn’t kicked her out. Molly hadn’t asked her to go. That meant that there were a lot of people that she suddenly had to say hello to, that wouldn’t have been on the docket had she left again. “You know, I should go pay the girls a visit. Rita, too, since I have time here, now.”

It only took Molly a beat, at most, to collect herself, putting the feelings she’d discovered away in a box for later heartbreak. “I can help with the girls, at least. We’ll throw them a little pizza party, give them the surprise.” She paused, realizing something herself, the revelation in her heart sinking somewhere back, just enough that she didn’t have to feel it for a moment. She went for her phone. “You know who you need to see again, before all the girls?” She asked, raising a manicured eyebrow and showing off her phone screen - which featured JACK KELLY and a picture of Issac Taylor’s face. “Somebody’s missed you, that’s for sure.” She said. Martha’s eyes went wide at the words, her hands going up to cover her mouth before she said something loud enough to spoil the inevitable surprise; she’d been distracted with the idea of meeting Molly, and hadn’t thought of anyone else she’d have wanted to meet while she was in town yet; admittedly, there was a possibility that she wouldn’t have met them at all, but that was neither here nor there. Instead of responding, she simply nodded, an enthusiastic thing, giving Molly a motion that said go for it; she knew the other woman had a plan, and she’d always been one to enjoy surprises. This was certainly going to be a hell of a surprise.

Molly simply pressed her lips together in a knife-thin grin, tapping away at her phone for a moment - and she typed like a nightmare, one pointer finger tapping away at the keys - before showing Martha what she’d typed with a twist of her wrist. It was in a group chat, JACK KELLY and JOANNE - clearly, Issac and Molly’s secretary, Claire - both included, and all it said was Meet me in my office, now pls <3. She grinned, broadly, waving her hand like Martha should take her seat at the desk, before sliding, slowly, behind the door, in hiding. She didn’t want to be the first one to draw Issac’s eyes, after all. It didn’t take more than a moment before there were footsteps, and Molly pressed a hand to her face to stifle her giggles and not be seen.

“Alright, I’m here, what’s—” The voice came through the door first, the thick, deeper New York accent followed by it’s owner, Issac Taylor. He was not the kind of guy who liked getting a random text from his boss to just come to her office without context, though the heart certainly meant he wasn’t running in with his pistol drawn or his hackles up. He wasn’t moving slow, though, as Molly wasn’t the kind of woman to like waiting too long - though she’d give Issac anything, including that kind of grace - but Claire seemed to know something he didn’t, and that had him more apprehensive and concerned and ready to figure out whatever the hell it was that Molly needed him for.

All of that vanished when he stepped into the doorway and saw Martha, in her dark red suit, sitting behind Molly’s desk, a devilish grin on her face, drink in hand, and feet up on the surface, legs crossed.

“Oh! What the fuck!” Issac cut himself off, though for all his swearing, his tone was light and happy, even if the heavy New York accent cut his words into harsher shapes. Once the initial shock wore off, however, she paused, panic briefly breaking over his face as he put eyes on one notable redhead but no Molly; he quickly turned, finding Molly barely holding back her giggles, tucked lightly behind the open door, and once he’d seen her, he relaxed. “Okay, there you are. And you!” Issac, secure in the whereabouts of his boss, turned back to Martha, his stride fast as he made his way over to the desk; Martha, luckily, had the good sense to stand up before he threw his arms around her and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Don’t fucking scare me like that! You know how long you’ve been gone?!” He asked. Martha felt fresh tears well in her eyes at the words; clearly, she’d been missed by more than just Molly. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Martha responded, taking in the young man now in front of her. She could tell that he, too, was tired, that the wear and tear that showed on Molly almost broke through on him; he hadn’t been nearly as damaged, but he’d been through the events all the same. This was probably some of the only good news he’d had for a little bit, and it showed. She turned to Claire - who had been watching the whole charade with a sly little grin, having been the only one to know Martha was coming - and mouthed a Thank you to the younger woman, getting a discreet thumbs up in response.

“Glad to see you’re not comin’ in swinging.” Molly chuckled, stepping out from behind the door and rejoining the others in the middle of the room. For all that she missed Martha, she wasn’t selfish, and there was joy in sharing her return with the others. “Martha and I have… talked. It’s been a rough one, but… I think, at least, when it comes to us, we’re through the rough patch.” She shook her head, already dismissing any further questions before they were even asked, too busy hiding her emotional state to want to address them, instead, stepping over to put the lightest hand on Martha’s arm. “Why don’t you and Claire and Issac go ahead and head downstairs, get started ordering pizzas. I can get the girls up here in a jiffy so you can get all re-aquainted - I’ve just got a few things left to do, and I’ll be right down.” She gave Martha a grin. “Don’t worry, love. I won’t run off.” She added, softly, dismissing them from the room. They didn’t linger, Claire and Martha already starting on the logic of trying to order pizza for hundreds of people, Issac following behind.

She watched, waited until they were all out of the door, or just about, Issac’s shoulders the last thing she watched go, before she let herself feel everything she’d pushed down inside her. Alone, she slipped to her knees in the center of the room, her shoulders shaking with a breathe she didn’t need to take, a sob she couldn’t afford to have. Having Martha back was, of course, fantastic, and she didn’t want to ruin that. She’d missed the woman, terribly - but she’d more than missed her, and now in the sober light of a new chapter, she’d quickly realized how far away from her things had gotten. How much she’d really lost, when the chips finally hit the table. And, for a moment, she allowed it to break her. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to keep her own body quiet as she processed.

She was lucky. Issac didn’t know why he lingered, just outside of the doorway, but as he left, he paused, watching Claire and Martha talk happily as they moved down the hall. It was a happy reunion, for all intents and purposes, but something in him felt that something was missing, and he turned back to grab the fourth from their party - it simply felt odd, not leaving with her. That happy moment, however, came crashing down when he returned to the door, one last quip on his lips; he saw Molly on her knees, trembling, her hands over her mouth, something terrified and desperate and heartbroken scattered across her face like the debris from a bombed out building. He quickly rushed to her side - she was lucky, he cared so much - crouching down next to her on the floor, placing a soft hand on her shoulder, an attempt to comfort something he didn’t yet understand. “Hey, what’s goin’ on? You miss her that much?” He asked, a chuckle to his tone, trying to mask the worry that came with the question.

Molly turned her head to Issac, her bottom lip trembling like she was going to start crying at any given second, and only just managed to restrain herself as she pulled her hands away from her face, though they lingered nearby; she bit down on her trembling lip, trying to take in another, unneeded breathe and finding it harder than the first. She didn’t breathe, but she sought comfort, and found it lacking - that seemed to have been her life, however, at least for the past few years, so she didn’t find herself surprised. “Issac,” She whispered, and it was the voice of someone who’d realized everything they needed far, far too late, and who had lost too much without realizing that they were even losing at all, “I fucked up so bad, Issac.” She said, and she didn’t need to say anything else - it wasn’t that she missed her that terribly; it was that she loved her that much. And she’d missed her chance.

Issac sighed, deeply, before he shifted, keeping one hand on Molly’s shoulder and the other on the small of her back, helping her stand back up on her shaking legs. He understood, of course. He knew what was going on - he’d watched Martha go through all the same motions for over a hundred years, and he was familiar with that particular dance. And as much as he knew it hurt her, it was just one more step on a long - and for Molly, very winding - road. Once they were standing, he faced her, putting both hands on her biceps and giving them both a light squeeze, holding her up lightly by the shoulders. “Ma, you know I love you, but god dammit, you’re a mess.”

“Y’know, for once, maybe I am.” Molly managed a laugh, reaching her arms around Issac’s neck to give him a quick, grateful, hug. When she let go, she looked fine again, a master of hiding her emotions from the world in a blink. That, among all things, was what got her an empire, after all. “Now, let’s go see how many pizzas we need to order to feed the girls.” She reached out, taking his arm, leading him for the door.

Hot lights flashed purple and yellow across the black stage as music ripped its way out of tall, thundering speakers, rippling over the crowd as they screamed and cheered, the cacophony of their words unable to muddy the music for the volume. The singer, short haired, snarl faced, eyes closed, nearly pressed the microphone to their teeth as they sang, their green coat taking on a sickly color as the yellow and purple lights caught their form, the crowd cheering wildly as they belted out their own song. The bassist, dark haired and leather jacket clad, watched them intently as they sang, the bassist’s eyes all but glued to the singer, so deeply in sync as to be inseparable; their guitarist, curly haired, with red glasses and a red band jacket and nimble fingers, seemed focused on the guitar part, their eyes tracking between the frets and the strings like they weren’t entirely confident with the thing but they weren’t about to be made a fool on stage. But the drummer, for all that he wasn’t really their drummer - he was the alternate, as the poster had indicated - seemed to steal the show more than anything. He had long hair, dark and unruly and thick, and it whipped around his face as he pounded on the drums, bare arms under a band shirt with no sleeves flexing as he chased the beat with wild abandon. Sure, his knees almost touched his chest, but he felt the music, in a way the others didn’t, or at least, visibly didn’t; the others - Bridger, the normal drummer and the occasional singer, Saint, the bassist, and AMPS, the everything else-ist - were good musicians, and the songs they wrote and performed did incredibly well. They were a popular band, among their kind, though it was hard to make it big when none of them could actually go into the daylight without turning to dust.

And yet, even considering that the band was, as a whole, handsome, Ygritte just couldn’t take her eyes off the drummer.

“AMPS said there’s another album coming out next year, but Bri’s gonna see if she can get it early, as an exclusive Black Dahlia release.” Naomi Arnott commented, absently, her accent Irish and soft, pulling Ygritte from her thoughts. She was red-haired, stone faced and strong of build, and she was one of a few woman sat at a table towards the back of the room, a glass in her hand as she leaned back against her seat. She was technically a co-owner of the club, having married the owner - Bri Arnott - many years previously, but the bar’s direction was honestly not her purview. What was her purview was the gaggle of muscled fighters sitting at the table with her, as they all belonged to the same strike-team and coterie, the Nox Libertina. Ygritte, the newest addition as of six years previously - which was a short time, considering the others had been together for centuries - sat at Naomi’s left hand, tucked against the wall, while their companions sat on Naomi’s right, watching the stage. It wasn’t the entire Nox, but a good chunk of them; one was a blond woman, called Addicia, her hair shoulder length and pulled back in a half-updo, jean shorts and a half closed flannel over her lacy bra making it so she all but blended into the crowd, her head bopping along to the music; the other, a woman named Elizabeth, was shorter, stockier, her hair shock white and braided behind her back, and she looked a bit like she’d just been plucked from a barn and set in the club’s booth five minutes previously. Ygritte adjusted her own dark hair, tucking it behind her ear, though it didn’t stay; it was wild and unruly, as it always was when she didn’t braid it down, like in the old days, when she’d still considered herself a viking. Considering she was wearing a red corset, black pants, and a leather jacket, she certainly didn’t look like a viking, anymore; she hadn’t looked like a viking in a long time.

“You should see if they’d write you all an EP. Something they don’t release. Give you a real exclusive.” Elizabeth stated, taking a swig of her beer, held between her pinky and ring finger casually. Naomi rolled her eyes.

“We could ask, but I doubt they’d get it done fast. Took them long enough t’figure out what was even on their first album. They’re a bit of a mixed bag, but they make it work.” Naomi shook her head, giving the club another full glance. She was security, after all, or at least, she liked being involved when security matters were addressed; the only reason she wasn’t on staff was that she was more easily overwhelmed in a crowd than one would want from a full shift position. Plus, she had her own day job, as it were, though daylight wasn’t involved. Her eyes paused, briefly, at the other side of the room, and a quick up tilt of her head said that someone had motioned for her and she’d seen; she pushed herself up to her feet, leaving her glass behind. “I’ll be back. Lindsay will take care of you, if you need another drink.” She said, giving the table a quick double-pat before heading away and into the crowd. Ygritte sighed, turning her sights back to the drummer, and her thoughts turned back to everything else.

Grief was a strange mistress, as far as she was concerned. A decade previously, she’d been with a man who she had considered a diamond in the rough - Sven Jordenson, a viking, not unlike herself. He had been tall, and muscled, and brutal with a sword, but also kind, and full of caring and wonder and delight at the world. He was a golden retriever with a heart of gold and an axe made from the blood of his enemies, and Ygritte had fallen madly in love with him. Sure, he’d had a boyfriend - and then husband - Damon Wellington, and sure, that husband was a Tremere - which, as a Salubri, Ygritte had to fight to not take issue with; she was proud of herself that she hadn’t killed the self-important prick long ago - but Sven had been polyamorous and Ygritte hadn’t been required to spend her time around Damon so much that she couldn’t tolerate it. She’d been happy, for what it was worth. They’d been happy for nearly thirty years.

And then he’d died. Violently, and without warning. She hadn’t even been in the same area to help.

It had crushed her, ultimately. It had crushed a lot of people - there was a bigger mess, and she didn’t get too into the details herself, as she wasn’t involved outside of Sven - but she hadn’t healed all that well, after. She’d done her best, and she’d thought she’d done well enough; she’d gone to live with Elizabeth just after, as the woman lived in the back woods of Morganton, West Virginia, and the change of pace was more than Ygritte could hope for. Not to mention, Elizabeth was well known for being a tough love kind of therapist, especially after she married one of the original Nox and the coterie mother, Azrael, and being around her, and horses, and doing a rote job had done her wonders. She’d stayed up there for four years, and she’d thought she’d given herself plenty of time. She’d even found herself a boyfriend when she’d returned, a sign, to her, that she was moving on; it had been one of the other Nox, Milo Sapovich, and they’d dated for a handful of years - yet, they’d broken up only three years later, Milo citing that she clearly wasn’t over Sven as one of the many reasons. He wanted to stay friends, and she was amicable to that, but he had discovered quickly that he couldn’t handle her still pining after another man, and she’d realized that he couldn’t have handled her being poly, regardless. And yeah, maybe she wasn’t over Sven. Maybe she couldn’t get over her thirty year boyfriend in a half-decade, and maybe it was because she was trying to find another Sven for herself, and no one was able to fill his decidedly large shoes. Maybe Milo wasn’t kind enough, or generous enough, or maybe she was expecting more of him than was fair, but they had fought more than they’d done anything else, she remembered, and that was a good enough reason in and of itself. But that had left her single again, and while it had only been a year, it had begun to eat at her from the inside.

Maybe it was that she wasn’t good enough. Maybe she was poly, not because she wanted to love more than one person, but because she needed more than one lover to fill in the parts of herself that she lacked that others didn’t. Maybe Sven had seen in her something that no one else could see, because he was special, or maybe that part of her that was worth dating had died when he had. Maybe there was nothing left in her to love, or that there hadn’t even been, and Sven had taken pity on her. Maybe—

“If you’re going to stare, you might as well talk to him.” Elizabeth said, suddenly, pulling Ygritte from the spiral her brain had gone down. She had been staring, but she hadn’t been looking, and being brought back to the present had her really looking at the drummer over again, like for the first time. He was handsome, in a sweet way, she could tell. He seemed to be having the time of his life on the drums, even if his knees were up by his chest and he looked awkward and too tall behind the set. He had a little face scruff, and a goofy smile, and the rattiest sneakers Ygritte had ever seen. She tried not to flush - luckily, she was a vampire, so it was pretty easy to stuff the blood back where it was supposed to be - because while she had been staring, she hadn’t been thinking about him like that; and yet, in some way, the fact that she looked to him and saw Sven said that she had, in fact, been thinking about him like that.

“I’m just… looking, Elizabeth.” Ygritte said, softly, sighing. Would she have talked to him? Maybe. He was sweet, and she liked sweet. But she’d gone for Milo because she’d wanted someone to fill the void, and she was worried, suddenly, that his sweet was just filling another void. Filling voids was how she got hurt the second time, and she could tell that getting hurt a third within the year was a mistake. “I don’t know if I’m in a place to date again, yet. It’s only been a year since Milo, and if he’s right, and I’m not over Sven… I don’t want to mess things up again.”

“Did I say date?” Elizabeth replied, and this had Addicia turning from the band - she’d not really been paying attention; sometimes it was better to leave the heavy thinkers alone - to the conversation as Elizabeth leaned over the table. Elizabeth was short, shorter than the rest of the Nox by a mile, but she had a way of imposing her presence on a room that got everyone’s attention, and the smirk on her face said she knew as much. “I said talk to him. Chat him up a bit. See if he wants to escape the hubub a bit with you.” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in a suggestive manner, and Ygritte couldn’t help but fight the blush down from her cheeks. She hadn’t had anything like that since Milo, and honestly, that had dwindled as their affections had, and she hadn’t thought about anything like that since. It did, however, banish the negative thoughts from her brain to think it.

“Elizabeth!” Ygritte tried to chide her, but Addicia was looking between the two of them like she was suddenly realizing how it wasn’t honestly that bad of an idea, nodding along like Elizabeth had just said a very bold, but true, statement. Elizabeth was not easily cowed, and her grin didn’t even flicker, only growing as she leaned further in.

“What? Don’t act so aghast, lass. You think you’re the first one t’chase a nice piece of ass behind a drum set before? He’s probably quite busy between sets.” Elizabeth shrugged, though Ygritte didn’t look less aghast at how frankly she was discussing having a one night stand with the drummer. Not even that, but a quickie, fucking back in the equipment room like teenagers after a school show, dirty and raw and fast. Of course, it was no surprise that Elizabeth would have suggested it; she wasn’t exactly the most verbose about her kinks, but even Ygritte knew that she wasn’t the woman to bet against in a contest of who had weirder ones. And while there was a part of her that was almost embarrassed at the idea of having to go so low as to ask the drummer of a band for a quickie in the back room just to get some, part of her still bloomed hot at the idea. She really did need to get laid, and he was hot, and everything she liked, and she did deserve it. “It’s common enough t’fuck the drummer, lass. The bassist would know. Look, far as I know, he’s the alternate, so he’ll be off the stage in a few songs and likely done for the night. Worst case, you ask the nice boy his name and go on your way. Best case, you scratch that itch, give yourself that mental boost, and get back on the horse again, yeah?”

“What if he tells me no thanks?” Ygritte asked, trying to be self-deprecating, just a little. Her confidence in herself was shot, considering Milo and the rest, and it was easier if she didn’t have to believe in herself; yet, it was Addicia that spoke up instead, grinning.

“What if he tells you absolutely, ‘cause you’re hot?” She asked, and Ygritte felt her cheeks go red without her permission at the compliment. “Girl, look, you’re attractive. I love Milo, but he’s kind of a butthead sometimes, so if he said anything to make you doubt that, fuck him, he’s just stupid.”

“And the best way t’prove that Milo’s just lacking taste,” Elizabeth said, emphasizing that she seemed to agree with Addicia that Ygritte was hot; Ygritte understood the compliments weren’t just nothing, because both women were lesbians. They knew hot women. “Is t’make that boy crumble. I know you will. So go on. Take a chance. What do you got to lose? You already think pretty poorly of yourself, not like gettin’ denied will make it worse.”

“I just… I don’t know, Elizabeth.” Ygritte sighed, leaning on her hand as she turned her attention to the stage. The song was coming to a crescendo, and she watched the drummer really get into it, and for a moment, she thought about it. She thought about watching him melt at her touch, at watching his knees wobble for a hand pressed to his chest. She thought about him stuttering and stammering and how that would make her feel so god damn good; and then, she thought about the callousness of a band member who didn’t think she was anything more than a waif looking for the taste of stardom, the way she could turn to her with distaste, how she wasn’t likely the first nor his last and how she wouldn’t match up, and she sighed. It hurt her to think about. “I thought I was okay, when I started dating Milo, but I was wrong. Now I just… what happens if I’m wrong again?”

“Then you’re wrong again. Not like that’s not going t’happen to you just for not trying; if you think you’re a fuck up, you’re gonna fuck it up regardless, lass.” Elizabeth retorted, in the way she always did. It was blunt, and maybe a little hurtful, but it was also the thing Ygritte needed to hear. Elizabeth was just good at that kind of thing. “Look, I’ve had a lot of you through my farm. Might not be licensed, but I know what I’m doing. And this? You’re chicken. You’re afraid t’try again. And me, here, I thought Az only took on the bravest Salubri in her coterie?” Elizabeth asked the last phrase as a question, giving Ygritte a chance to defend herself.

“I’m not—I just—Getting hurt like that sucks, Elizabeth!” Ygritte snapped, but Elizabeth smiled; angry wasn’t sad, and that was fine. She didn’t mind angry; anger was, after all, productive.

“And you think you’re preaching to a woman that doesn’t know how much love sucks, lass? Me and my how many years ‘fore I decided t’ask my wife out?” Elizabeth raised a brow, and Ygritte didn’t respond, her look sour. “Addicia, how long was it, again? Think she needs a reminder.”

“I don’t need a reminder!” Ygritte snapped.

“Like, almost a millennia, give or take a few decades?” Addicia provided. Ygritte almost rounded on her, but Elizabeth put a hand in the middle of the table, and got her attention back where it needed to be - on the woman who was actively antagonizing her.

“So I get it, Ygritte. I get how much shite sucks. But you’re hot. Snagging Milo is no breeze - man’s a bit of a stone and his love life has been almost as vacant as mine was, back in the day. Sure, you’re not compatible, but mostly ‘cause you’re a woman who likes having a lot of irons in your romantic fires and he’s a bit of a home and hearth kind of man. Fact is, you could be over Sven for decades and still probably find yourself not workin’ out.” Elizabeth paused, and Ygritte shrugged, because it wasn’t wrong. She probably wouldn’t have found Milo compatible, because he was monogamous, and she wasn’t. But Elizabeth didn’t stop long enough to let her think too hard. “But you’re usin’ it as an excuse. You’re standing there with Milo’s rejection in hand, and you’re puttin’ his opinion on a pedestal and pointin’ at it any time someone questions why you’re stuck at inaction. Fact is, for all the Nox t’elevate, you certainly picked a man who’s opinion’s I’d say are middlin’ at best. Love the guy, but we’re not cut from the same cloth, y’know? And yet, you’ve got me here, and you’ve got Addicia here, and we’re both categorical experts in what woman are hot, right? But ‘tween the two of us, we still can’t beat Milo in your brain.”

“I just…” Ygritte started, but Elizabeth was unrelenting, just giving her the space in between the words to process, and think; this was the difference between her and a bully. She said mean things, and tough things, and bitter things, but she gave space to process, and she didn’t end on the bitter notes. Her tough love was like a three course meal based on bitter greens - sure, the meal probably was a little rough, but any chef worth their salt would make the dessert the sweetest.

“You just wanna avoid gettin’ hurt again. But if this were a battlefield, I’d be right t’call you a coward for that attitude, and so would everyone else. I’ve been hurt before, too - I know you of all of us recall the War and the Shadowlands, right? You remember what I told you happened?” Elizabeth paused again, and Ygritte nodded; for a moment, she looked shamed, because Elizabeth was right. If she’d shown that level of hesitation on a mission, she’d have been told off for it after. “My wife killed me. But if I went, well, I’m too afraid of her now t’ever date her, you think you wouldn’t give me shit for it?”

“I’d give you shit for it.” Addicia confirmed, and Elizabeth held out a hand, as though she were given the proof that she needed.

“Not even sayin’ you should date the man. Hell, I probably recommend against startin’ a relationship off a hookup in the back of a club, but I’m not the best when it comes t’advice on timing. But you’re hiding, ‘cause you’re scared - so is it that you’re really just afraid of the opinions of a man that clearly has run headfirst into a wall at least once, for all the braincells he seems t’have, or is it that you’re comfortable bein’ afraid, ‘cause it means you don’t have t’get in and get cooked?” She asked, seriously and sincerely and with a little bite to her tone.

It would have gone over much better if Addicia hadn’t snickered at her phrasing.

“Elizabeth, that’s not how you use cooked.” She tried to stifle her giggles, but she couldn’t hold it, and the tension that had been building shattered as Ygritte laughed, too. Elizabeth sighed, leaning back from her place at the table, pressing a hand to her head like she was sure she’d used it right.

“Look, Cheyenne keeps usin’ all these new and fancy terms. I’m just tryin’ t’keep up.” Elizabeth sighed again, but there was a smile on her face. Cheyenne was her daughter; she was a teenager when Elizabeth and Az had rescued her from a… pretty potent situation, and she’d been quickly assimilated into the Nox as the coterie’s collective offspring to raise. She’d been with them a while, and the terms certainly weren’t new, but Elizabeth was chronically behind in basically all matters. “Isn’t cooked bad? It’s bad t’be cooked, right?”

“Yeah, it’s just not past tense. It’s like, present tense, like chat, am I cooked?” Addicia corrected, between her giggles. “But it’s also not bad, ‘cause if you’re cooking, that’s different.”

“Speaking of cooking,” Ygritte said, pushing herself to her feet. “I think I get the point. Thanks.” It had taken her a moment, but she’d processed what Elizabeth had said, and the woman was right. The only reason she wasn’t going up there to talk to the drummer was fear - fear that she’d never find anyone again, fear that she was broken, fear that she wasn’t good enough. But she wasn’t asking for anything beyond a quick lay, and she was certain that she was damn good at it - Sven had enjoyed their couplings, at least, and being old as she was, she knew he’d had practice. Besides, he’d had a husband who did magic, and she was still able to satisfy. And when faced with that fact, and the fact that, yeah, she had bagged one of the more picky Nox, and the other lesbians were telling her she was hot - and Milo hadn’t even denied her looks, just her commitment, which she wasn’t even looking for - she couldn’t find any real reason to not try.

Besides, the song was ending, and the drummer was getting up and heading off backstage; she had one shot before she lost him for good.

“Get it, girl. And come back with the details. Everyone else in the band’s totally taken, so you’re the last true hero who can answer the question of whether or not the only vampire band I know fucks.” Addicia laughed, and Ygritte shook her head, stepping away from the table.

“Is that one of those new slang uses, too? ‘Cause we know they fuck. Saint and Bridger have a kid.” Ygritte heard Elizabeth ask as she left, and she laughed as she slipped from the table and into the crowd, pushing her way between people and towards the stage. She knew what conversation Addicia was about to get into, and while part of her was glad she wasn’t participating - Elizabeth was older, and while she was smart, nothing about her was quick, and it was likely not a short conversation - the rest of her was too focused on getting to the stage and then behind it without getting noticed. Sure, she’d found the confidence to try, but she was also certainly at faking it until she made it territory, and she knew any real reason would make her turn tail and run - including the fact that she didn’t have permission to be back there, and would likely get stopped if security caught her. So instead, she beelined for the back curtain before she could convince herself it was a bad idea, slipping into the back stage area the way she’d seen Naomi do so many times, lingering just out of the public view and hiding, slightly, behind a speaker bank.

It was surprisingly quiet, backstage. The curtains muffled the noise from the stage, though it helped that the speakers faced out and into the crowd; the way sound worked, it meant that the space behind the speakers was actually relatively quiet, and with everything else blocking the sound, it didn’t sound as loud in the dark space. It was dark, though there were some lights towards the back of the stage; a few blue and soft yellow bulbs illuminated the wood floor and small stairs that ran up to the raised platform they were performing on. A security guard stood at the other side of the stage, and Ygritte tried to make sure she didn’t draw attention to herself as she took the space in. She could hear the guitarist, AMPS, saying something muffled into the mic as they switched around who did what, and she turned to see the other drummer hop down from the stage with a bottle of water in his hand, forgoing the stairs to just leap the three feet to the floor instead. He was tall, she realized, taller than her by nearly half a foot, and built a bit like someone had stretched a normal person out on a rack, tattooed up and down the length of his arms, which were visible and toned under the threadbare band-tank top he wore. But when he lifted the water bottle to his lips, his shirt rode up just a little, and she could see the bottom of his tummy, the slight bit of fat there, visible tattoos on his ribs, the top of his boxers above the edge of his pants, and the little bit of hair that ran up his tummy. It was, unsurprisingly, extremely attractive, and she felt her knees quiver lightly at the sight. Yeah, okay, she needed this, anything else be damned.

“Hey,” She said, striding over with her most confident shoulders she could muster. This was the kicker, she knew; the first blush was always going to be the sign that she should stay, or go, and she knew the opening line would help or hinder her as much as her looks or her confidence. It helped that she was, in fact, pretty hot, toned and built like a fighter; it also helped that she put a good bit of sway into her hips and tried to push her chest out as much as she could. “Good show so far. You, uh, you ever play any on your own?” She asked, keeping her eye lightly on the security guard behind the drummer, just in case he got any ideas.

She watched the drummer catch sight of her as she walked up, the bottle still to his lips, and the way his grip on the bottle suddenly tightened had the water firing out of the thing and over his face. He jumped, laughed, awkwardly, his face pink, and then he ran his hand over his face and back through his hair and she could see that he was nervous in a way that suddenly had her confidence boosting dramatically. He did think she was hot. She still had it. Something in her stomach fluttered; this was suddenly going to be fun.

“Oh, uh, not—not really? Like, I could. I would. I just, we’re just, we’re busy.” The drummer laughed, capping the water before his shaking hands spilled it. “Sorry, I’ve not—I’ve not seen you around before, and you—I’ve never heard anyone talk like you do, and it’s just…” He trailed off, noticing the confusion that crossed Ygritte’s face at the statement about hearing anyone talk like she did. He grinned, sheepish, awkward, all nerves and too long limbs and every second he smiled had Ygritte more desperate to throw him onto a pile of equipment cases and fuck him stupid. She really did like them tall and dumb. “Oh, yeah, uh. Graham, he'/him, Malkavian, which— AMP said I should include that, since I don’t always make sense sometimes.” Graham added, sticking out his hand. It was wet, and he quickly pulled it back, drying it on his shirt before extending it again.

Ygritte shook it. His hand was a little damp and lightly shaking, and she experimentally ran her finger over his palm when she pulled her hand away. He shivered, visibly. Good. She wasn’t just misreading things.

“Ygritte, she/her, Salubri.” Ygritte replied in turn, and Graham nodded. She watched him take her in, watched his eyes travel over her corset top, her jacket, her shoulders, her lips; she gave him a grin and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. “So, Malkavian, huh? Does that mean having heard no one talk like me is your… Malk thing?” She asked. She knew Malkavians all had a thing, a consistency to their weirdness that defined what it meant to be strange. She’d known a few, back in the day, and they were all different and yet all so similar. Graham nodded, seemingly grateful to be understood.

“I, uh. Yeah? I think, anyway. I’m just… I’m just a ghoul, so it’s not really… intense, but… It’s hard to explain.” He said, looking away and at the floor briefly, like he was almost embarrassed at the idea of explaining. Like if he’d said what it really was, she’d think he was too strange and leave. Ygritte stepped forward, her eyes over Graham’s shoulder again, and she watched with delight as Naomi appeared from behind a curtain. Naomi put a hand on the guard’s shoulder and, with a word, quickly whisked him away to another part of the venue, leaving them both fully alone. Ygritte swore she saw the woman catch her eye with a nod, but she couldn’t be sure. Regardless, she felt her chest tighten like it wanted her heart to thud harder in the empty cavity of her bosom, and she was suddenly aware of the fact that Graham’s heart was alive, and beating, and racing.

“Try me.” Ygritte offered, quickly, and Graham went a little wide eyed for a moment at the words, though the smile on his face grew at the words. He paused, before pulling an instrument case from under the stage and gesturing for her to sit; Ygritte did, crossing one leg over the other and letting Graham watch her move, and it took him a few moments to seemingly regain enough brain power to continue.

“So, think of a car, right?” Graham started, holding his hands out like maybe he could offer her some kind of small car visual in front of him. She could tell he knew it didn’t help, but he also seemed unable to explain without the gestures. “You’ve got the radio, the dials, the stations. But now, think of that car, and that car is you.” He paused, waiting, desperate to have not lost Ygritte; she nodded, still following, and he looked relieved. “If you wanted to talk, but you’re the car, you’d talk through the speakers, right? Use the radio, that kind of thing.” Graham paused again, but this time he only waited a moment to register that her expression was not confusion before he continued. “If you were to talk through a radio, you’d need a channel to broadcast from, right? And so think like… if you picked Rock 105.1, right, your voice would sound like classic rock. Or-or 99.9 Kiss Country means you sound like you’re early Taylor Swift.”

“So like, people are music?” Ygritte asked, and she smiled like she thought that was both the sweetest and the strangest thing she’d ever heard, which it was. Graham nodded, his hair going everywhere with his exuberance.

“Basically? Not everything’s a melody, so not everything’s a song, but it’s like you have the quality of being music. AMP, my boss, they’ve said, before, that speaking is just music with no practice, right? So it’s like if you practiced a little at singing and then that was your whole voice. But it’s not… it’s not like they sound like the people but like if they were trying to do a cover of that person, or that band, or that style of music, and kinda did a good job pretending to be them? Sorry, it’s hard to put into words.” Graham chuckled, shrugging, and he stepped over to Ygritte, perching, a little awkwardly, on the instrument case as well. She noticed he only put his weight on the edge of the case, and she quietly slipped closer to the edge, herself; she also noticed how close he’d gotten to her, and he only seemed to notice the same just after he’d done it, if the way he blushed said anything. “Everyone’s different, though. AMP sounds like the Beatles - not like, one specifically, but sort of all of them all at once? Bridger, the, uh, the other drummer, sounds a lot like Stevie Nicks but also a bit like Tom Waits? The bassist, Saint, sounds a bit like James Headfield but there’s something to it that’s more, I dunno, tempered? Like, calmer? Or like, AMP’s husband, Hugo? He sounds like Johnny Cash.” Graham laughed. Ygritte tilted her head to the side, letting the few braids she did keep in her hair fall to the side.

“Who do I sound like, then?” She asked. Graham blinked at her, suddenly nervous again. She was, in fact, very pretty, and he’d very clearly never had a girl flirt with him backstage before, and now there was a very pretty girl doing exactly that with him - or, at least, that’s what he hoped she was doing. He chuckled, awkwardly.

“I, uh, I don’t know if I could—I haven’t heard anyone else talk like you, so it’s not… I hear AMP and Bridger and Saint talk a lot, so I’ve had a lot of time to think, but I haven’t heard you talk all that much? Not that I’m not—I’m not saying you should have said something else, I just—”

“Would it help if I talked more?” Ygritte asked, cutting Graham off from the awkward spiral that he was clearly going down. He seemed to be used to being cut off, however, as instead of getting defensive, he gave her a sheepish grin, like she’d understood all too well.

“If you really want me to try, I’d need to hear you talk more, for sure. Which, I definitely don’t mind, ‘cause I like hearing your voice - I mean, unless you’d rather not, I don’t mind—” Graham laughed, and Ygritte cut him off, pushing herself up from the seat and pacing a few feet away from him, letting him see her in her entirety again. She didn’t want to keep sitting, and there was something about watching his face when she shifted her legs across each other in a step that had her heart feeling full and fluttery in her chest. It really was a massive boost to her confidence, and she wasn’t about to stop.

“If you want me to talk, you should give me something to talk about.” Ygritte offered, leaning over so she could look him in the face, properly; she also understood what that did for her boobs, which was half the reason she did it. Graham also, clearly, understood, as she watched his gaze shift south; however, he quickly returned to looking at her face, almost forcibly so, his face pink and his gaze a determined and respectful. It was honestly sweeter that he didn’t want to look, even if she was trying to show. “What would you want to know?”

“Everyone’s got a story. I’d—I’d love to hear yours, if you wouldn’t mind telling it.” Graham said, giving her a smile even as he very clearly avoided looking at her tits when she stood back up. “Asheville’s one of those places; nobody comes here on purpose, everybody just ends up here. How did you end up here?” He asked, and he asked with a strange reverence; for some reason, Ygritte seemed to understand what he meant by it. Some locations were places where people went, and there was always a quality to them that was undefinable. It wasn’t tourists, or the business, but something very public about even the most private of lives. But locations where people ended up were different; there was something secret about them. Sure, everyone went to the Biltmore, but how many people actually went up to the city proper? It meant the place felt cozy, in a strange way.

“I… I don’t know how much you know about the War, back in 2018.” Ygritte started, and Graham nodded at the question.

“I’ve been AMP’s ghoul since the ‘70s. Not much happened up here in the grand scheme, but I was around for it.”

“I was, originally, a Viking. Norwegian. Most of what happened between now and then isn’t important; what is important is that I came down from Richmond in 2018 to help with the War. It was… I was told it was all our fights, and I was right to be told that. I met the Nox, while I was helping, but I also met… Sven. Another viking.” She paused, and she sighed, because she somehow hadn’t expected her night to come back to that man and yet, she could feel the grief rolling around hot and heavy in her guts like molten lead. She tried not to let it choke her and mostly succeeded. “Tall, blond, loud. Sweet as can be, hit like a truck. I… fell in love with him, and we dated for thirty years.” Ygritte paused, bracing herself. Even just over a decade later, she still couldn’t say it without her throat trying to close. “And then he died.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Graham cut in, softly. Ygritte gave him a smile, pursed lipped, but her heart appreciated the comment. “I’ve not… I’ve only had normal losses, but… I’m sorry you went through that.”

“Thanks.” Ygritte said. It was sweet, and it helped soften the heartbreak of talking about it, just a little. Nothing would really take the sting away, of course, but it helped. “I… I wasn’t okay, for a bit. Went up to West Virginia, lived there for a few years, and then I came back down here. The Nox were the only real family I had left, and since most of them stay here for long periods, I thought it might be a good place to try something different.” She shrugged, pacing back over to the trunk and plopping down on the edge. “Is that… enough? I could tell you more, but I’d rather not talk more about… all of that.”

“No, it’s… I don’t know if more would help, and I wouldn’t want you to have to repeat that.” Graham chuckled, running his hand through his hair again. “It’s hard, ‘cause I’m familiar with a lot of kinds of music - AMP’s always been big into broadening my horizons though I think they’re just perpetually grumpy that they like folk and befriended a bunch of metalheads.” Graham laughed, and Ygritte watched him when he did, the way his dimples blossomed on his face or the way his shoulders shook; for all that she was there to fuck him, and he was attractive, and nothing was going to change that, part of her honestly just wanted to spend more time with him. He was, simply, a delight to be around. “But I’m just not… familiar with yours. I can try and describe it?” He paused, and the expectant look on Ygritte’s face said enough. “Well, it’s like… it’s old. Not-not that I’m saying you’re old though I know that’s-that’s also weirdly relative, since like, AMP’s also really old but Saint isn’t that old and Bridgers not that old but they all look the same age—but it’s like… you sound ancient, but in a cool way?” Graham paused, looking down at his open palms like they held the answers he wanted. Ygritte could see that his hands had calluses on the palms, where the sticks would normally be held. “It… it makes me think of a museum.” He added, softly.

“What do you mean?” Ygritte asked, in return. A museum was certainly interesting, but it was also so broad. Was it dusty? Untouched? Or something different? Graham looked at her, and for a moment, it was like he hadn’t realized he’d said the words out loud and had to process the concept of explaining them.

“I—I know it’s weird, but… I imagine you didn’t visit museums as a kid, right?” He asked, and she shook her head no with a laugh; when she looked back at him, he was staring at her like she’d just said the most beautiful thing she could have said. She had to fight the desire to shove blood into her face and blush at the adoration on Graham’s face. “Sorry,” He admitted, having been caught staring, averting his eyes as he did. “Laughs count, and it’s… so when I was a kid,” He started, staring back at the floor and his hands and not her face, because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to speak, “Museums were basically the only cool place we went, ‘cause I’m from Henderson. It’s-It’s a small town mostly east of here, kinda near the Virginia border, and ‘cause it’s small, it… we didn’t have much. But I remember going to the museum as a kid, and being in these halls of stuff, and all of that stuff was made by people from so, so long before me that I still can’t really comprehend the time of it, y’know? But then there were like… fingerprints in the clay pots. Hand-prints on the walls. And they looked like my hands, my fingers, and… there was something almost magical to it. You… you have that magic.” Graham said, softly, reverently, finally looking Ygritte in the face.

She grinned back at him, and watched the pink spread from his ears and across his face. That was the sweetest compliment she’d ever been given, and he was clearly only realizing that after the fact.

“Graham, are you hitting on me?” Ygritte asked, mouth full of smiles and tone full of desire and wanting, sitting next to Graham and leaning over, putting her hands down in such a way that she could push her boobs together under her shirt, just to give them a little more plump. Clearly, Graham knew how to appreciate a decent set of breasts, though he was careful to keep his gaze respectful, even if she watched him glance down once or twice more and flush harder when he did. She was, basically, wearing just a bra.

“I-uh-I mean, I-I could be? If you-if you want me to, I could be, or-or if you’re-if you’re not-not wanting me to, that’s-then I’m not hitting on you and your voice is just—you’re just—like, objectively pretty?” Graham managed to fumble his way through the words, and while he did lean back, just a little, when she leaned forward, it wasn’t in distaste; clearly, he was hyper-conscious of being too forward, and didn’t want to come off as sleazy or rude. It only made Ygritte want to jump his bones all the more - she loved them tall, stupid, and respectful.

“Graham, if we’re going with what I want, it’s definitely more than just this.” Ygritte said, leaning in until her face was only inches from his, and she turned on the tone, the flirty tone, the sexy tone, a purr in the back of her throat, her hand landing, lightly, on Graham’s thigh, barely pressing through the denim. Graham didn’t flinch away, but he sure as shit froze the second she leaned forward, clearly watching her lips and her cheeks and trying not to look past her chin at her boobs and failing, especially as she offered them up for display. He didn’t seem unwanting, and she could tell, but he was certainly in over his head. “Or am I getting the wrong idea, here?” She asked, her face so close that she almost left traces of her lipstick on his jaw. The breathy giggle that left his throat said she was not, in fact, getting the wrong idea.

“I-no-I-yes, please?” He giggled, high pitched and nervous, one hand experimentally reaching out to finally, finally touch Ygritte, settling on her lower back very, very lightly. His hands were warm, hot even, and Ygritte suddenly remembered that, being a ghoul, all of his blood flowed through him freely, which left him warm where she’d be cold. “S-Sorry, I-uh-I mean, this isn’t my—I’ve had p-people, before, but—”

“You’ve never been hit on by a woman at a show before?” Ygritte asked, and Graham nodded, desperately, fitfully, like he needed her to know that he wasn’t incompetent, just in over his head, just a little. She chuckled. “A good looking guy like you? I hardly believe that.” She said, taking one finger and running it lightly down Graham’s chest. She felt him shiver, and she paused her hand, just below the hem of his tank top, before running it back up his chest again. His shirt caught, just for a second, and for that second, she could see his belly and a little chest. She let her finger run up his chest, and then further, not touching his neck but settling, lightly, on his chin. “But I’m okay with being a first.” She added, softly, basically speaking into his lips as she leaned up to him.

She didn’t have to ask him to kiss her; for all that he was nervous, her mouth was so close, and her finger was on his chin, and he understood the assignment. He was so, so warm, his lips hot against hers, firm and tender and tasting like cigarettes and something else, unidentifiable; she tasted like alcohol, she knew, and she remembered to push blood into her face to warm it as the heat from his mouth reminded her how cold she was. It didn’t take but a second for the hand on her back to guide her around, letting her sling one leg over Graham’s lap and letting her perch there, now facing him. Her hands found his jaw, and she pressed her palms to his face, feeling his hands settle on her hips, first, until one slowly, surely, started to snake up her ribs, dancing lightly over the lace of her corset top. She chuckled against his mouth, taking his hands with her own and lifting them to the destination he likely wanted, pressing them explicitly to her boobs; she felt him whimper against her lips, and then he pulled back, panting, holding her mostly by the sides rather than by the breasts themselves, keeping her from rocking off the unstable perch. She, briefly, remembered that he needed to breathe.

“There’s three more songs in the set before I have to-to be back here.” Graham breathed, working to catch his breath. “If you—would you—”

“I know where a back room is, I’ve helped the Nox set up events in here.” Ygritte said, pulling herself off Graham’s lap - much to his distaste, if the whine he let out said anything - before grabbing his hand and pulling him up to his feet. She pressed herself against him, pulling him into her body, reaching up to kiss him again, long and hard and hot, before pulling away again and leading Graham further into the back stage. Her heart, for all it did not beat, was racing, metaphorically; she had never actually fucked someone at a show before, and clearly, neither had he. Was it risky? Yes. Was it terrifying? Also yes. But for the moment, just the moment, Ygritte felt hot. She felt rebellious.

And she was going to fuck the drummer of the only Kindred band she knew well so hard he would think of that night for the rest of their unlives.

~*~

Graham skidded to a stop, just off the stage, only a handful of minutes later.

That? That had been a first. Not that it had been his first - Graham wasn’t exactly a player the way his friends had described it, but he’d been a ghoul since the 70’s, and in that time, he’d gotten laid, more than once. Hell, he had a fairly constant, long standing thing with the sound mixer for the band; it was very casual between them, as the sound mixer, Virgil, had suggested. Something about wanting to keep a distance, they’d said, while still getting a casual thing going. Graham was easy, regardless, and hadn’t minded it being casual - but what hadn’t ever happened was sex at a show. Virgil was adamantly against it - they didn’t shit where they ate, they said - and all of Graham’s previous prospects were before he’d joined as the alternate drummer. And, while Graham wasn’t trying to fuck someone at a show, there seemed to almost be a rite of passage missing from his experience as a performer.

AMP, his boss, stared as he slid into view. They were twisting a knob on the end of their guitar, and from the extra string sticking out from the end, it looked like they had probably snapped one. “Sorry! I’m here, though. I didn’t—I didn’t miss the encore, right?” Graham asked, half out of breath from running and half out of breath from the earlier exercise. AMP watched him, the flush to his face, the damp spot on his shirt, and they raised a single, slow eyebrow, the string creaking as they turned the knob.

“No, I snapped a string, so we’re delayed anyway.” AMP gestured as they turned the knob further. “Where the hell did you even go, though? You’re not one to wander. Unless someone pretty caught your eye?” AMP asked, and they asked like they didn’t know, because they likely didn’t. They were bad about impulse, and clearly, the question was an impulsive one, the addition a guess they chuckled at, a thing their brain decided they needed to say and a thing they didn’t question. But then Graham also laughed, awkwardly, a hand behind his head like they’d guessed right, and that raised eyebrow went up high enough to almost meet their curling hairline. “Oh, shit, you did, didn’t you?”

“Heh.” Graham simply chuckled. “I don’t wanna put anyone on blast, but…”

“You dog!” AMP laughed, using their nails and their vampiric strength to simply snap the extra string off the end of the guitar, now that it was tight enough. They plucked it, twisting the knob to fully tune it as they did, the string murmuring up through the tones as they found the right one. Bridger, the drummer, stuck their head in from the curtain at the words, where they were actively working on setting up their drums; their encore was a double-drum setup, and Bridger was fussy with making sure it was all right before they played it.

“What?” They asked, irritated. “And I’m not a dog.”

“I didn’t mean you, Bridger.” AMP laughed again, pausing a second to add a little finesse to the tuning before giving the whole thing a strum. “And tuned. No, I meant Graham. He got laid at a show! Finally.”

“Okay, then.” Bridger grumbled. They weren’t not proud - Graham could tell Bridger was happy for him, if only for the fact that he hadn’t been stabbed yet - but they were also clearly not looking forward to dealing with whatever mess got left behind. “I’m not storing the instruments tonight, then. And don’t touch my drums. I don’t want anything sticky.” They grumbled, before they vanished. Graham’s shoulders dropped, a little, at the comments.

“…We cleaned up.” He mumbled. AMP shook their head.

“Yeah, you know Bridger, though. C’mon, Romeo, we gotta hit this last song, and then you’re free to pine or whatever else you wanna do about this… person. Girl? Guy? Either, neither, mix of the two?” AMP paused, scanning Graham’s face as they spoke like the reaction would tell them; the fact that he looked a little more lovestruck at girl was enough. “Girl, then. But, hey! Now you get the real magic of fucking someone at a show.” AMP said, taking Graham’s arm and guiding him to the back stage; he hopped up onto the stage without the stairs, while AMP took them. “‘Cause she’s in the audience, right?”

“Yeah…” Graham said, and then it seemed to hit him that she was in the audience. He was on the stage. He could, in fact, make her the most important person in the room, in the way that fans and lovers always coveted, and the way his face split in delight said he got it. “Yeah!”

“There you go. Now, c’mon. You’ve got fans now. Can’t keep them waiting.”

~*~

Knees? Wobbling.

Pants? Still kind of sticky and sort of damp, but not as much as they could have been. Certainly less than if she’d been with a vampire; there was a consistency issue, when the result was mostly blood, that Ghouls didn’t have. Though, it was easier to just absorb blood.

Body? Buzzing in a way she hadn’t been buzzing for years. Not that Milo was a poor lover, but he was no Don Juan and he was certainly no Sven.

Hair? Mussed up, tousled, definitely looking like sex-hair. Jacket? Mostly on her shoulders, which was good enough. Flannel? Around her waist and hiding the slowly spreading dark patch at the back of her jeans. Did she look like she’d had sex? Probably, likely, especially to the Salubri. They were a perceptive bunch, especially when it came to gossip and rumor. Did she care? Not really. Most of the Salubri already knew her business, anyway, and the only problem would be the ones that showed up in between.

Naomi was back at the table with Elizabeth and Addicia when she returned, and from the way Naomi was grinning - it was a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, which she had all but picked up from her wife - there was no hiding her escapades from any of them. Ygritte sighed, striding, confidently, to the table and retaking her seat. It took a lot of willpower for her not to make a face when she sat, however, as the wetness in her jeans was suddenly very present and very cold. She pushed blood down into her loins just long enough to warm her as she took the beer Elizabeth slid her.

“So,” Elizabeth started, always the boldest, leaning over the table, “He any good?”

“Better than Milo.” Ygritte replied. There was no sense in being coy, or precious - they knew. Elizabeth had encouraged it, Addicia had as well, and Naomi had clearly whisked the security away from the scene with full knowledge of what she was protecting. Addicia let out a low ooooo noise at the roast - though she lifted a hand to receive a high-five at the same time - and Elizabeth cackled.

“And it certainly did you some good!” She reached out, slapping the middle of the table as though to make a point, and Ygritte had to laugh at her exuberance. Elizabeth was almost more overjoyed that she’d gotten laid than Ygritte was. “Look at you, oozing confidence. You’re practically radiant.”

“It’s like getting laid fixed you.” Addicia added, with a laugh. “I wish it were that easy all the time.”

“Says the woman with a girlfriend and not much t’fix.” Elizabeth countered, and Addicia leaned back, her hands in the air in concession; she had started dating a Giovanni out of New York a decade previously, and they’d been happy, if separated more often than not. “I’m happy for you, lass, for what it’s worth. I don’t see what you see in him—” “Elizabeth, you’re only into redheaded women who wear armor; he’s almost the exact opposite of that.” Naomi cut in, briefly, sipping at her beer. For all Elizabeth dished it, from the way she narrowed her eyes good naturedly at Naomi, she also was able to take it. Her wife, Azrael, was also the mother figure of the coterie, and Naomi was Azrael’s direct childe. They were, for what it was worth, mother and daughter.

“—but, I can see how that made you feel, and that’s what’s important.” Elizabeth finished, and Ygritte could feel her lightly kick out at Naomi under the table. A second set of legs entered the fray - not Naomi’s, if Ygritte could tell anything - and there was a brief scuffle, before it all settled. Even for being a strange thing, it made Ygritte feel good when the Nox bickered, just a little. It made them feel like family. “Question is, you think you’re gonna see him again?” Elizabeth added. Ygritte paused, looking up to the stage as the band returned, to the elated cheers of the crowd.

There were two drum sets, and she watched Graham sit at the one on the right as AMP introduced the last song. She smiled; his shirt was still wet at the bottom, and something about that made her heart feel strangely full. It almost felt like he was claiming her, in a strange way, a sign that he wasn’t embarrassed about their triste and that she shouldn’t be, either. “I dunno,” She replied, watching Graham adjust the position of the seat, this one actually fit to his height, his knees not up by his chest. He saw her, and they locked eyes, before he grinned, madly, and pointed his drum stick at her with a wink. Her face went hot in a way she couldn’t control, being acknowledged like that in front of a crowd. She saw several heads turn, and she tried to resist the urge to hide, instead, blowing a small kiss Graham’s way instead. He caught it.

“That absolutely seems like a very firm, very unaffected answer.” Elizabeth said, sarcastically, leaning over until she was watching Graham with a similar sight line as Ygritte. “He seems interested, at least, and you’re certainly still flirting. You get his number?”

“Elizabeth, leave her alone and enjoy the encore. You can badger her about her love life after.” Naomi finally stepped in, and Elizabeth shrugged, backing off. Ygritte didn’t mind; honestly, she hardly noticed Elizabeth’s question, considering Graham was still on stage. She was drawn to his presence, to his smile, and he seemed drawn to her, even as he pounded away on the drums. He was having the time of his life, hair going everywhere, arms flexing, but whenever he got a second, he would find her in the crowd, and every time he did, Ygritte felt like the only woman in the room. It was just her, and him, and the music, and nothing else, and she felt herself gripping the table almost too hard as she watched him drum.

Milo had been cute, and kind, until he wasn’t. Graham was supposed to be a one night stand. Sven had been her whirlwind, her tornado, her heavy and hard romance, and she hadn’t expected that to happen to her a second time. He was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of guy, or at least, that’s what she’d thought when she’d started dating him, and they’d been that way for three decades. If there was going to be another like him, she would have expected that to happen sometime during that period, yet, the only thing Sven graced her with outside of himself was a Tremere that put the suffer in insufferable. Yet, something in Ygritte’s cold, dead little heart seemed to stir when Graham looked her way, in the same way she’d felt the first time Sven looked at her and smiled. If it had been beating, she would have felt it skip. Instead, she felt dizzy, watching him play, like she was high without having imbibed. Light headed, even.

The feeling didn’t wear off, even as the encore ended, and they all bowed. It didn’t end as Graham shot her one last wave and his own returned kiss, even if it seemed to get him ribbing from the other band members - Saint seemed to be the most into ribbing him, even giving him a hug, and he laughed at the treatment; clearly, he also needed to get laid, if the reaction said anything - and it didn’t end as they exited the venue and headed back to Naomi’s cabin. It didn’t even end as they started drinking more heavily, lazing around on the sofa, talking about past conquests, about random people they’d slept with - or the strangest places they’d slept around, which was a conversation that Elizabeth was always prepared to win - and it didn’t end when the sun started to crest the horizon and Ygritte found herself curled up in the same bed as Addicia, the last vestiges of sleep trying to take her along with them.

All she could think, as the night left them and the daylight began, was about the way Graham’s face looked when he smiled, and in her heart, her very last thought before sleep, was just fuck.

~Ostara Six~

The next year was a wild ride of attempting to wrangle the newborn Dana who was already full of energy and life. Sydney worked tirelessly to keep her fed, and entertained, though appreciated the instances of being able to nap during the day, because Saint and Bridger had kept the baby amused and active during the evenings. Within this time, Dana's hair grew into about the length that Saint kept theirs. Along the way, her birthday came, and when the sun went down that evening a even younger looking cornflower appeared in the newly erected baby gate. It made Dana smile and laugh and it was as if the two were old friends. Before sunrise, cornflower did a little spin and poofed into thin air, causing Dana to clap - an amazing feat at three months. Her two parents watched in stunned silence. The summer was a relatively busy time in Asheville, Bridger returned to work sporadically, alternating with Saint, to slowly ease back into the way things were. Neither wanted to leave their adorable daughter, but had someone to look after her, and had obligations. It was to Saint she said her first word. "Bidge!" while pointing at Bridger's coat on the rack. This made Saint cry joyful tears and laugh heartily. Can't tell if she misses them tonight or if she's swearing / dunking on them.

When she was three, Dana had become a little troublemaker, much to Saint's amusement and Bridger's exhaustion. She wore her hair back in a ponytail, wrapped in a bow. She was allowed to pick her own clothes, but mostly opted for dresses for their freedom of movement and patterns - leaning towards more pastel blues than any other color. Dancing and Cartwheeling were part of here usual play routines. She liked music unbefitting to a child her age. While Dana's three immediate caretakers attempted to show her child friendly videos and songs, she would only dance to Beatles and Heavy Metal there was no in between, slowly learning words to faster paced tracks like Twist and Shout, Helter Skelter, Screaming For Vengeance, Piece of Mind, and Holy Diver. The baby room was transformed into a full fledged child's room through Hugo and AMP's hard work - as a surprise for Saint - who had put in so much work during the pregnancy. It was also the time frame where young Dana Parks started going to Pre-School during the day. Bridger was more nervous than anyone else, but the socializing aspects of it proved immediately beneficial. Dana formed some friends as much as any other three year old could do. Her and her immediate circle would pull some low tier pranks on teachers. Sydney had to answer a decent number of phone calls home, which was at least better than having to stay awake herself all day.

Dana never asked why her parents could only hang out in the evening. It just became the norm. She never asked why the two of them would go out back and spar. The effects it had on the both of them were always immediately obvious that it wasn't out of malice, but some deeper positive thing she couldn't quite yet understand. They would even bring her to band practice on the weekends, where she met Graham and Virgil, and got to see her best friend AMP. She loved seeing the four stack perform and work on new tracks for Psychic Assault. She wore ear protection due to the volume. Before the sun came up, she would lay in between Saint and Bridger in their bed - the two would dote on her, and humor her childlike questions, and tell her abridged stories of their many adventures, and histories, avoiding the bits that would otherwise be terrible, or Masquerade-Breaking, to hear. They didn't have to come up with a mommy / daddy equivalent, their names were enough, though she would often fall short on her Gangrel's parent's name. Saint and Bridgey. Unlike when Saint shortened it to Bridge, Bridger never found this to be anything less than adorable.

When the time came, Dana went to Cape Fear Elementary. While debating public or home schooling for years, Saint and Bridger ultimately agreed that she seemed to do well enough in Pre-School which had become a bit of a test run, that continuing a more standard education was the play. And although they could not take her or pick her up or otherwise keep an eye on her, there was always a Diamondback keeping close watch and reporting any and all major events to the two parents. By the age of seven, she had started getting into fights and winning them. According to reports, she rarely started any of them, usually it was some boy trying to bully her as a form of flirting, to which she'd never let something slide.

"Dana, sweetheart, we can't be dislocating other kids shoulders."

"They wouldn't leave me alone, Saint!"

"Saint's right though my little bumblebee, if you really want to get them to stop talking to you, you should rip their tongues out." Bridger added. This elicited a glare from Saint and a chuckle from Dana.

"I know that's not the answer either. First off - gross! Second off - his shoulder can be fixed!"

"That's not the point, and Bridger, I'll talk to you afterwards. The point is, these kids are misguided. They think that's how they make an impression on you. Positive or negative. You can't let them get to you or provoke you, cause then they'll think it worked. Does that make sense?"

"Are ya'll misguided?" Dana's words came judgmentally and silly all at once as she referred to their sparring.

Bridger was immediately embarrassed, glaring at Saint right back.

"I…" the Gangrel started through gritted teeth. "I was. I didn't understand how I felt when we started dating. I just thought I just wanted to be better than them, not that I had feelings for them, then Saint slowly thawed out my heart."

"I didn't ever hold it against you babe, I understood early on that we were very similar, similar past, similar… uh… trauma, similar runaway kind of vibes, that's why I-"

"Enough, yuck, parents flirting is the worst."

"We're not - never mind. Regardless, if you want to learn how to fight properly, I'll teach you, but it should be used in self defense-"

"Ha! Very funny Bridge, self defense, from you? Dana, if you want to learn self defense fighting, talk to AMP and Hugo, they'll teach you how to never even get hit. Only thing this cat's gonna teach you is how to sneak up on someone, pounce on em from behind and-"

"That's fair. That's fair. But don't forget punkass, AMP and Hugo taught me how to fight properly too. I think I'm at least down to teach some of the basics, ya know?"

"Yeah yeah, it deserves to be you, at first at least."

"Woah really? You'll teach me how to fight Bridge?"

Why do I even have the R at the end of my name, none of my family members fucking use it. "Stay out of fights for a week, and then we'll begin your training. Deal?"

"Deal!" Dana responded quickly and enthusiastically. Saint shook their head and put the bridge of their nose between their thumb and index finger.

"Speaking of misguided youths." Saint started. "You seem to be doing well in classes, you do the readings, you're good at math, you are enjoying school yeah?"

"…yeah?"

"Okay, good. Checking to see if it was worth keeping you in there. You know, we still have Ms. Sydney for another eleven years, if you ever wanted to do the home schooling thing, we could always-"

"No! No, my friends are there, please, I won't fight anymore, I prom-"

"I wasn't leveraging that against you dear, I just genuinely wanted to know if you were comfortable. We can't keep these sort of tabs on you during the day you know, so like-"

"And why is that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, some of my friends talk about the things they do with their parents during the day. They say my situation is unusual but not entirely unheard of, I just. It's always seemed normal to me, but most people don't have a daytime person aside from their night time parents."

"I'll teach you about that too, when we train."

"Okay. That'll have to do. G'night Saint, g'night Bridgy." Dana said, hugging both of her parents, and getting her forehead smooched by both in return. She got up and ran off to the living room, closing the door behind her and leaving Saint and "Bridgy" to themselves.

"You'll teach her about that too? Bridger. Come on bud."

"What? I'm not gonna explain everything, I'm just gonna have another excuse."

"She's not an idiot, you dumb cat, she's gonna see right through that and figure shit out eventually. We should go to Nell."

"Ugh, I guess we should go to Nell. The Changeling will be here soon though."

"Does that all still seem like it's on the level?"

"I mean, it doesn't do anything weird, just likes hanging out with her. Doesn't mean I don't keep a cold iron knife in my pocket when it's around, just in case."

"And we aren't naming it because it appeared last time we mentioned it, like we summoned it here by naming it."

"Right. Dana still seems to enjoy the company, and remembers it fondly. I'm sure she's expecting to see it Sunday at this point."

"Fair. Just another one of her friends at this point. She's really growing huh?"

"Like a fucking weed. I think we've been good parents so far, given her a relatively normal childhood apart from the Fae visits, and the questions about us being Vampires, and how that works. Not in so many words obviously."

"I really am proud of you, of both of us. Ugh, I love you Bridger, I'm so happy with this life we've found ourselves in."

"I love you too. Maybe we should do something about that." Bridger said suggestively, a rarety from them.

Saint grinned and ducked under the covers.

cornflower's visit came and went on her Birthday. Every time they appeared, they were the same age as Dana, so as seven-year-olds, they did as seven-year-olds did. They watched some cartoons, and they pretended to sword fight in the back yard with sticks. More than anything else however, Dana was excited to show cornflower some her new favorite tracks. It listened with her with great interest and intensity.

"What are you, cornflower?"

"I am allegedly your imaginary friend."

"Nuh uh, you're real. I can poke you with my finger."

"I believe that's a question for your parents."

"But they never tell me anything. Not about the 'whats', only ever the why's and the how's, but it always feels so secret, like they're protecting something that's actually a big deal. I don't wanna pry cause I know it's important to them, but I'm so curious."

"Curiosity is genetic. Makes sense with the Bobcat."

"That's another thing, why does Bridger have to do with Bobcats? It's weird, isn't it?"

"No, it's not weird. I'm weird. They're both just nocturnal. They have to be."

"I know." Dana acknowledged, looking a little dejected.

"Cheer up, cat princess, you'll learn things soon enough."

"Should we get a cat? I want a cat, I swear we had a cat at one point or another, but I'm already too much for them to take care of, so much that they need Ms. Sydney's help still."

"They wouldn't need your at home assistant if you were nocturnal too. Perhaps in time that will be the case."

"But I like the sun."

"Do you not also like the moon?"

"I do. I'll think about it."

"True, you have your whole life ahead of you, you have plenty of time princess."

"You know, you can call me by my name. I think we're friends enough at this point."

"It would be rude, improper even, I shouldn't even know your full name."

"Why's that?"

"My own rules. I don't want to have that sort of power over a friend. Please don't put me in that position."

"I mean, I don't really care, it's Dana Allison Parks."

"Hmm, what a powerful name. You are a skeptical investigator of sorts, you are to be closely protected, and you are an amalgamation of a deep love rooted in this very mountain range. I don't want to be indebted to you however, as this is a big thing you have done, telling me such things, so I'll tell you my true name as well, but you are to never tell anyone under any circumstances, do you understand?"

"Yeah!"

"cornelius ostara foxglove."

"er, I think I'll just stick with cornflower."

"As you should. I'll stick with princess, unless you strongly oppose."

"It's fine." Dana rolled her eyes.

"Names are dangerous and beautiful things where I'm from."

"And where is that?"

"Ever curious, as your name suggests. You know I cannot say. I'm just here for the day, and I'm not to interrupt."

"But then you just leave, into thin air. Some kind of magic. Like real magic."

"Maybe in time you'll learn magic on your own, should such a thing really exist."

"Great, now I'm right back to where I started." Dana pouted.

"There there, you have learned a great deal today. If you ever get into trouble, call to me by my full name, in your mind, and I will be there to help you."

"How does that work?"

"Questions questions, let's just enjoy the rest of the evening. We aren't finished with The Number Of The Beast."

"Oh! Right, true, next is Run To The Hills! Come on!" She dragged it back over to the record player and the two got back to their regularly scheduled hangouts.

~Ostara Seven~

In January, before Dana's Birthday, the Parks house was now arranged where there wouldn't be any obvious vampiric tells or Masquerade Violations. There was food in the fridge, and blood hidden in a mini fridge in their bedroom - since Dana was starting to make food for herself if she felt so inclined. Her tastes leaned towards extremes Very Sweet, Very Spicy, Very Sour, all of which Bridger attributed to how they ate when they were pregnant with her. Dana's musical taste expanded, not just the usual classic rock and metal, but expanding into the more screamy aspects of hardcore punk, screamo, and death metal. Her voice developed quite a range for singing very beautifully, as she enjoyed her time in the school choir, but she was obsessed with getting that angry growl down. Saint helpfully found videos on line that explained that to not hurt yourself doing it, that it was best to practice having your throat hold onto the feeling of a burp. Her eventual ability to roar and scream lyrics made her relatively popular with the weird kids crowd.

When Dana's eleventh Birthday came on seventh, her parents were finally comfortable with her inviting her friends over for long periods of time. Naturally they threw her a Birthday party there, stocking the house with junk food, and soda, and ordered a great deal of pizzas. In the living room, the television was accompanied with the newest Nintendo Console, with controllers enough for four to play at a time. And by the couch, a pair of mic stands for karaoke sat, with the machine for such things hooked up to a projector. With the sun setting earlier in the winter, they were able to do a lot of setup starting at five-thirty, without having to rely on Sydney.

One moment, it was the peaceful but somewhat stressful setup of trying to make the house impressive to a bunch of pre-teen Kine. The next moment, over a dozen of said pre-teens filled the walls, handing off parent-bought presents, some ill-fitting, some genuinely on the nose for Dana's takes, but she was grateful for anything, she mostly just was happy she could coexist with her friends and her parents - a rare occurrence. Some of her friends referred to her by her initials since it did form a sound, though it took a minute for Bridger and Saint to catch on that they were talking about her when they said "Dap".

Bouncing around between Karaoke and Smash Bros and Mario Kart, they kids eventually made their way outside. The backyard was setup with flameless patio heaters and lamps out on the snow covered grass, and had barrels full of various wooden weaponry. Occasionally they would take turns pairing up for two on two combats. Dana by this point, having trained with Bridger and Saint, was a natural, though her more theatre-focused friends held their own better than the rest.

"Dap, you're undefeatable!"

"You should get into fencing in high school!"

"Screw that, she should go into MMA!"

"Very funny guys. I just like doing this. I don't want to make it an obligation." She responded to her squad.

From the deck, Saint, Hugo and Bridger smoked while AMP stayed in between their three closest people. All four looked down at them from their distance. AMP's arms were draped over their friends shoulders.

"Who would've thought? A well adjusted childhood. Our little bumblebee is growing up." Bridger said with a wide grin, hidden behind their mask.

AMP and Saint looked shocked. "2033 and we have a very different Bridger." Hugo commented. This elicited a brief scowl from Bridger. "Parenthood will do that to ya."

"Hey, he's right though. Besides. Look at her. Look at us. Parenthood suits you." Saint acknowledged.

"Heh, yeah, I guess so. We did… pretty damn well so far. She seems genuinely happy."

"She is, but her fighting techniques need a little work." AMP said smugly.

"Wuh- what do you mean?" Bridger asked, defensively.

"Well, against the shorter friend she left her right side open the entire time. Then when she swung against the one she had her back entirely turned to the other. She seems like she's not compensating well enough in case she doesn't have a partner here. As if you trained her to fight, as if you were expecting Saint to be right next to you."

Bridger scowled, but raised their hands in admittance. "Uhh, point taken. Give her a little more time and she's all yours bud. I just wanted her focused on being more intentional than dislocating another kid's arm, but I do want her to properly defend herself - Saint?"

"Yeah I mean, I'm game. Going back to the happy thing. What do we do if she keeps these friends? What about when she knows about Kindred. She's not dumb, we can't keep this going forever."

"Then, she should probably become a Ghoul-" AMP started before being interrupted.

"Nope, nuh-uh, no way, no how, not happening." Bridger griped, crossing their arms.

"I mean… fair. She shouldn't be indebted to someone. She shouldn't have her freedom taken from her. But, my momma-bobcat friend, she will be a walking Masquerade violation. Look, I know what that was like for you."

"Not so full of fun travels with a wise mentor figure."

"No, not at all, and I'm sorry. Sometimes we're dealt a bad hand." AMP looked solemn at the direction the conversation had shifted. They backed up and placed a hand on Bridger's shoulder while resting on Hugo for support. "But, unless you send her off somewhere, she's going to find out, she's going to spread word about this, intentionally or otherwise. Yeah, I'm pretty much the least Cammy Seneschal, but you can't deny the power of word of mouth. Then we'll have hunters here and everything will crumble."

"Doesn't have to be something ya'll decide on right now, but AMP's right Kiddo, something is going to need to happen." Hugo agreed. Bridger's attention turned to Hugo, then to Saint, who nodded and put their hand on their other shoulder.

The grumpier Gangrel slid out of both of their shoulder-hand placements, lit a cigarette, but refused to take their eyes off Dana and her friends. After a long drag, they finally looked back to their two closest people. "You're right. You all are. It won't be like how it was with me. I'll do it."

"Woah, Bridge, you sure that-"

"I… think I need to make the concept right in my own brain. When the time's right of course. I need to course correct for what I've experienced. Not just so that she can exist in our world, but so that I can heal a bit too. Unless you-"

"No, I think that's a great idea babe."

"What I'm curious about is how she isn't showing any Ghoul signs at this point." AMP suggested. "Sure, Bridger, you were essentially a Kine for nine months, but you also weren't. And Saint's blood is in there too, Nell checked. Maybe it's the lack of constant Vitae. Maybe that's just not how it works. The little Fae child kind of played with genetics like everything was made up and the points didn't matter."

"Speaking of which, where is that little bastard?" Hugo asked.

"Probably waiting for the other kids to go home, it's getting late for them anyways." Saint acknowledged.

Soon enough, Dana's friends exited one by one as parents pulled up. Saint and Bridger up kept small talk with them, as well as a continued lie that they traveled a lot and worked long hours during the day. Once it was just the five of them, sitting on couches in the living room, Dana looked slightly disappointed.

"What's wrong dear?" Bridger asked in a doting but still gravely tone.

"Nothing… I mean… it was a good day, I had a good Birthday… but, not everyone showed up that I wanted to see."

AMP smiled. "You mean cornflower?" And just so, the small Piskey appeared.

"cornflower! You made it!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

This made her parents grimace. AMP guided them out of the living room.

"So, princess, did you have a good day? Get everything you wanted?"

"I did, but it's not about the stuff, we had my friends from school over, so I got to hang out with them, play games, sword fight, listen to music, the sort of stuff I wish I could have had you there for."

"Ah, but, maybe I was. I just can't be so easily perceived."

"But that's not fair. You're my friend too. Why cant I have my parents, and AMP, and my friends, and you at the same time?"

"Because, my dear, I am from another world. A messy world. A world that overlaps with yours. A world that depends on yours, and the Glamour it yields."

"You're a fairy."

"Oh?" cornflower smiled widely with intrigue. "So you know now of the Fae Folk?"

"Uhhh. Just a little bit."

"Then allow me to correct for misunderstandings, and reintroduce myself. I am cornflower, one of the Messengers of the Summer Court under Queen Titania. I have the longest leash that I know of, so I can do as I please. Those similar to me take this need to feed off of enjoyment and other emotions as rote, they don't enjoy it like I do. I enjoy making friends. Often times, other Fae Folk will kidnap people, I have no desire for such things. Often times, other Fae Folk will make misleading deals with humans, I have no desire for such things. I just want to really experience this world you live in while leaving an impact only at the parts I think are absolutely necessary."

"And… I am… important to you?"

"You are. You absolutely are. But if you ever encounter another of my kind, you run. Do you understand?"

"Dangerous?"

"More than you could possibly imagine."

"And how are my parents tied to all of this?"

"Your parents weren't able to conceive. I saw a future with you in it, so I made it a possibility."

"You… what? How? And that didn't answer my question. They can't just be weird because of that."

"Oh, no, they're weird in their own special way, but I dare not betray their trust. That's a conversation for you to have with them when it the time is right. You have to understand, their world, and the people in it, are dangerous too, and to include you in it puts you directly in harms way. They're leaving things out to protect you, but once you're ready, it will all make sense."

"Promise?"

cornflower extended a pinkie finger. Dana connected hers to it.

"However, while I don't mind dripping information at you slowly as I have over the past eleven years, I too would like to play a video game."

"Unless you'd rather sword fight." Dana smiled with the confidence of an eleven year old who just beat all her friends' collective asses.

"That I do not recommend. A Piskey must defend their parcels, and I am not unacquainted with the hilt nor end of a blade."

"It's… just wood."

"Ah yes, but wood, like ideas, splinter."

"Hmm. I guess so. Come on then, I'll play some of the songs from my Spotify Wrapped, get the console on, and we can race or fight. You want any chips or anything?"

"That would be delightful." The two gamed and snacked and listened and yapped all while Saint, Bridger, Hugo and AMP observed from a distance.

"A Piskey. I'm going to have to look into that-"

"Don't. Bridger, it's not like Werewolf shit. People have driven themselves mad trying to make heads or tails of Fae shit. Yeah?" Hugo looked to AMP for confirmation.

"Pretty much." AMP assisted. "At most, maybe ask a Kiasyd if we ever encounter another."

"The Kindred who attacked Arnott and her… wife." Bridger remembered out loud.

"Yeah, they have Fae blood in them. Fae stuff is kinda their whole thing." AMP admitted.

"Touche. Guess I'll have to grill one about Piskies if I ever get the chance. It said it's a messenger. What do you think that even means? They deliver letters?"

"Curiosity killed the cat, my friend." AMP said smugly.

"Ugh." Bridger said, giving up the ghost. "Then we just have a weird Fae kid visiting us for seven more years."

"You notice it's always the same age as Dana is? You think that's something it's doing intentionally or do you think it's changing based on some outside source?" Saint asked.

"I'd imagine it's intentional, to make her feel more comfortable." AMP speculated. "But ultimately we don't know, and you two are going to have to get okay with that. This thing operates with rules from a playbook we do not understand and have no access too. At the very least, it's not hostile, and it appears to actually care about her. It's weird, it's a little unsettling, but this entire thing was an impossibility that has been dropped into your lap, so it seems like a small price to pay."

Saint sighed, shaking their head yes in acknowledgement. "Yeah, for sure."

"Thanks," Bridger started. "I know you two don't have all the answers or whatever, but thank you for joining us in trying to make sense of the nonsense."

"Always." AMP said with a smile, and Hugo nodded in agreement, wrapping their forearms around their Malkavian.

Back at the console, Dana had just come in second with cornflower right behind her in third.

"So, the name."

"Your name?"

"No, your name. In the game. Dap."

"Oh, right, it's an abbreviation. I dunno sometimes my friends call me that instead of Dana."

"Do you like it? Do you prefer it?"

"Over Dana? I dunno. It's fine."

"Just checking in in case I need to change anything to make you more comfortable."

"Nah, anything is good."

"Alright there, Princess Anything."

"Okay smart-ass. Lock in for the next race."

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there." cornflower smiled, mentally taking note of the nickname.

~Ostara Eight~

Out of the frying pan and into the fryer, Dana graduated from middle school to high school, and by the time she was a Sophomore, she was starting to come into her own. It was then, at the start of 2038, that she was more and more confident that her parents were Vampires. Everything checked out in her brain, they didn't go out in the daytime, they were cold to the touch if she caught them off guard, and when she did see them sleep during the day, it wasn't a standard form of sleep. It was like they were dead. Unbreathing and still. By this point, while Miss Sydney was an important part of their household, she was needed less and less, as Dana was able to feed and dress herself, often looking to recipes online, or fashion Pinterest boards for inspiration rather than rigid rule books.

She weighed the words she'd heard nearly five years prior from cornflower heavily. When it came by the past few years, the focus was understanding more Fae stuff than her parent's Vampiric nature, since it would decline confirming anything to her. To be in the know would put her in harms way. To her it was evident that both Saint and Bridger wanted to keep her safe, as did the rest of their assorted friends that would come by. AMP, Hugo, Oliver, Nell, Naomi. None of them ever looked older. Just how many Vampires were in Asheville, North Carolina?

In school, Dana was able to focus up and maintain a solid GPA, eyeing the possibility of a college, though unsure what she'd want to do. In this, she brushed off potential suitors, and maintained a fairly busy social life mixed with her favorite extracurriculars. She did in fact join T.C. Robertson High's fencing team the previous year, and put many of the other freshman to shame. She didn't pursue band or choir, as she preferred the more punk vibe of making music on her own terms.

One evening without supervision, Dana was with a couple of friends at the Parks House. They were in the basement which had become the new spot for band practice. After jamming out a new track that went entirely unrecorded, the teens illegally drank and shot the shit about their personal lives. Dana's reliable inner circle was Kara, who had been her longest term friend, dating back to pre-teen era, Archie, who was a pretty promising bassist, and Jordan, who kept a steady enough beat on drums - they were no Graham, but they weren't trying to perform at the Orange Peel or anything, this was purely fun. The four of them appreciated having a space, during the day, away from prying eyes. Not because they were doing anything too devious, but not all of them had pleasant home lives.

"Dana, you at least get it, your parents are, well-" Jordan started hesitantly.

"Well?" Dana worried. God, please don't say Vampires. I wasn't really listening to what they were upset about.

"Not a Mom or a Dad. Gender Neutral." they clarified.

"Ah, right." Whew, dodged a bullet.

"I'm kinda thinking that that's maybe what I am too."

"Oh shit, Jordan, that's so cool." Kara encouraged. "You uh… ever tell anyone other than us right now?"

"Nahh, I mean, I'm not one hundred percent on that or anything, like, what does it even mean? I don't want to be a girl, I haven't felt like a guy-"

"That's really all it means, you're neither. And if anything happens, and you wanna go back to how you were, or you wanna do something different, that's cool too." Dana offered. "You want people to stop He-ing you?"

"Yeah kinda. I dunno, I don't wanna be too much trouble for people."

"Ayy fuck that." Archie finally chimed in. "If you wanna go by something, and someone fucks up, I'll fuck em up for you."

"Yeah me too." Dana admitted, balling up her fist tightly and smiling confidently.

Kara nodded. "You got us Jordan, no matter what."

Jordan produced a loose Pall Mall from their pocket, lit it, took a deep drag, and then coughed out the cloud. "Fuck. What a relief though."

"So, you sticking with Jordan?" Archie asked.

"Eh, at least for now."

"Cool cool, just keep us in the loop."

"My good they/them Jordan, would you please pass the cigarette, my good si-, er good ma-, my good bitch?" Archie requested unconfidently. The room erupted in laughter.

"I'm kinda like that too, I just don't give enough of a shit, doing the she/they sort of thing." Dana admitted. "And it's stupid cause I should be able to tell my parents, not like they're not going to be accepting, I just think Bridger is gonna be too-"

"Loud?" Jordan asked.

"Confused?" Archie continued.

"Pushy?" Kara finished, getting the nod from Dana.

"I just wonder if that's not… er, enby enough. Like I'm not committing to the idea of it or something."

"Nah, they've been cool in terms of stuff you've changed. Like, when you moved from dad rock to like the angrier stuff, or when you joined the fencing team, or whatever." Kara answered.

"No I know, that's why I said it's stupid. They're both good to me, even if they can't be there for me during the day."

"And why is that?" Archie asked, taking a smaller drag off the Pall Mall before passing it to Kara. "They're in that band, right? What, no daytime shows?"

"No, no daytime shows. They just work really hard at night. Some sort of city patrol on an official level when they aren't performing." Dana said, grasping at straws for what their actual jobs may be.

"What's with the mask?" Jordan asked nervously. "Bridger sick or what? Their voice always sounds like they're about to scream or cry or something, mixed with like a low purr."

"That I have no idea about." Dana said, lying. She at the very least knew about some sort of affliction her louder parent had endured that yielded a wild looking mouth. "They are a bit… disfigured, not good for pleasant company or whatever."

"Ah, sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"You're fine Jordan. It's fine to be curious, just don't ask them about it or it'd be weird, ya know?"

"Saint's at least pretty normal lookin'. Er, no offense." Archie paused, but Dana waved her hand unbothered. "But, they also don't look that much older than us. Like a twenty-something that's trying to be perceived as older."

"Good genes I suppose. Maybe I'll keep my complexion when I get to be as old as they are. I dunno."

"Well, they have good taste, in music, and houses, this place fuckin' rules." Archie noted.

"It's always been like this too. Like, furniture has moved around a few times, but it's just as tidy as when we were kids." Kara pointed out, taking a short puff then offering the Pall Mall to Dana.

Dana eyed it, thought about it, then declined. "Sorry, if I'm gonna get into cigarettes, it's not about to be a pocket Pall Mall. No offense."

"Hey, none taken." Archie said. "Besides, if you can keep doing what you do on the mic, it's best we keep that voice in tip top shape. Emily Armstrong aint got shit on you, bud."

"Heh, thanks."

"Why don't we go to downtown tonight?" Jordan asked

"Why?" Kara asked. "Not that I'm opposed, but what would we even do?"

"Well, last night was new years, school still out, but it's First Friday. Shit's gonna be open later, there will be like, outside vendors, food trucks, and it's our last chance to actually take a week day and do what we want with it before we're back in classes. I dunno, just an idea."

After a brief pause in consideration along the room, Archie declared "Fuck it, let's go", which was met with nodding approval from the rest of his friends. "Think your parents will let ya just head out for the evening, Dap?"

"I mean yeah, I'll just text them and they can see it when they wake up. It'll be fine."

The four teens packed up their stuff before the sun began to set, and headed out. Archie had brought their dad's Silverado, and while they weren't a hardened driver, they held their own on the road. Dana texted "Out with friends from school, I'll be back before too long." to Saint. It wasn't far before they found themselves parking on the side street parking along Aston Street, a small branch off of Biltmore Avenue. Slightly askew, but in a two hour parking zone, they locked the truck up after their friends filed out.

The setting sun in the distance gave the busy streets a welcoming glow. Loud noises began to erupt from sports bars and night clubs. Kara took time to peruse the street vendors, and found bracelets for the each of them. She bought them in secret, then returned to the pack.

"Hey so, I thought, if you want them, we could each rock one of these?" She said nervously, extending a hand holding four cheap hempen bracelets. Each contained a different colored bead, threaded through and wrapped in the twine. Without anyone discussing, he three friends picked exactly what she'd had in mind for them. Archie got the brown more neutral colored bead, Jordan got the purple one, and Dana took the blue which matched her eyes before taking the last one and sliding it over Kara's knuckles for her.

The squad passed the Wortham Theatre, a spot that held significance for most all of them minus Archie.

"Nah, I'm not trying to be seated for the next three hours, I wanna do stuff, ya know? Besides, what's even showing? Cabaret? Passsss."

"Yeah I mean, I don't think I have going to see a show kind of money." Jordan acknowledged. "Saved a lot from working, but I've spent a lot on shows and merch and stuff."

"For sure." Dana reassured. "I also am more apt to do something, but what is there to do other than shop, or eat, or sneak in to a bar or something?"

"Could do an escape room. But either way let's eat first." Jordan posited.

"Ya'll thinkin' All Day Darlin' the diner?" suggested Kara.

"Diner food, hell yes, let's go." Archie decided, and they hoofed it towards the fooderie.

On the walk there, they passed a night club The Black Dahlia. It seemed to be preparing for some kind of busy night, with workers setting up tables outside. Dana's eyes lingered on the table for longer than they passed it. Jordan noticed. "Hey Dap, you want one of those shirts?" they asked.

"Uhh, I guess?"

Jordan walked over to the table full of confidence. "Hey there, what's a freak like me gotta do to get one of those shirts?"

"Pay for it?" The lady at the booth asked with a concerned expression. "This is for a night club, and you look like a child so-"

"Woah woah, hold on there. It could be a good advertising opportunity. We're an upcoming band, and the hot one would wear it at our next show. She's our vocalist."

The lady looked intrigued, peeped the group for a second, then returned her gaze to Jordan. "Ya know what, sure kid. Here ya go." she said, and handed them a Medium Black Dahlia shirt.

"Thanks. Don't miss us."

They headed back to their squad with a shirt in hand.

"Didn't see any money exchanged, she just gave you that?" Archie asked, confused.

"An enby has their ways." Jordan responded with a smirk, then tossed the shirt to Dana.

"Th-thanks!" She said, surprised, sliding the shirt on over her striped long sleeve.

"Genuinely impressive J-" Kara smiled.

"What the fuck though. That's craaazy." Archie said in disbelief.

The four stack entered the diner, ordered four waters, one coffee for Dana, creamer no sugar, she also got a biscuits and gravy, some pancakes for Kara, an omelet for Jordan, and a sausage egg and cheese biscuit for Archie. They settled in comfortably, continuing their various conversations as they devoured their meals in the way that teenagers were apt to do.

"Omelet because egg cracking, or what?" Kara giggled at Jordan.

"Wha- no, I just wanted- okay, ya know what, that's fair." Jordan admitted with a grin. Looking down at their food, they mumbled. "Hey look, it's me."

Dana covered the tab. Saint and Bridger gave her an allowance, and while others could cover their own, minus maybe Archie, she didn't want for much, or eat out super often, so it kind of just built up for small things like this. While they were inside, the sun had set properly, and Dana got the response of "Be safe, check in when you can." from Saint, to which she heart reacted.

Afterwards, they continued roaming downtown. They saw street performers, people in drag advertising upcoming shows, food trucks with sweets and barbecue and multi cultural cuisine, it was a loud but exciting place to be. Checking the time, Kara suggested they'd be late for the escape room, but Archie dismissed that concern. Said they knew a way to cut between buildings to get to the street they needed to be on. The squad agreed and headed down an alley.

Half way through, they were approached by a sketchy looking individual.

"Hey man, we don't want no trouble." Archie said, "Just trying to make a timer."

"Then I won't keep you for long." a wet, strained voice came from the figure, as he rushed over and plunged a serrated hunting knife in to Archie's abdomen. Kara let out a scream and fell to the cold concrete ground. Jordan turned red in anger. They ran up to tackle him, but Dana put up a hand to stop them, indicating with her other hand that there were more people in this alley than they'd anticipated. They helped Kara up, and kept their distance the best they could, but they were soon cornered.

Fuck, fuck, what do I do? I can't really make for my phone, Bridger and Saint would know what to do, hell they'd be here. Archie's not dead, but he's hurting bad, if he doesn't get help immediately, and we don't get out of here, we're fucked.

They didn't notice the tears that crept up out of her eyes betraying her stoic expression.

Maybe this won't do anything, but it won't hurt to try. cornelius ostara foxglove! She thought the name loud in her brain.

It suddenly began to rain with thunder and lightning. Not snow, but properly rain. The concrete beneath them quickly cracked apart, as plant life sprouted wildly from beneath. Long, thick vines wrapped themselves around the assailants legs, and before them stood a sixteen year old cornflower. The way it's bangs covered parts of its face now did very little to cover its sheer fury. Dana slumped down to the ground in disbelief. The three men were dragged under the earth, and the concrete reformed over them. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, she saw cornflower turn to her with the same flowery smile it had given her every year it visited on her birthday, before it returned to action mode.

"Your friend needs help, and fast. I can do that, but I need to bring him somewhere else. Do you trust me?"

Kara and Jordan stood their in stunned silence.

"Yes. More than anything. Please." Dana answered.

"As you wish Dap." It grabbed Archie by the chest, with one hand, and vanished with them into thin air. Kara and Jordan crouched to join Dana on the ground.

"Dana?" Jordan started.

"…yeah?"

"What the fuck just happened?"

"I… I don't know."

"That thing knew you."

"It did."

"Where's Archie?"

"Somewhere safe."

"Now you're being all mysterious."

"We should go home."

"Uh, yeah, for sure. Here-" Kara extended a hand and helped Dana up.

She pulled them both into a hug once she was standing with them. "I'm just glad we made it out of that. They fuckin' stabbed Archie. They got him good. He wasn't going to make it to a hospital. So I sent him with… that thing."

"It asked if you trusted it." Jordan said in a confused tone.

"…yeah."

"Do you?"

Dana pulled away from her group hug, releasing the other two. "Yeah. Yeah I do."

"Then since we trust you, as stupid as this may sound, we trust it."

They began the walk back to the truck. "We cannot tell a soul about this. You two understand?" Jordan insisted. "Like, fully promise to not tell anyone. I don't want to have to attempt to explain 'Yeah, mom, dad, our friend just vanished with a stranger into thin air after being stabbed with a fucking Bowie knife."

"Agreed," Kara responded, "but for the record, it was some sort of hunting knife. Bowie knives aren't serrated. Dana, is your friend going to fix him?" Attempting to remedy the situation with a dry humor.

"I sure fucking hope so." Dana said unaffected by the attempt. "But yeah, we're the only people who get to know."

They got back to the truck, and Jordan began dropping their friends off. Dana was the first out at the Parks household.

"Jordan! Text me when you get back. Not that I'm worried something's gonna happen, but considering what we just saw-"

"Of course Dap, definitely will. And you let me know if you find out anything. It's just gonna need to be over voice and not text since that could get intercepted by prying eyes."

"Yeah for sure. See you both soon."

She walked in to Bridger and Saint sitting on the couch in the living room, watching (something) on the television. Once they saw her expression was nearly tears they stepped up to console her and muted the screen.

"What's the matter bumblebee?" Bridger asked in a genuinely sympathetic tone.

"I… I don't know. Weird stuff happened. I needed to get home." Her tone was despondent.

"You weren't out very long, we thought it was going to be one of those 'I'm chilling with the friends, we'll be back much later' sort of things. What happened?" Saint asked.

"We were going to…. We were having a good time. Then we got cornered in an alley, and-"

"Did they hurt you? Did they hurt any of them?" Bridger asked, a protective rage building behind their eyes.

"Let me finish, Bridger. This guy got in close, tried to hold us up, for money or something. I noticed there were two others. Archie tried to talk to him and got stabbed for it. There was all this blood, and I froze, and then… I…"

"What is it? You can tell us anything." Saint reassured her, masking the panic.

"I… thought about the Fairy that visits me."

"cor-" Bridger began to mouth.

"-And then it appeared. It changed the weather. It dragged the men away, beneath the earth, and it asked if I trusted it. I said yes, and then it took Archie to save him. We all saw it though. Kara saw it, Jordan saw it, we swore to keep it secret, cause it was so weird, but I specifically said that no other people will know… And for some reason. I… didn't think you two constituted as people."

Bridger and Saint's expressions shifted from anger and shock appropriately to a shame in taking so long to tell her, even though the rules of the land otherwise forbid it happening.

"Here, sit down, Bridger, can you make her a tea? I think it's finally time we have this talk."

"Yeah." Bridger responded, giving their child a tight hug, and a masked forehead smooch.

Dana joined Saint on the couch, while Bridger prepped a tea for her.

"We have a lot of stuff to tell you Dana, and you're gonna need to listen close, and try and understand that we've had to keep you in the dark for-"

"For my safety. Yeah. I know."

"You know?"

"What, that my two nocturnal parents are… are… vampires? Yeah, I think I know."

The sound of clattering mugs in the kitchen only proved her right.

Saint sighed, and put an arm around her. "Yeah… we're vampires. There are a ton of vampires actually."

"How the fuck-"

"In a second. You've waited this long, what's another two minutes as Bridger finishes the tea? They should be here for this too."

"I'M TRYING, I'M SORRY I GOT A LITTLE DISTRACTED HEARING HER ACCUSE US OF BEING VAMPIRES."

Dana, for all the weird she felt, for all that she'd wished they told her earlier, still choked up a laugh at Bridger's teacup mishaps. "So. What does this even mean? You two can't go outside in the sunlight. I've been made perfectly clear about that. How did this happen? When did this happen? Was Miss Sydney a vampire? Am I a vampire? I mean, I don't think I am, I can go in the sun, but like, what does that mean? How does it work?"

Bridger entered, holding a mug of tea, shaking a little bit in their hand, and set it before her on the living room table, before taking a seat on the next couch over.

"Bridge, it's up to you, I'm cool with either of us doing this."

"I can. So, neither of us are from North Carolina. Saint's from Seattle, I'm from Tennessee. You know all this. We both had pretty shit childhoods that put us in situations where we got Embraced. We met here as Kindred, er, Vampires. Turns out, Asheville is a particularly Vampire-Rich city. There's rules and stuff for being a Vampire and it turns out, one of the major ones, in a city like this, is not letting people know. People, humans, kine, find out, they have to be… either gotten rid of, or wrapped up into this. AMP, Saint and myself, we're kind of the ones in charge of upholding this rule."

"So you've just been lying to me for my entire life…. but you just… broke this rule, telling me all of this?"

"Yeah, and I'm so sorry that we had to, but it's one of those things where, we've talked to local vampire leadership, who we work for, and knew this day would come, just not when. If you tell anyone any of this, we're in huge trouble. The city would be in huge trouble. Like, you wouldn't see me, or Bridge, or AMP, or Hugo, or any of our friends ever again. So it's a huge burden for you to know about this and live with this secret."

"They'd kill you for this? I mean, all I have to do is not tell anyone anything, and you're good right? Sorry this is moving so fast."

"We're going to have to tell the Prince that we told you in the first place. You'll probably be tailed a little bit now by her secret service, to a) make sure you remain safe, and b) to make sure this doesn't get out. Not that she doesn't trust you, or us, but it's a dangerous thing to get out. It's why we couldn't tell you." Bridger grumbled. "But, you know now. Your parents are Vampires. We both have been since the eighties, when we were in our twenties. We can't enjoy food, not the same at least. We have to drink blood. It's the only liquids in either of us, and most of our organs are dead and non-functional. Sunlight will burn us alive. But we won't ever age."

Dana paused for a long moment. "Wait, but how… how did I even happen?"

Bridger and Saint looked at each other and made a slight grimace when their eyes met.

"Did you kidnap me from someone? I mean, I see the resemblances to Saint, but Bridger-"

"Trust me. I still don't really get it either. But I gave birth to you almost sixteen years ago. You're both of ours. You weren't stolen, that would be weird."

"As if this entire thing isn't weird. Okay, so, my parents are Vampires, that's why you hired a nanny. Who's your boss?"

"That would be Tarheel Nell, the uh, owner of the Biltmore." Saint admitted. "She's the Prince of this town. Sydney was one of her people."

"She's the prince. Okay, yeah sure." She sipped the piping hot tea. Tension tamer. "I'm slowly wrapping my head about this, but I wanna know so much more…"

"Anything you want, we've got nothing to hide from you, not anymore." Bridger boldly claimed.

"Why do you keep being referred to with cat stuff, Bridge? Did you have a cat? Were you a cat lady - er, gender not withstanding, before all this?"

Saint laughed, but Bridger grimaced. "You've seen this before, yeah?" They asked as they slowly undid their mask to a slow nod from Dana. They revealed their face, and pocketed the mask. "So… where to start. At the beginning of it all was… Cain. From the bible. I know we didn't really enforce that kind of knowledge on you, it happened to me as a child and it didn't really do anything to help beyond making me fear a pecking order. Anyways he was the first Vampire, and when he started to make new ones, they were all different. Those different lineages developed certain abilities. Saint can punch harder and run faster than any human, no contest. One of the things I got going for me, and I'm going to have you not freak out, is very limited shape shifting."

"Oh?"

"You're going to be chill, yeah?"

"I mean, I'll try?"

"Good enough." Bridger groaned, cracking their own neck and stretching out, then began to transform before her. Their bones and muscles and organs shifted. Their hairless arms grew gray and fuzzy and patterned. Then, in the room, sitting on the other couch, was a particularly large Bobcat. Where if a standard was almost four feet long at the largest, Bridger was a little more than five feet in length. They looked at Dana while in this form, and bowed their head. Dana's eyes widened and was incapable of hiding a smile.

"… Can… Can I… pet them?" She asked Saint, who smirked and nodded.

"Sure kid, knock yourself out."

Dana hopped off the couch and began to scratch Bridger in their bobcat form, on the head, then down their back. Sure enough, their parent, who claimed to have birthed them, even though they were a Vampire, sure was a Bobcat now. Dana laughed, and turned back to Saint. "Why? Why is this a thing a Vampire can do?"

"The Clan that Bridger is a part of have both a Fight and a Flight form. This is their Fight Form."

"Cause the claws? And the teeth?"

"Yep. They admittedly can extend those claws on their body normally. And well, the teeth-"

"Yeah. I never wanted to ask about that situation, and I'd felt bad every time I accidentally saw."

"You shouldn't feel bad about anything dear. If Bridger let you see em, that means they were comfortable enough with you seeing. I imagine they were mostly worried they'd scare you or make you feel weird."

"Oh. Yeah I guess I could understand that. But it's never bothered me or anything. Just, that sucks they gotta wear the mask all the time."

"Alright you lazy cat, change back." Saint said, nudging Bridger with their sock'd foot. The bobcat let out a feline sigh then changed back. The process seemed painful as they snapped back into their original format.

"Do… you think I'll be able to do that one day?"

"Turn into a cat like me? I dunno. I wouldn't rule it out. If you were capable of learning, I'd definitely teach you."

"How do I become a Vampire?"

"Woah there, hold up. Dana, baby, go ahead and take a big step back there." Saint started nervously. "Yeah, the cool powers and shit are neat and all, but you're still alive. You have plenty of being alive to do. We kind of got into this wayyy too young. Though-"

"-Though, there's a step in between. Something I was reluctant to do with you because I had a particularly bad experience with this. There's something in between being Kine and Kindred called a Ghoul. You'd be a human, but you'd get some access to Vampiric Disciplines. You also cease aging." Bridger carried the same message.

"Oh! Then just do that!"

"Okay but like, you see the issue that would cause, right? All your friends would grow up to be eighteen, twenty, thirties, and you'd still be a fifteen year old. Even if they were all cool with it, it would be a weird look with you all hanging out like that." Saint elaborated.

"…Right. So like, all your old friends-"

"What old friends?" Bridger accidentally let slip. Dana's expression went from cautiously optimistic to heart broken. Ah. That… they didn't mean to admit that. "Look, when I was a kid, my father was a bad man. After he… passed away, I ran away from my hometown. Took the first bus to anywhere. Met some creep who took me in, made me his Ghoul at about your age, for a while. It was… bad. On all fronts. Ghouls are traditionally servants to Kindred, and while that has shifted a lot over time, there's still a weird power dynamic that's introduced."

"You gotta drink Vampire blood, once a month, every month, and that binds you to them. If ya miss one, you go through a drug-like withdrawal, you itch and yearn for it because it really is addictive. You also start to return to your natural age. If that happens to a really old Ghoul they can very easily die from it if they don't find a new Kindred to take them in." Saint added. "It's not all easy peasy."

"Yeah… but, if you wanted this, when you're an adult, we can make that decision then. I'd be okay if it was either of us, but I sort of volunteered for this if it is something you'd want." Bridger advised.

"That is… a lot to think about." Dana began to understand maturely.

"No kidding." Bridger snarked. "This is not a conversation people generally get to have. Often times Ghouling is secretive, manipulative, and otherwise done unto a person without their consent - since so much of this Vampire World is done in secret. I for one was Ghouled by a real creep, who wanted that power imbalance. That's really why I'd not wanted this for you at first, but, if it does happen, it's why I'd want it to be me or Saint. I know you'd be in good hands, and I know you wouldn't be treated like I was. And while I'm not trying to sell you on this by any means. Because, yeah, it's pretty gnarly, the idea of us vastly outliving you is really upsetting." Bridger continued, trying to not show too much emotion here.

"No, you're right though… My parents aren't just weird sunlight-avoidant people, they're immortal undead creatures."

"Ah, that's maybe a little strong of a word." Saint corrected. "Your use of immortal is kinda… it's close, but it's not accurate. Before you were born there was a huge Kindred War, basically all up and down the east coast, but centralizing in Greensboro. All of this to say, there were a lot of Vampire Deaths. The Sun kills Kindred. Hunters kill Kindred. Other Kindred kill Kindred. Other Supernatural things kill Kindred. Once again - hence the secrecy."

"Oh, right, that makes sense." Dana shook her head, following along.

"Since there's so much about how you came to be that we don't understand, it's impossible to assume you aren't predisposed to being a Ghoul. Since you have My and Saint's blood in you, and we have been Kindred for a little while. Not as long as some others mind you. You wanna talk about old Kindred, after we get approval from the Prince, you should talk to AMP about this specifically."

"Are… are they really old?"

"Older than Hugo. But, It's probably best you get that sort of info from the source."

"Older than… but- right, it depends on when you get Embraced, right? You just stay lookin' that age?"

"Yeah pretty much. Same with Ghouling. Unless you miss drinking the monthly Vitae. In which case, you start to revert back, and it's very painful. If you're really fucking old-"

"-Bridge-"

"-like hundreds of years old, and you've been ghouled all that time, you pretty rapidly revert and can die from it."

"So it's extension of life, but there's a cost, and if you can't get that blood, you'd die. And can Ghouls be Embraced?"

"Well, it's the most often sort of Embrace. Usually Kindred line up who they want to Sire by Ghouling them first to see if they're a good fit." Saint explained. "Otherwise, it's usually on a much more emergency basis kind of thing. Like, 'Oh no, this Kine is dying, and we don't want them dead, let's save them by making them a Kindred.' Ya know?"

"I guess. But then why doesn't everyone just become a Kindred? Why are there still deaths?"

"You know the world can't work like that." Bridger impressed. "First of all, Kindred don't typically… make more Kine. This was a rare case. But second of all, we have to drink blood. If everyone is a Kindred, where's the blood?"

"Can you not just drink other Vamp- Kindred blood?"

"You definitely can, but it's not really a good thing to do." Bridger continued. "You get bonded to the Kindred you drink from. Unable to disobey them. And worse off, it's like another high. It's addictive. Suddenly other blood won't do. Then bam, one day you snap, and you're going around eating all of your friends."

"Oh, yeah, shit, that… that sucks. So, you two operate as Kindred Law Enforcement. But you still go out and… bite people, and drink their blood. But you have to remain in secret? How does that work? And also, how much are you like… actual cops?"

"Well, we don't… profile people, or rely on stereotypes, or kill without repercussions, or carry a holier than thou attitude, or-"

"Okay I get it, you're not cops. Thanks Bridger."

"The other questions kinda get into the deeper secrets of everything. But honestly, bottled blood. It doesn't keep particularly well in blood bags, so we have a method of imbuing it with alcohol. Er- Amp does mostly. It's not as satisfying as it is from the source, but it's so much safer. Just to be transparent about all of this."

"Bridge, you and Saint are trans-parents." Dana chuckled. Bridger rolled their eyes. Saint laughed along with their daughter.

"Alright, any more burning questions, or things you need to talk through?"

"I think I'm good for now, Saint. Thank you, both of you, for being honest about all of this, even if you weren't really supposed to be. I thought I'd be a little more pissed to find out all of your secrets like this, but I get it. Shit just got weird with the Fae thing, and my friend got stabbed, and I'd been obviously very curious for a long while now, and then boom here we are. Hopefully we find out more about our mutual Fae Friend soon enough."

"Oh I'm sure we will." Saint noted. "You got a birthday coming up soon anyways. So at the latest, I'm sure we will then."

"Yeah." Dana sighed. "Look, it's not that I'm not excited about that, I just want my friend back, and I want answers. Er, more answers."

"Good." Bridger agreed.

"Good?"

"It's good to want to know shit. Even if it's dangerous. Now that you're in the know, Knowledge is power in this world, just refrain from acting on anything until you have a way to handle things adequately."

"Right. That makes sense. And obviously, none of this is getting out. Even with Kara or Jordan or whoever."

"And we'll talk to the Prince. See what we can't work out for all of this since it's a weird exception. She does know you're a Kine, with Kindred parents. She… delivered you." Bridger somewhat embarrassingly admitted.

"The Prince!? Delivered me!? Okay, now I'm even more curious, but that's enough Vampire talk for now I think. Head's spinning a little bit. More tomorrow though."

"More tomorrow dear." Saint agreed, and Bridger nodded.

"I'm gonna go lay down and be on the computer."

"Fair, you had a busy day. G'night my lil bumblebee."

"G'night Bridge, g'night Saint."

"G'night." Saint finished, as she got up and walked over to her room, closed the door behind her, and flopped onto her bed.

"Well… looks like we get to go into work later today after all."

"She'll be fine, right? Like, she knew this would happen eventually, right?"

"Who, Nell? Yeah, honestly my finicky spouse, I'm sure she'll just be impressed we kept it under wraps for as long as we did. All things considered."

"Yeah… here's hoping."

"Shush. Besides, she's gone to bed, we have some us time."

"This… is true." Bridger's eyebrows raised as they took Saint by the hand. "What all did you have in mind?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, you lil weirdo? C'mon." They led them out of the living room back to their own room after turning the television off.

~Ostara Nine~

The next day, Dana woke up, still unsure about everything. Kindred, Fae, Archie, Prince, Masquerade, it's just so much. I wish I had any way of knowing Archie was okay, that we made the right decision. Did cornflower actually kill those guys? Was it always that dangerous? Did Saint and Bridger know? Can I still trust it? Can I still trust them? - Of course I can trust them. They've done so much, especially as Vampires… or Kindred who didn't expect that I was even a possibility. They had a nanny for me, for the daytime. They've kept me warm and comfortable and happy my entire childhood. Dana began to cry. I'm… very lucky. Lucky that these two care about me how they do. Lucky that they actually care about each other, even if Bridger is a little neurotic about it with Saint. Lucky that they've kept me safe in this world of darkness. But I gotta be able to handle myself. Sure, I can fence, and otherwise spar, but I froze when Archie was in danger. What could I have done though? We were unarmed and they had knives on them at the bare minimum. They could have had guns. What then? As confident as I am, I'm so under-prepared given what I now know is out there. They once said AMP was the scariest one in Psychic Assault. They've always been the calm one to me, so it's hard to believe - admittedly I was wrong about cornflower too. I have to get in contact with them ASAP. Shouldn't be hard, they're dating Grandpa Hugo. They're real sweet together too, and far less weird than my parents. I wonder if Grandpa is scary too. He's larger and more muscular than any other Kindred I apparently know. I have too many questions, might as well start the day and get some of them answered.

Dana got out of bed, got dressed, jeans and a sweater, and headed into the living room after passing Saint and Bridger's room. Poor spooky parents, they can't see the sun ever again. I wonder what their last sunset looked like. Or how far apart that was in time. She started up a small pot of coffee, and stared out at the snow covered deck. She felt her pocket buzz.

You hear anything, D? Kara asked in the group chat.

No, nothing yet. She responded.

Ya'll. Over text? Really? Jordan asked.

So long as we keep it vague, I'm sure it'll be fine. At the latest, we'll know what happened on my birthday in a few days. Dana said with certainty.

It's the second, that's five more days. Dap, I'm gonna be honest, I'm gonna fucking lose it if we hear nothing until then. Jordan asserted.

I mean, that's fair, but I didn't want it getting worse, and I was kind of out of quick options. Dana admitted.

Here's hoping it doesn't take that long. Kara said in an attempt to be comforting.

Ya'll wanna do anything today? Dana asked, already knowing the answer - so she responded to herself before either could say anything. Cause if I'm being honest, I don't think I'm necessarily down to drink or head into downtown or haunt the mall or scream into a mic or anything. But if you two needed the company.

I think I'm good just keeping in contact here. hbu J? Kara asked.

Agreed. Let's chill digitally. It's fucking cold out today anyways. And also, let's try to keep yesterday to voice channels. Jordan suggested.

Good play. Alright then, I'll catch up shortly, gonna get some stuff done around the house. Dana signed off, which was reacted with thumb-up emojis.

She re-familiarized herself with the refrigerator. Not a single thing that wasn't explicitly for herself. Having never found it odd before, she understood now. I bet they kept blood in here before I was around. That's definitely why they have the mini fridge in their room, and not for… I don't even remember their explanation. Something about ice packs for Bridger after intense sparring sessions? Hell it's probably both. She chuckled.

Looking back at her phone, she fired off a text instead of a discord message.

Hey, AMP, some weird shit happened yesterday. I uh, know about stuff now, Bridge and Saint explained a lot to me. Would you be willing to train me to defend myself better and be able to protect people around me? I kinda froze in a moment where I could have done something, and that sucks. I was lucky that it worked out in the end, but it was scary.

There was a lot of pacing and messaging her friends and putting pieces together from noon until the sun setting at 5:30. She spent some of it in the basement with some workout equipment, not wanting to lose progress. Dana wanted to be ready if AMP did agree to train her. Not so weak she couldn't hold a weapon or whatever. She then made a lunch and scarfed it down. It was about 4:45 when she showered down from working out. Clean and better put together and more full of understanding, having digested what had been told to her the evening before, Dana prepped another pot of coffee within the minutes of Saint and Bridger waking up.

Eventually she heard a "G'mornin' Kiddo." from Bridger having smelled the coffee and nearly hovering to the kitchen. "I… uh… thank you. For the coffee. I hope you won't be too offended when we have to doctor it. Considering." They grimaced.

This was met with a hug. "Go on, ya dang Vampire, add blood to it. I know ya need it." She said with a smile as Bridger hugged her back.

"Th-thanks. Sorry, still kinda weird that you know all the things now."

Saint arrived with a blood bag in hand. Dana eyed it and carefully watched the process of it being added to the pot. It was one thing to be told, but it was an entire other thing to see it happen in real time. The thick coppery dark red mixing with the translucent dark brown coffee was wild to behold in real time. Saint discarded the blood bag into the trash, then gave Dana a hug as well.

"If you wanna start storing that in here again, that would be fine now, ya know?" Dana posited.

"Oh, thanks for your permission, boss-lady." Saint said with a lil' bit of a smart ass tone and a lil' stinker grin. "Yer good kid, we'll still keep it in the room. Don't want friends or other guests getting wise to this.

"Ah, right, it wasn't just me to worry about. That makes sense." Dana responded, having now learned a thing.

Moments later her pocket buzzed.

"Ah, I need to take this, I'll be right back." She said, then scurried down the stairs. Her parents looked at each other and shrugged.

"She seems to be taking this well, all things considered." Saint said, leaning on Bridger's shoulder now nursing a coffee mug.

"Yeah. Either way, lot of getting used to." Bridger kissed the top of their head.

Downstairs, Dana answered her phone.

"Hey Kiddo. It's AMP."

"I imagine this is about the text?"

"Yes. First of all, are you okay?"

"Yeah I'm fine. My friends and I got jumped, but we mostly made it out okay."

"Okay good, I don't have to go cover your parents' asses or anything. When you said you froze, what did you mean?"

"Well, we were jumped by guys with knives. One stabbed one of my friends and while I wanted to act, disarm him, tackle him, my legs wouldn't move. All I could do was stand there and watch it happen. And then…"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the Fae that visits me, it once told me it's name. Its true name. Because child me told it my true name. It said only to use that if I needed it to show up. Like an emergency thing. And well. I did. And it showed up, and killed the guys, and saved my stabbed friend. Allegedly."

"Huh, that's uh… definitely a lot and very dangerous."

"Right? So, would you be willing to train me? I want to not freeze in a situation like that. I wanna make sure none of my friends get hurt like that again, but still keep them in the dark about Kindred business."

"Right, cause Saint and Bridger told you."

"Hey now, I was kinda freaked out when I got home, and well, I also sort of had a growing suspicion something was weird here. When do you got some free time? If you are cool with teaching me a thing or two re: combat?"

"Soon. Let me get the gear I need together. And I wanna get your parents' permission first."

"Ugh, do you have to tell them?"

"You think they're gonna let you wander around at night without some kind of protection considering yesterday?"

"Yeah, that makes sense."

"I'm also not handing you a knife without Bridger knowing."

"Alright then. I'll tell them."

"Good kid. See you soon."

"Later AMP."

Dana took a deep breath, then headed back up stairs.

Bridger was making a dinner for the three of them, pre-work. Chicken and Dumplings, good to cut the cold for Dana, but also a quick and easy to throw into a pot for twenty minutes and let go while they got ready to roll out whenever they needed to.

"Bridge." she said nervously.

"Yes, Bumblebee?"

"I think I am gonna start training with AMP." She stated, but then braced for emotional impact.

"Oh, right, yeah, that's probably the play." Bridger responded immediately cutting the tension.

"Wha- you're not gonna be like I should be the one to train you, what the hell?"

"No, I'm not. AMP is the better fighter. Sure, Saint is Strong and Fast, and I am Tricky and Sneaky, but AMP…" They whistled. "Yeah, no, I trust them with my life, and I think you'll be in good hands."

"Oh, alright then." Dana responded a little confused. "Then, I guess I'll start that soon."

"I'm really proud of you dear." Bridger said.

"Eh? Why's that Bridge?"

"Cause you've handled this real maturely, and are taking things seriously. With that, it's almost hard to believe you're mine." Bridger chuckled. "But, no, rest assured, you definitely are."

An opportunity. Dana thought. "So, what was that actually like for you? Finding out about Vampires and stuff?"

Bridger stared off for a moment before responding. "Uh, really not good. I was a runaway. No living parents. Went with some guy I met on a bus out of Knoxville. He heard about my past, how violent I was, and said I could do vigilante work. I wasn't particularly mature so I agreed. And moved in with him, into his house in Pigeon Forge. And pretty quickly learned that he was a Gangrel. The kind of Kindred I am now. That is, entirely his fault. He Ghouled me, but didn't upkeep the monthly blood. It was torture. Worse than that though, was he was a real creep. So here I was, this groomed teenager, running around town and doing all the jobs and chores that this lazy piece of shit was tasked to do, except they'd've been easy for him since he was a Kindred, and I was just his Ghoul. Then I'd get home at the end of the day and fight off his… er, advancements." They shook their head no. "Like I said. Not good."

"I mean… it didn't seem like you were in a particularly good spot." Dana attempted to make their parent feel better after such a heavy info-dump. She still wasn't used to seeing them vulnerable like this.

"Yeah. Definitely not."

"And while you kind of dunked on your own maturity, I don't know what else you could have done, cause it doesn't sound like you really had any agency for most of that."

"Oh, the moments of agency I did have, I took great pleasures in. When things got really bad, this would have been in eighty-five, it was kill or be killed."

"So he's…"

"Yeah."

"Bridger… that was over fifty years ago."

"Yeah?"

"You… You're like seventy?"

"Eh, it gets hard to quantify. I briefly stopped aging at your age…"

"Because of that guy?"

"…Yeah."

"Ah. I'm… so sorry you had to endure that. I can't even imagine."

"But - then I caught back up, and stopped again at like twenty-one. Which, if I had any say in it, I would have put off the embrace for a little longer. Lot of problems lookin' like a twenty-one year old forever."

"But, would you go for the embrace again? If you had the choice I mean."

"Yeah. Instantly I'd choose it again. The world around us is brutal at times. Even without all this supernatural nonsense. And I'm stronger like this than I ever was as a Kine or even a Ghoul. And so, beyond protecting myself, I know I can protect Saint if it came down to it, and I know that I can protect you."

"Protection aside though. Cause there's more to life than just survival. So then…"

"Still yes. There are parts of this that have changed me. Not 'for better' or 'for worse', just changed me. And I… I didn't like the me I was before all this, and now I kind of feel whole. I suppose part of that is the teeth thing. After my creep was dead, I worked under a mentor. She wasn't without her flaws, but she seemed to care about me. I learned so much more about how all this works than I ever learned with him. Then, one day, on a job, I saw her die right next to me. It freaked me out, but beyond that, it freaked out the inner beast that all Kindred have, and that caused this cat-like mouth. Usually this sort of thing isn't permanent, but it just didn't go away. But I kind of treated it like evidence that it even happened. So I wouldn't ever forget. I carry with me everyone who passed in my life, the cigarettes I smoke, my… father's. The parka? My sire's. Then of course this face."

Dana stared, not at Bridger's feline mouth, but at them properly, really noticing these things that were so intrinsically them, that she was used to being Bridger Things, that were actually parts taken from other, now dead, people. Just before she asked another question, there was a knock at the door. Bridger stretched their arm out, blocking Dana.

"I got this. You stay here. It's…" Bridger started, their eyes slightly glowed and their pupils constricted into slits. "A Kine… and a Fae… and a… oh fuck, a Mage. Saint, brace yourself. Mage!" They alert their Spouse downstairs, who rushed back up, with their chain in hand.

"This better be Lash, or this is about to be a mess." Saint said, wrapping the chain around their arm. "You answer, I'll back you up."

"Got it, Boss." Bridger said with a smile. They masked up and answered the door.

Before them stood Lash, Archie, and a very shamed looking cornflower. Bridger looked pleasantly surprised.

"Hey Bridger, Saint, we need to talk." Lash said with a smile.

Bridger scanned him up and down. The Gangrel was used to seeing Lash Corsi, Matter Mage, in casual clothes underneath Blacksmith attire. He did make Saint the replacement chain that they could channel their Burning Wrath through. But instead, here he was, standing before them in formal wear straight out of a Ren Faire. A Golden, Asymmetrical, Patterned Vest covered a button down with flowy sleeves, all accented with a transparent shawl and crested floral metal shoulders. "Uh, yeah, come on in… what's with the uh-"

"Official business. First order, is this one yours?" Lash asked, entering the Parks household while leading Archie front and center.

Bridger looked unsure at his meaning, but Dana rushed past them and gave Archie a big hug.

"Hey dude, glad you're okay… Are you okay?"

"Yeah Dap, I'm fine. Very confused, but fine."

Dana turned to Lash and asked "Can he go? He didn't do anything wrong."

"No, he didn't, but he may have seen some things that would probably be better talked about… with just your parents."

Saint scratched behind heir own head with a lil' stinker expression on. "Uhh, we actually just talked to her about our own situation, so uh, no need for obfuscation, at least not around her. Can't speak for her friend here though."

"Well, he went somewhere, got patched up, memory's a little fuzzy thanks to imbibing a little fruit, and now he's back. I leave him in your care now that he's out of the hedge. I'm wiping my hands of him, as of Lady Titania's orders."

"That's… fair." Bridger acknowledged. "Uhhh, Archie, can you wait downstairs for us? Help yourself to the fridge or whatever, and I'll get you home after all this is settled."

"Sure thing Mx. Parks." He said, smiled at Dana, and descended down the staircase, closing the musically-intended soundproofed door behind him.

"So. Dana got her friend back. Glad he's okay, thanks for the delivery. Doesn't explain the get up, or cornflower there." Saint added.

"Ah, so you DO know it. I was starting to think this was a parasocial sort of thing." Lash started. "So, I am the Bishop of the Summer Court under Queen Titania. A position I take very seriously. And while operating under her, I am to be a reflection of her highness at all times. It seems that this one has been… causing a bit of a stir around Asheville. First, with Dana, and now with Archie, if I'm following correctly."

"Yeah… that's right. Technically with Dana, it… granted our wish. Then once we actually met cornflower, we came to an agreement. It exchanged with us our child for the right to visit every year, once a year, on her birthday, until she was eighteen."

"And your autograph on the CD, my bobcat parent person."

"Right, and my autograph. It also wanted Saint's and AMP's. Gave Saint a Grammy for the trouble. It got AMP's for its eternal fan status, though I don't think they realized that's what they asked for. Regardless. It's never been any trouble. A little concerning, sure, but we're far happier with Dana in our lives than we ever had been before." Bridger admitted. "The thing was, every time it showed up, it was the same age as Dana. Like it was mimicking. I imagined it had done this before."

"I have, I have. It's a fair exchange, and I can reap the glamour of the birth celebration."

"Then that's all it is. An equivalent exchange. That doesn't quite tie in to the destruction it caused in your downtown side street."

"Well, Mr. Lash, if I may." Dana interrupted. Lash nodded, yielding the floor to her. "I have always found cornflower to be very friendly, and I've missed it when it wasn't around. It hid the truth from me this entire time, just as my parents had, and held true to their wishes that I didn't get wrapped up in all this too early. It asked me not to tell it my full name. It said it would be bad to do so. I did so anyways. In exchange, it gave me its own full name."

Lash looked shocked and slowly turned to cornflower, before darting his attention back to Dana. "You what?" he asked Dana, concern growing on his face. Then, turning back to the Piskey, "Wait, you WHAT!?-", concern inching its way towards dawning horror.

cornflower seemed to wince, and hide their face behind their hands.

"Alright, conversation is on pause. One moment." Lash commanded. Everyone gave him room to cook. He drew a sigil on the door that looked like an eye, using a piece of chalk he pulled out of his inner pocket. The maneuver looked rote to him. He then poured salt along the door threshold, and then produced a nail and hammer, seemingly out of nowhere, and nailed it into their door, right into the pupil of the eye he drew. cornflower winced at the sight of the nail, and every time the hammer hit it.

"That iron nail should prevent any curious other Fae." Lash said confidently. "Okay, Dana, cornflower, A human's true name for a Fae's true name… These carry very different weights. Why?" he asked the Piskey.

"I… I… started to form a friend. This doesn't happen basically ever. I trusted this mortal that I assisted in bringing into this world. I said to use it responsibly, and she did, she was in danger, and I dealt with that danger. The bad men were sent to the hungriest parts of the wild, her Archie patched up in exchange for more debt on my shoulders. It's… I imagine… what friends do."

Lash placed his index and thumb over the bridge of his nose. "Fuck. Titania won't accept that. cornflower you cannot be doing that sort of thing. Never again, if you're even given such an opportunity again." He knew he was talking to a Piskey, a Fae species known for its kleptomania and restlessness. He also knew that traditionally they were known for being a little too trusting to the point of naivety. Sighing he then turned to Dana. "Dana. I can't blame you for doing something foolish like this as a young child, but please learn from this. Giving your full name to anyone has its own concerns, but with Fae, it can be extremely dangerous. You were lucky cornflower isn't the type to rip you away from your people. It has no history of doing so, though I also don't imagine it has many other true names under its belt."

conflower confirmed, shaking its head no but keeping its face buried behind its hands out of shame.

"Can I ask some things? Considering it's kinda, all out there so to speak." Dana started.

"Go ahead. Now's as good of time than ever." Lash responded.

"Will… cornflower still be here in a few days? Birthday's comin' up and all." The young Parks inquired.

Lash alleviated some stress. "Regardless of how this goes, I can't mettle with deals, and I wouldn't recommend trying. If the deal made was that this little creature gets to come visit you yearly until you're eighteen, and you've had no trouble with it, then it seems you got three more visits."

"What happens after?" Dana began to sound desperate. Saint rested a hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

"I… don't know. Hopefully nothing. It depends on how things go between cornflower and Queen T. I have to give her something, it's the what that is the question."

"Y-you would protect me and my foolishness, my Bishop?" cornflower asked, looking up to Lash, revealing tears streaming down its face.

"Do you consider this friendship amicable?" Lash asked Dana, who responded with a quick affirmative nod. Lash sighed and began to pace. "Then yes, not for your benefit cornflower, but for hers. It's one thing to throw you under the bus, it's another now that your friend is involved. Kindred operate in similar levels of secrecy, but with different rules. They too need magical sustenance to live, but different makeup. Ultimately, Glamor is Vitae is Quintessence. We all do what we must to survive. So to make things less messy for Saint and Bridger and thus all of Asheville, I'm going to need to get in contact with a friend of mine to get rid of this memory permanently so I can aptly tell her all that I know. Before this forms too many new thoughts and memories, I'll be making my leave. You will too." Lash said to the room and then to cornflower for the last bit.

cornflower got up and followed Lash out the door. It turned back to Dana before leaving.

"See you soon, friend." it said with a smile on its face despite its flushed face and runny nose.

"See ya soon, and thank you." Dana responded gratefully.

"Any time."

The two left, leaving the Parks with a downstairs guest in the form of the newly returned and patched up Archie. Saint and Bridger brought Dana into a hug.

"You really care about that little Fae child, huh?" Bridger asked.

"Yeah." Dana sighed.

"Then that's a good thing. Hold onto that. As much as I didn't follow a lot of that, and as much as I'm not so trusting, it's important to keep connections like that. Someone who has proven themselves trustworthy. Who has your back in a pinch."

Saint was shocked at that kind of advice from their Spouse, but didn't comment on it, and didn't let it show. It was a good moment, and teasing the cat wasn't going to help Dana in this moment. "We just have to be careful with a lot of different things now. Which brings us to the next hurdle. How much does Archie know, and if it's a lot, what do we do with him?"

"I… I could ask him, but he could lie. I don't know how to know for sure what he knows." Dana replied.

"If you're okay with this, perhaps Saint can use a Discipline to find out. Two birds with one stone, we know with certainty what he knows, and you get to see Saint flex a Kindred ability."

"Is it safe?" Dana asked.

Saint shook their head yes. "Suppose I could compel his honesty through my own Presence. Well, let's get down to it. I'm going to frame it as a physical check up, motor function and tracking test."

"Then yeah, I'm game."

The trio went down the staircase to see Archie jamming out to some music with earbuds in. Dana got his attention and he muted the music.

"Hey, Archie, you cool if Saint gives you a once over, just to make sure you're in one piece?" Dana asked.

"Sure? I'm feelin' pretty good, but whatever happened in that alley to when I showed up is kind of a blur so I must've gotten concussed. Then I was with some kid and I think his dad? And then I wound up here. Was I sleepin' for a full day?"

"That's what we want to find out, here-" Saint sat next to them, grabbing a small basement flashlight. "Follow my finger as I move it side to side." He did so and Saint followed his eyes' movements. "Good good, now. What do you remember, exactly?" Their tone got deeper, and their expression was more intense. Bridger recognized this use of Entrancement, but it was a new experience for Dana.

"Oh. Exactly? Okay so, we were cornered in an alley in downtown taking the path I suggested to not miss the escape room. It was Jordan, Kara, Dana and myself. Some guys had knives. They wanted money or something. But then suddenly they were tripping on some plants nobody had noticed, bunch of big vines, and then I must've passed out and hit my head cause everything went dark. Oh, and my chest hurt. I remember a sharpness. But it feels fine now, I even looked. I was in a weird room, offered food, and I was pretty hungry so I ate it. It was like… honeydew melon, but had a distinctly cherry flavor to it. It was pretty good. I remember smiling, and closing my eyes. I never caught a face or nothing. Then I remember feeling some kind of head rush, and I was walking up to the front door with that guy and his kid. I barely remember what was said before I came back down here to chill, but I feel like I really got my mind getting back to normal. So, Saint, does that sound like a concussion?"

"Yeah, probably. Concrete is no joke. I'd say give yourself a day or two of rest, and then you should be able to get back to whatever it is you like doing." Saint said, with some level of confidence. Enough for Archie at least who seemed revealed.

"Thanks Doc." He said somewhat jokingly. "Alright then, if you're cool with taking me home I really miss my bed right now."

"You got it." Bridger said, somewhat comfortingly. "I needed to roll out anyways. Dana, you mind texting me his address? I don't wanna rely on real time directions from the recently concussed."

"On it." Dana responded, typing his address into her phone and sending it on over to Bridger.

"Thanks, alright then, let's get you home." Bridger said to Archie who nodded, thanked them, and rolled out with them.

Then it was just Dana and Saint. They stayed downstairs in the basement, and instinctually began picking up some instruments and jamming out together, talking in between breaks.

"So, talked to Bridge. They opened up about themselves for once. About uh, Knoxville and Pigeon Forge. At least a little. You always told me you grew up in Seattle. Is that actually true? Or were you just covering up more Vampire BS?"

Saint tuned their Bass out of Drop D, and answered while doing so. "Unfortunately, it was all true. Parent's weren't that bad, at least, not for most of my childhood, just my teen years. My sister however, your aunt, was my sunshine, my reason to keep going when shit got bad. She's who you got your middle name from… and she was the one who gave me my current legal name. But my Uncle was a real piece of shit. On a scale between Bridger's Father, and their Domitor, I'd put him closer to the latter. Tried to… well… make a move on my sister. So I got her to safety and killed him. Then I left town. If I were to say that's where shit started getting better I'd be lying. The path from Seattle to Asheville was a painful one. Lots of late nights, bad decisions, and self destruction. But I wound up here, and in a bad way, and that's how Grandpa Oliver found me. He took me in without hesitation and unconditionally. And the rest, as they say is history." They wore a somber smile as they finished up. "Sorry, if that's not what you wanted."

"No, no, it's good to know. You two are very similar ya know?"

"I sure do, kiddo. I sure do." Now their smile was full but still a bit listless. "Only difference is, I had Allison. They were always alone. All they had were books and a small patch of woods for escapism."

"Ah. Damn."

"But- we're both very happy and safe now. We have been for a while. First we found support within this community. Then we found love, unconditional love, with each other. And then you happened. I don't think my heart has ever been more full or warm, even when I was alive."

Dana gave them a side hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks Saint, for letting me in. I know it was a lot, but I really do just want to understand you two. Bridger telling me anything near what they did was not on my twenty-thirty-eight bingo card, but I'll take it."

They both laughed, then Saint picked up their bass, and Dana with the guitar and stood behind the mic. They shot each other an alright-lets-fucking-go expression, and started working on another track.

~Ostara Ten~

A few days later on January Seventh, it was once again Dana's Birthday. This time she turned sixteen, and while her preference in large birthday parties had diminished, she had to have her core friends group over for a movie night and jam session. Hushed conversations of "It's safer if you two don't think about what happened, unless you want to lose Archie again." and "What do you even remember about what happened?" were both met with hazy recollections on all fronts, except for Dana. So, what could have been done other than cut loose and do what they enjoyed? For the majority of the evening, it was Archie, Jordan, Kara, Bridger, AMP, Saint and Hugo celebrating Dana, absent of cornflower. The squad got permission to stay over for the evening, so blow up mattresses and blankies were set up in the basement.

While enjoying her friends and family, Dana often felt listless though not outwardly expressing as much, until she spotted a prying set of eyes from the upper windows of the basement. Two little mischievous eyes, now full of anxiety, their owner worried about messing things up for the Kine, the Sleepers, or what have you, but worse off, for Dana and her family. Once spotted, cornflower vanished, so Dana made an excuse to go up stairs. "uh, restroom." She said without real conviction. Of course however, nobody questioned her. She squeezed past her parents, AMP, and Hugo, and got outside onto the back deck. The Piskey jumped up from the yard, nearly invisibly and bowed before her. Its form was of a teenager, continuing its bit and usage of glamor by maintaining itself as the age of Dana.

"Oh, cornflower, none of that."

"I do apologize for making a real mess of things. I know I should not have done what I did, and so if that has soiled our friend-"

Dana cut it off with a hug, a tight grip. It sunk into it, and started to get teary eyed.

"You are fine. You haven't wronged me. In fact, you saved Archie's life. You came when I called. Maybe you shouldn't have given me your name, but I was also young, and stupid, and shouldn't have given you my name either. You literally did warn me not to."

"Princess, you are many things, clever, curious, confident, courageous, charming, capable, creative, crafty, chill, cool, and cordial, but you've never been stupid." cornflower remarked, still held in Dana's embrace.

"I mean. I get why you couldn't tell me about Kindred or the Fae or anything. I get it, I really do now. I get why so much of my life has been so protected, so secretive, but I do have one question."

"Oh?" it inquired, a little concerned about whether or not it could answer.

"I've learned a lot these past few days, about Vampires, and about Fairies, but also to some extent about how I even came to be. And while I don't want to know the… process, I want to know, from your perspective, why?" Dana pulled away with the ask, not coldly but with profound wonder.

"Ah. That question. The same one asked by your Bobcat Parent Bridger sixteen years ago on this day. While I was admittedly a little brisk with my explanation, saying that I helped you exist, because you should exist, that was kind of a… non-answer. Princess, you are set to do greatness in this world. Something I have believed, but never seen. Something I had felt a vast curiousness for before all this, and a great confidence now seeing you become. You are good at the things you enjoy, and will become better with time. As you undoubtedly know, I am a big fan of your parents' band. Psychic Assault. It brings me joy beyond the simple instrument sounds and lyrical choices. I have been since I first came upon a cassette tape in the wilds. That poor piece of nearly destroyed plastic and unfurled tape reel ribbon. But imagine, as a fan of a work, being part of said work from the ground floor. I have no reason to have a child of my own. I am but a child at all times, as I have been and as I will be. But in making a musician happen, being a small part in the start of their journey… er, is this making any sense?" cornflower asked, realizing it was rambling.

"Uh, sort of. You wanted to help Bridger and Saint have me because I'm supposed to be some musician that you'll like hearing?"

"Close. You're not supposed to do anything. You are full of free will and thus are supposed to do as you please. But all roads lead to Rome. Being surrounded with love and talent as you grew into who you are, or who you will be, inevitably led to this interest, this desire to hone your talents. These were the inevitabilities born out of the curiosity of 'what if Psychic Assault had children'. Do you see how those are different?"

"Yeah, I do, I think I get it. Children though? I don't see you getting AMP and Hugo a child together or anything. Unless…"

"Nono, I needn't bother. They will sprout an offspring through different means. Rest assured, the next generation is yet to even be in its infancy. Though, of course, as always-"

"Keep this between us?"

"Yes please."

"Say, why don't you come in and join us?"

"I… I can't. I just traveled with Archie, and his memories-"

"I'll make something up. Say you're a cousin from out of town. Surely you can illusion a car pulling up."

"I can do that. But, what is my motive? Why am I so late? What's my name?"

"You're…" Dana eyed him up and down. "You look like a Nathan, could we try Nate or something?"

"Sure?" It acquiesced, raising its hands up with ambivalence.

"Cool, then you're late cause you got lost, coming in from… Nashville. The highways are confusing. You drove yourself cause your parents also work late typically."

"Okay, if this is what you want, I want this too, no deals are to be made this evening, just a mutual scheme concocted by supernatural friends, enacted upon your mortal friends."

"Agreed." Dana smiled. She took it by the hand and let it inside. The four Kindred upstairs in the kitchen looked concerned, but Dana brushed them off. "We're doing this on the level, no worries. They'll think it's my cousin." Which was met with shrugs as well as Saint's insistence that they follow them both down to observe for a brief period. After the Piskey illusioned the sound of a pickup truck arriving in the driveway, then opened and closed the front door, they made their entrance to the basement party. The rest of the evening went on without a hitch, pleasantries exchanged, lies told about where cornflower was from, what their familial connection was, and what had taken them so long. It was an effort between Dana and her friend, but it was fun, and it got cornflower more involved in the celebration. Saint was satisfied with how little actual knowledge was given to the Kine. And when it was time for the squad to pass out, roughly two in the morning, cornflower joined the Kindred in the living room to announce it was leaving.

"Ya know, for all the things Lash said about how you sort of fucked up here, we do appreciate you taking care of our kid. I need you to know that." Bridger admitted.

"She's my friend, and I am but your humble fan-" it looked to AMP "who spreads excitement of your works throughout the Hedge, Arcadia at large, as well as your Earthly Internet. Alas, it is time I take my leave. Same time next year, my Vampiric Music Idols, and you, oh Grandfather of Cats, fare thee well."

Before much more could be said, they vanished into thin air before them.

"Ya know, it's only got two more birthdays in the tank. What will it do when it's all said and done?" Hugo asked a relatively silent room.

"Fuck if I know. I don't even know if it knows." Bridger responded before quickly producing their pack of Filtered Camel Cigarettes, tapping one out, and placing it behind their ear.

"Perhaps onto the next. I don't imagine Dana was the first child it made happen." AMP theorized, sipping blood wine.

"That's true, but the poor girl is about to be heart broken. She's grown up with this thing, and whether or not it's actual friendship or affection, it'll have no reason to come along, right?" Hugo tried to make heads or tails of the situation.

"Well, we do have a consistent commenter on our online accounts, which I think it has something to do with what AMP traded them for their autograph. Something about 'Being our biggest and most vocal fan'. I imagine when this birthday business is done, it won't be the last of its existence in our lives." Saint concluded, taking Bridger by the hand and leading them out onto the deck. AMP and Hugo followed. They together took in the night sky, the smoky Gangrel and the Malkavian in their loves' embraces.

The next two Birthdays were more of the same. Dana's friends expected, and even looked forward to Nate, her "cousin", and cornflower enjoyed playing the bit. A silly little inside joke between age old friends. At her eighteenth birthday, Saint, Bridger and the rest had made themselves scarce. Kara and Archie both brought girlfriends, Jordan brought a ton of food as they'd prepped for their upcoming college years by studying the food network and pouring themselves over cook books. They'd all made the most of the space, watching movies and reminiscing of old times, though there was little to no music practice - something had changed in Jordan and Archie, not that either disliked practicing, but saw no future in it, and while it was fun to strum along, or drum along, it wasn't what they'd want to do at a party. cornflower at the very least got to meet new Kine and drank in the energy of the room and its "newness". The change, as always, was what fed it. The evening had gotten late. Time had gotten away from the group of near adults, and unlike childhood sleepovers, they simply all had next day tasks and responsibilities, so they filed out accordingly. Eventually it was just Dana and her fake cousin.

"So, cornflower, my friend, what comes next?" Dana asked, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

"Hey, there's no need to be sad. I've been pleasantly surprised that you were willing to be my friend through all of this. Now, I won't be contractually obligated to be here, but I may pop in from time to time, if you're amicable-"

"Yes!" Dana interrupted it excitedly, and gave cornflower a hug and let the tears flow. It reciprocated.

"And I mean," it continued during the hug. "If your parents do another show, I'll be there too. That I am contractually obligated to do. Though I would do so willingly."

"Right, the uh, biggest and most vocal Psychic Assault fan. Thanks AMP." Dana chuckled as she pulled away from the hug. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me. I made self serving choices, I broke the rules, but it ended up doing good. That was luck, not something one should be grateful for."

"Fair, but I am all the same."

Dana smiled and cornflower mimicked it. She saw this teen who grew up with her revert back to its more natural child-form. She nodded in acceptance.

"Thank you. For the Glamour. For Everything. But beyond that. Thank you for being my friend. For showing me what it's like to have one of those. May you be as strong as bold as you are now, whether it be before one being, or thousands, or anywhere in between. I'll see you soon. I promise." It said before doing a spin and vanishing.

~Ostara Eleven~

Ronnie Arnott finished tuning his guitar down and turned to Nathan Ariel Palmer-Strahan, better known as NAPS, who shook his head yes in nervous confirmation. They gripped their Bass in anticipation and nodded to Graham Edwards sitting behind the drums. Graham smiled and counted down, clicking his drumsticks in rhythm. The crowd roared in anticipation. Dana Parks grabbed the mic. As the music began to slowly ease into the room, they addressed the crowd.

"Hey, thanks for the energy everyone. We got a hell of a show coming up. Let's give it up for Psychic Assault!" They commanded and the crowd obeyed, cheering and screaming. "We love that shit, keep it going. This is our last song of the evening. We're D(a)NG(e)R, we've had a fucking blast, and we hope you did too. This one is called Serrated."

In the crowd, Ghouls and Kindred alike started a positive uproar. Virgil Duvall, Psychic Assault's Audio Mixer, smiled widely from over at the Merch Table. "Like parents, like kid." They said under their breath. Bella Orion, a local Salubri, was leaning on the table chuckling at the difficult to hear comment. Dana scanned the audience - a packed house at The Orange Peel. Up at the front of the crowd, squeezed in as much as possible, Nora Lanoza, stood snapping photos of the entire band, though admittedly, the recipient of her focus and heart eyes was one NAPS. Emily Nguyen, Tarheel Nell's on Childe and co-owner of the Black Dahlia, and Sky Carter, local Brujah enforcer and proper Diamondbacks leadership, had the most energy out of anyone as they both yelled and shoved, though there was no room for a proper pit. Jack and Jason Hartley, the Sheriff and Scourge out from Raleigh, held hands towards the back of the crowd, leaning on one another and taking in the ambience. Bri and Naomi Arnott sat together at a table with Hugo Strahan and an empty chair, watching their children, not Childer, wrap their first big show.

Instead of prepping anything for the transition between acts, AMPS, Bridger and Saint Parks peeked at the set from behind the backstage curtain, like a perfect Scooby Stack - with one head under the next, under the next, a bit straight out of the Three Stooges. Saint and AMP wore proud grins while Bridger, at the bottom of the stack, hadn't moved for most of the entire performance. They were too entranced to be expressive, only focused and stunned. AMP brushed their hand through Bridger's short blonde hair, which snapped them out of it.

"Sorry, my Bobcat friend." AMP remarked. A leading comment that caught Bridger's attention.

"For what!?" The Gangrel responded grumpily, with some concern in their voice.

"I said this would all only be kinda cool. It's actually cool as fuck. Admittedly I had no idea."

Bridger began to laugh. The first time in a while something actually hit them that hard. Blood ran down their vampiric eyelids onto their cheeks, which Saint smudged away - shaking their own head and grinning at the entire exchange.

~Ostara One~

It was 2021, specifically the night of March 21st, the Spring Solstice. In Asheville, the cold evenings were just starting to warm up as Winter finally released the town from its oppressively snowy grasp. Kindred never really minded the frigid evenings, but there were always ways to keep warm should they feel so inclined.

While Saint was the only of the two of them with any genitalia at all, they were both dead, the Parks had no way of conceiving a child. That didn't stop them from fucking like rabbits once Bridger was comfortable with that level of intimacy. Their non functional junk was smoothed over, pressed into their body and externally made to be smooth from belly button to anus as per request, but the sensations were somehow reachable all the same. One night after an intensely physical session involving a muzzle, Bridger snuggled up on Saint and rested their head on their chest and began to purr. Saint naturally wrapped their arm around them.

“Ya know Bridge, behind your spooky sheriff, obsessive rival, and intimidating vocalist personas, you really are very sweet and gentle." 

“Uh-huh, I've worked really hard at cultivating those personas as well as my comfort levels around you, what are you getting at?"

“I think you'd’ve been a good parent."

"WHAT!?”

“You know, like if we were Kine, and had a kid together."

Bridger turned their head on Saint's chest, so they could stare at them in the eyes. Their expression was of befuddled shock.

"What the fuck Saint? I mean, besides the fact that this is entirely theoretical cause we're dead, I couldn't even have produced a child when I was a Kine. Neither set was well formed enough to procreate. But theoretically if I had a child with you… How the fuck would I have been a good parent? I'm rude, I'm aggressive-"

“-things you've come along way with." 

“Fine. But ‘being able to be normal’ does not automatically make for a good parent.”

Bridger sighed and looked back away, their face squished into the soft, currently unbound chest of their lover.

"I told you about Paul. People liked Paul, he had friends at the church, his coworkers didn't hate him. And yet-”

"First off, lemme stop you right there, you're nothing like him, before you go that direction. You actually have love in your heart, Bridge. That man had none. Point taken about ‘not all non-shitty people make non-shitty parents’, but I think you'd do just fine at raising a kid. Teach em how to hunt for mice, how to climb a tree, and how to-”

"Very fucking funny, you punkass.”

Saint began to scratch behind Bridger's ear. They proceeded to get flustered, but did not protest.

"If we did have a kid somehow, I'd want to be the one to carry it.”

"Woah Bridge, what? Why? How?”

"I don't know how. But what I do know is that you grew up gendered based on your at-birth situation, and later, when you realized you didn't align with what was assigned to you, the things that people assumed made you uncomfortable. Sex wasn't written on my birth certificate, the doctors couldn't make heads or tails ~ I don't think they'd ever seen an intersex baby before. Either way, I'm technically cisgendered, I match my at birth descriptor which is ‘genderless’. It shouldn't be on you to have to feel dysphoric or dysmorphic because your AFAB parts would have to do something traditionally feminine or at least, something that would make you feel that way. Besides, it's usually you who tops me. Also, my body shifts enough in terms of my fight or flight form, it’s used to the twisting and expanding and contrasting.”

Bridger’s expression, while looking away, had shifted to proud of themselves. Now it was Saint who was surprised and confused.

“I- I mean- I wasn’t necessarily thinking about-”

“Your words, dear. Just say you want to try and knock me up, it’s fine, it’s not even offensive since it can’t happen anyways. We could always… pretend. Like, roleplay is no longer a weird phrase, not anymore, not after some of the shit we get up to now.”

Bridger wasn’t typically the one to fluster Saint, usually it was the other way around - The Gangrel who had zero experience with flirting just happened to stumble into being sexy here. Saint was stun-locked, their brain filled with the hypothetical possibilities of impregnating them. After some time they returned to the cognitive world.

“Ya know, you finicky thing, if you were pregnant, we’d have to stop fighting.”

“Wha-”

“At least as heavily as we have. You’ve told me many times that you hate when I hold back. I couldn’t possibly please you by avoiding hitting you in the belly.”

“Well yeah, that… that makes sense. But I’d do it anyways.”

“That’s irresponsible babe, what if it got all messed up-”

“No, I mean, I’d stop fighting for the full nine months. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal!? Bridger, you fucking got pouty when we hadn’t gotten a chance in a week. How the fuck would that not be a big deal?”

“Cause it’d be worth it. Cause we’d have something more precious than either of us, something that is an undeniable combination of our traits, good and bad. Ya know what, fuck you for introducing such a hypothetical, now I wish this were possible.”

Saint continued holding them, but tightened their grip around them.

“If this isn’t too much of a sore topic now, what would we name a kid? What wouldn’t sound weird with our fake ass last name?”

“Hmm… that is something actionable at least. Did you already have something in mind? Or we brainstorming now?”

“Uhh, I mean, I imagine we wouldn’t want it to be something particularly common. Like, here’s Bridger and Saint, and their kid John Smith.”

“Right. It should be something with… gravitas. Intensity, but something we care about. But not something that we would be upset about our child changing if they grew up and had an identity shift based on gender or whatever… Alex is pretty neutral-”

“Bridge, I’m not naming our theoretical baby after Alex fucking Krycek, and I know that’s exactly what you’re referencing here.”

“OKAY FINE!” They acquiesced, not reminding Saint that it was the name of their dead mentor. They didn't need to pass her vibe along anyways, as she was honestly a bad person like the rest of the people they used to work for in Pigeon Forge, but she was the least shitty - which at the time felt like such a relief.

“They’d turn out to be too much of a little stinker. You have that familial role covered already anyways. If we’re going with names from X-Files, we’d wanna stick with the actually competent characters, who are well adjusted and not just Russian traitors who flirt with the main character. I mean… Fox or Dana are pretty intense.”

Bridger thought about it for a moment, mulling the names over in their head. “I suppose we wouldn’t want to do like, last names first, Mulder Parks isn’t anything, that sounds like a brand. We also don’t have to stick with X-Files, that was just an example.”

“Not like anything we’re saying here has any weight anyways, as you put it, we’re dead, who cares if our theoretical unrealizable child has an X-Files name. It’s fun. And yeah, Scully Parks is almost good, but it feels too-”

“Try-hard. Yeah, I get that. Fox Parks… Dana Parks… Shit, I think you got it in one.”

“Hmm. They better not have any siblings. Only-child type shit. Both of those fictional characters have some pretty heavy familial baggage.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we’d be fine though, nothing feels like heavy baggage about a human child’s parents being two non-binary vampires, huh?”

“I mean, I was saying that in this theoretical scenario we would need to be Kine.”

“Hard to imagine then. We never knew each other as Kine. I would be… very different.” Bridger’s expression was contemplative. It was clear they enjoyed this what-if discussion.

“Yeah, same here. But not, like, if we were our apparent ages, but now, and-”

“It doesn’t have to be so complicated. We’re dead but then one day, boom, we magically have produced a kid. Maybe we get a Ghoul to look out for them during the day. Teach em how to not break the Masquerade when they’re old enough to understand what we are. Obviously we’d need to speak to Nell.”

“Obviously.”

“And for the record, you’d be a better parent than I would.”

“Oh?” Saint’s expression now read as curious, but in a nearly flirty way - almost like they were fishing for a compliment here since it happened so rarely outside of the thrill of battle, or the throes of passion.

“Well, for starters, you have a better sense of empathy than I do. You’re very often my moral guide on a lot of things. You and AMP. Oh shit, that would make them their aun-... unc-... grand-… fuck, there needs to be a better term for like tangential parent type relationship with siblings. Then there's Hugo, and his relationship with them, and he's like your dad… But like, you are very warm and comforting. And patient. I am unliving proof of your patience, for how much I fought the idea of us being… well, what we very clearly were from the start.”

“Hmm.” Saint remarked comfortably. They pressed their index under Bridger’s chin and tilted their face up to meet their own again, and pulled them into a kiss. Bridger rolled over on them and threw their arms over their shoulders, and began to straddle them.

Bridger pulled away for a moment and glared at Saint’s satisfied expression. They rolled their eyes, but then doubled down on their earlier flirting. “Why don’t we try right now?”

“Try?” Saint raised an eyebrow.

“Just don’t give me a litter, that would be… too much.” Bridger joked, pressing themselves against Saint's lap, brushing against their more sensitive parts.

“Oh!” Saint barely got to say before their lips were aggressively met with Bridger’s again. Who knew this sort of talk would get this out of them? 

As the two resumed their earlier intensity, a pair of curious child-like eyes and pointed ears made themselves seen in the corner of their room. How long had the eyes been watching? How long had the ears been listening? Paying no mind to the actions happening between the two Kindred, a Piskey, a Faefolk known for its love of petty theft and their comradery with children, danced its way around the room invisibly. It had no interest in sex, though they collected some of the evening air’s free floating glamour. Spinning and spinning like a toddler on a playground, it landed beside the two. It extended its hand, stuck out its index finger, and poked the Gangrel’s abdomen softly. Bridger noticed nothing as they were distracted with Saint. For a moment however, it felt as though Saint had thoroughly entered them somehow. Their eyes widened at that pain, that pleasure, that impossibility, and so they locked their legs behind them, pulling them in, more and more, briefly mad with pleasure. The Piskey spun away, and phased through the window. Once outside, it giggled to itself.

“It is a magical night spooky bobcat person, be careful what you wish for.” The Piskey said to itself before vanishing into the fresh Spring air. Where it had stood, despite the lack of immediate sunlight, and despite the temperature, a bush Gypsophila Paniculata - Baby’s Breath - grew up out of the ground.

By the next sunset, things were already notably different.

Saint awoke first, noticing that not only had they fallen asleep nude on the sofa - something unusual for the couple, but also that Bridger was unnaturally warm. It almost kept them asleep, as it was extremely comfortable to press against. They unburied themselves from the tangle of limbs and blankets, and went to fetch a pair of pajamas to resume lounging in. Once dressed, they started a pot of Vitae coffee. The smell roused their Spouse.

“What the hell?” Bridger mumbled from under a thick blanket.

“We passed out after… all that. I got coffee on. You want me to get you some clothes?”

“No, that’s not what I’m bothered by, it’s that smell. You said you had coffee on?”

“Yeah Bridge, pretty standard morning procedure.”

“It smells, and I’m not doubting your ability to do something you’ve done thousands of times now, but it smells terrible. You don’t smell that?”

Saint whiffed the air. The smell of hot coppery blood mixed with the strong fragrant aroma of Lavazza brand coffee. If they had saliva, their mouth would have watered at this combination, Bridger’s normally loved this as well.

“Nah ya little weirdo, this is the same as it always is. Do you… not want any?”

“There is no way that’s the same, brace yourself I’m coming over.”

The Gangrel didn’t get dressed, they only draped the blanket over themselves like a parka being used as a cape, got up off of the couch, and made their way to the kitchen. Bridger carefully inspected the coffee maker, while holding a hand over their nose.

“You want some plain Vitae?”

“I… sure, there’s something about that, maybe it’s how my Auspex is manifesting this evening, but it just, it smells putrid. I don’t mean to gross you out, I hope it’s fine, it looks fine, don’t let me take that enjoyment from you.”

“No problem bud.” Saint said, going back to the fridge, retrieving a wine bottle, grabbing a mug from the cabinet, and pouring them a cup of Vitae. “Here, sorry about the smell though. Like I said, it smells fine to me.”

Bridger smooched Saint on the cheek, took the mug and walked back towards the couch. Fuck, what is that? They’re not bothered, and it doesn’t look any different from normal, this is clearly a Me problem. They waited for the brewing to finish before they began drinking. Taking a sip, they quickly realized it wasn’t a problem with the coffee, or how the combined concoction smelled, it was the blood. It was stomach turning. They sat the mug down on the coffee table and looked at Saint who was now casually sipping their blood coffee, while leaning against the counter. Saint curiously looked back, but Bridger raised a finger, and ran off to the restroom. The sounds that emitted were terrible. Saint didn’t have the ability to not care, they cared about their Bridger so deeply, so giving them some time, they checked in as it seemed to calm down.

“Is everything okay in there bud?”

“I… I don’t know. I think I’m… sick? Kindred don’t get sick though. But the blood, it’s… thick… and cold… and I can’t keep it down. Don’t come in here for a second. I’m going to… shower off real quick.”

“You sure you don’t need any help?”

“No, it’s… I have to clean in here too, and it’s… it’s embarrassing.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m good for a little while, but then I gotta head to the Biltmore.”

“You mind taking me with you? Nell knows enough about blood to probably tell me what’s fucking happening with me.”

“Sure thing. Sorry that you’re going through it. We’ll get you feelin’ better soon.”

“Thank you.” Bridger said weakly before turning on the shower. “I love you.”

“I… love you too.” Saint’s brows narrowed externally, they were worried.

After some scrubbing, and a hot shower, Bridger got dressed and returned. They looked visibly sick, but they were right, Kindred don’t get sick.

“Jesus, ya look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks. Yeah I… won’t be able to do anything today, you’re gonna need to call Arnott if there’s any Sheriff duties that need to be taken care of.”

“That bad huh? Naming a successor already?” Saint smirked.

“Oh fuck you.” Finally a giggle escaped the sickly Bridger.

Saint held them as long as they could before realizing the possible dangers of the situation.

“You sounded like you went on for a while in there, how are you doing in terms of… hunger.”

“I mean, I’m pretty fucking hungry, but that blood isn’t it. Maybe she’ll have some weird bottle of Vitae that is easier on the stomach.”

The two chatted a bit more, closely, then made their way to Saint’s Cherry Red Jeep. They drove off to the Biltmore.

Some time later, the two stood before Asheville's Prince Tarheel Nell, local Vicissitude Expert, and Naomi Arnott, the City's Salubri healer. Naomi's three blue eyes glowed eerily before returning to normal.

"Well, if you were afflicted with anything, you aren't anymore." she announced before extending her hand. Bridger winced, but allowed her to make contact. "But, yer still quite warm, you sure you're not doing this intentionally? Not to undermine what you're suffering through, I've just not seen anything like this this before. Yer definitely low on blood. Ma'am?" Naomi yielded to Nell.

"I'm just as lost Mrs. Arnott. Bridger, are you in any pain beyond the nausea and fever?"

"I'm… not." They felt around their midsection to confirm, but they weren't sore anywhere.

"Would you mind if I checked out your blood? I'm just-"

"Just do it. Don't tell me how you're doing it, it's just gonna freak me out, do what you gotta do, please, I don't want to be useless to you."

"Babe, you don't have to worry about your usefulness. They care about you."

Bridger turned beat red. "Saint, my Scourge, I ask that you refrain from babe-ing me in front of Arnott."

"My bad." Saint responded with a nervous smile.

Bridger simply growled, but then diverted their attention to Nell who took their hand.

"Why, you are positively warm. That's the wildest thing. Now, please hold."

The Gangrel reluctantly held onto their Prince's hand. They could feel pricks of cold blood entering through their palm. The invasive vitae ran through their system before returning out through the hand. Nell had a surprised look.

"Well, Nell, don't keep us in suspense. Are they… okay?" Saint now asked anxiously.

"Uh, I don't know how to put this… Bridger, you… are a Kindred, but, there are signs of life in your body. This warmth, this nausea, the fact that I've noticed you sweating, or at least, beginning the process of sweating. I think you are dehydrated and need… actual food. Can I have my people prepare you a meal or would you rather do this in the privacy of your own home?"

"Signs of… b-babe, what the fuck?" Bridger was now extremely panicked looking as they turned to Saint.

"May… I be excused to look after them? This is… definitely something weird."

"Aye. Someone should keep watch on them, at least until they've recovered." Naomi said in her own medical opinion.

"Of course, Saint, I hereby appoint you as Bridger's caretaker until this issue is resolved."

"In sickness and in health." Saint joked before getting elbowed. "WHAT? It's not like Naomi doesn't know."

"I wasn't particularly offended that I didn't get the invite. I get it, I'm sure they kept a pretty tight ship if there was anyone there at all."

"There was. We had… our sires, and Nell, and AMP." Bridger admitted in a pained tone. "Saint, can you please get me home and let's just grab some food on the way there."

"Yes boss." Saint said, once again being on their A-Game for bugging the fuck out of the Gangrel. "Thank you both, I'll uh- keep you two in the loop. Surely we'll hear from AMP shortly."

"They're handling a meeting for me right now. But if you want I can keep them abreast of the situation."

"No need, I'm sure they already know somehow." Bridger grumbled. "Besides, it'd be no good to pull your entire court off the job for the day."

"We'll be heading out then. Come on." Saint added, taking Bridger by the hand and leading them out. Once they got back to the Jeep, Bridger's stomach rumbled. They both paused before getting in.

"Okay, I'm extremely done with this already." Bridger roared.

They went through a Cook-Out drive-through, and that's when things really became odd. Saint got themselves a Cheerwine float, but Bridger ordered a large tray of food, burgers, hush puppies, fries, corn dogs, beef quesadillas, and chicken nuggets. Saint looked befuddled at the sheer amount, but brushed it off. It wasn't like the couple weren't well off at this point, just when Bridger did get food in public, they'd get maybe a singular sandwich or fries, this was intense. They got home, Bridger returned to the spot on the sofa, and wrapped themselves back up in a blanket.

"The cold getting to you again?"

"Yeah, it's the weirdest thing. How the fuck is there a sign of life in my otherwise dead body?"

"No clue, but do what you gotta do, eat up."

Bridger opened their styrofoam containers and chowed down. One of the burgers had onions, and while they were starving, they were committed enough to the bit to discard them - as onions are poisonous to cats. Same with the lone Onion Ring that found its way into the fries bag. The food was gone near instantly while the two re-cozied themselves. Bridger admittedly fed Saint some of their sides as they went, as to not be so self conscious about devouring everything they ordered. The TV played Supernatural. The episode was titled Mystery Spot, and featured Dean dying multiple times to comedic effect. The couple paid little attention to the show as it was not their favorite show, but it wasn't detested, and it yielded an occasional chuckle from both.

"I feel… good." Bridger said.

"That's good babe, may I?" Saint asked before raising their hand to Bridger's forehead. Once getting a nodded approval, they found it was still warm, even more so. They continued feeling on them, down their neck, their sides, their stomach. It was like there was a heat source in the center of their person that all of this was emanating from. "That's so bizarre, it's a little early to be already processing this food. If you are sort of alive, this is going to have to… well, exit."

"I've considered that, and while that process sounds like a hell, my butt is at least… more practiced with things entering it at this point. I would have refrained from eating if the idea bothered me enough. But it was like I needed to eat."

"I guess we'll feed you food until you recover. I'll need to stock the house with groceries and stuff. You're lucky we're both good at cooking, cause if you look like how you did when we first woke up, you'd be in now shape to make anything."

"You're right. Ugh, you take such good care of me babe." They found themselves absently sipping on the latter half of the float.

"Lemme get you some water." Saint suggested, before leaving to grab them a glass. Returning, Bridger downed the water instantly. "Oh, uh, another?" Bridger nodded. They repeated this process.

"This is… really freaky. Thank you for being by my side for all of this."

"Of course, ya dweeb, you think I'd let you suffer alone?"

"You almost went in to work."

"I mean, I had no idea it was like this."

"Fair. Saint, would it be okay if I took a nap on you?"

"On? Yeah sure bud, go for it."

Bridger laid their head on Saint's lap, and rolled onto their side. Saint shook their head. Now I really am their caretaker. Unlike the sex thing where they act like they're uninterested, but get extremely needy, they probably actually hate having to depend on me for this, but I'm not going anywhere until they're one hundred percent.

~Ostara Two~

Bridger's condition only got weirder as time went on. After a solid week, Saint did have to return to work as the City's Scourge, but they made sure the house was well stocked with food and prepared meals. Over the next month, Bridger had them to themselves when they got home, like usual, but their evenings were mostly spent watching junk television. Occasionally AMP would swing by to keep Bridger company. The two would talk about the outside world, about their band Psychic Assault, and about whatever this was. To Bridger, it seemed like AMP knew exactly what was up without being able to articulate as much, and this sort of thing always frustrated them, but not in the way where they placed any of that blame on their good friend.

"All I'm saying is that, none of this fucking makes sense AMP. Sure, I don't need blood right now, and that's weird enough as it is, but why are you saying I shouldn't smoke or drink? I feel like I need those now more than ever."

"Look, Bridger, if you are now more Kine-like, those things will be bad on your health, in ways that could effect you when you're back to your prime. Do this for yourself, yeah?"

"Ugh, I guess so. I just, I'm without Saint, I have to eat this fucking food like I'm some kind of weird pet, nothings on the TV, and I don't want to load up the X-Files box set without them. That's why I have Millennium on, like, it's fine, but it's no X-Files."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Just… more company? I feel like I'm losing it. My brain is that of a caged animal at a zoo, running in circles, forming new neuroticisms. Er, no offense."

"None taken. Can… I give you a hug?"

Bridger scowled, but then turned shook their head yes. When AMP's arms went over Bridger's shoulders, Bridger rested their face on the side of one of AMP's sleeves and wept. Tears, proper clear tears, exited their eyelids.

"It's just… difficult, you know? I'm suddenly such a burden on everyone, and I can't even do my job, and that's the entire reason I'm here, and that's why Nell keeps me around, cause I'm useful, and without that, I'm better off just leaving town, and-"

"Shhh, shhh, Bridger, my friend, it's okay, you're not going anywhere, Nell doesn't find you burdensome, and neither do Saint nor Hugo nor myself. You just have to keep taking care of yourself."

"If I just knew what the fuck was happening to me, then maybe I could do something about it to right this wrong. Ya know?"

AMP pushed them an arms distance away and scanned them up and down.

"There is definitely something, and it will take… some time, you're going to need to be patient, but you'll get through this."

"When you say some time, what do you mean?"

AMP was silent until Bridger caught their attention again. "AMP?"

"Like, three quarters of a year…"

"NINE FUCKING MONTHS THAT'S- wait. Wait no. AMP, is this, am I?"

AMP tilted their head to the side at their friend's line of inquiry.

"Fucking hell, what!? Saint and I joked about having a child together, back… oh fuck, the night before I was unwell. But that doesn't make sense, for starters, Saint doesn't have a dick, or testicles, or, like, living sperm. And I don't- I mean, it was mostly all tucked up inside of me. And that's where I'm the warmest. There's no way right? There's no way?"

"I mean, there shouldn't be a way, but I've heard of such a thing. Perhaps we should get you back to Nell, maybe this time without Naomi Arnott there as well."

"Yeah, I think you're right. God damn it. I have to buy a test - no wait, that won't work, I don't have a functioning- that DOESN'T MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE!"

"I KNOW IT DOESN'T, BUT IT'S KINDA COOL!"

"COOL!? COOL THAT MY SPOUSE KNOCKED ME UP!?"

"YEAH KINDA! ALSO WHY ARE WE YELLING!?"

"Fuck, my bad. Let's get over to the Biltmore. Will you message Saint for me? I'm too frantic, I'll be able to focus on driving, I miss driving, but I've had no reason to go out on my own."

Bridger grabbed a turkey sandwich, lovingly crafted by Saint, out of the refrigerator, then the two hopped into Bridger's Black Lincoln Navigator. Bridger slammed down the sandwich and drove off to the Estate while AMP texted Saint.

Heading to the Biltmore with Bridger. We have a concern. - AMP voice to texted.

Understood, I'll be there soon. - Saint responded.

Bridger once again found themselves in front of Nell. They were embarrassed, out of breath, and already ready to be done.

"Ma'am, AMP looked me over and said this recovery will take months."

"I'm sorry to hear that Bridger, AMP, what did you mean dear?"

"Nine months." Bridger interrupted.

Nell's eyes widened. "Oh my. I suppose I could try and see if that holds any water."

Bridger extended their hand and grabbed Nell's. Once again, the blood scanned through their entire body. When she was done, she raised her off hand to cover her mouth.

Suddenly Saint burst through the doors of Nell's office. "What is it? What do you know?"

"Well, I just traveled through their blood stream, and you're not going to believe this."

"What!?" Saint demanded, nearly in tears.

"A… heartbeat."

"Holy shit, they're becoming a Kine again. They're not gonna be-"

"Not just their heartbeat. A second very small one, more of a flutter than anything. But there are cells, growing cells. Saint, Bridger, I have no idea how, but you both may be parents here in a couple of months. Unless of course-"

"No, I, we- Saint, help me out here, it's not just me who-"

"I mean, yeah, we did talk about this I guess. Jokingly of course, but, yeah, fuck, I guess we're going to be parents… how the fuck did this happen though? How did I-"

"The Solstice." AMP assisted. "Bridger said this all started on the night before you came in here with your first concerns, which was on the twenty-second. Night before was the Solstice. And you were apparently joking about the concept of having a child. Some kind of magic seems to be granting our Bridger with enough life to actually carry this bundle of cells. Seems Fae-like."

Crying, Bridger rushed to Saint and held them closely. The first time Nell had seen such an emotion out of them. It made sense, there was something maternal coming from this Gangrel, emotions were bound to be all over the place.

"AMP looked at me with their Malkavian Eyes and told me I'd return to normal in three quarters of a year, then I said nine months out loud and I froze."

"Shh, look, it's gonna be okay. This is weird as fuck, but we planned for this, in a theoretical sense. Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking, has anything like this ever happened?"

"Well, Saint, it's hard to say. The Fae have definitely made things happen in situations where they would otherwise be impossible. Furthermore, the Tzimisce Cardinal of the East Coast and Arch Bishop of Charlotte, with whom I've had many pleasant conversations with, has apparently successfully made a lineage between him and his wife back in the early nineties, though he wouldn't divulge how exactly. I think the easy answer is yes, it's the how that gets fiddly."

The couple look shocked. AMP looked overjoyed. Nell looked concerned, but otherwise accepting.

"And before you ask, yes of course you can have maternity leave until your Kindred abilities resume. I do not begin to understand how you no longer need Vitae, and whether or not that means you can go out in the sunlight, but I imagine testing that is more trouble than it's worth, and that you wouldn't want to be apart from Saint during that time anyways."

"N-no. No I would not. I think I'll stick to my long formed nocturnal schedule."

"You're going to need vitamins and such. Prenatals or whatever." Saint added.

Bridger sighed, but continued holding onto Saint. "This is…. insane."

"Agreed, but for now, unless you change your mind, there's nothing more to do than to take care of yourself. At some point we may need to set up an appointment to… well… ensure that it can leave your body." Nell added, cautiously.

"When we get to the point, you can do whatever you gotta do." Bridger asserted. "I'll be fine, just get me back to normal afterwards."

"Of course my dear."

"Come on buddy, let's get you back home." AMP said cheerfully. Bridger let go of Saint, and followed along.

"Uh, just keep me posted babe, I'll see you later."

"Of course. Sorry it wasn't me that texted, I was in a panic."

"That… is extremely reasonable."

Bridger drove home with AMP riding shotgun again, stopping along the way for more food. This time it was the all-too-popular Popeyes Chicken Sandwiches.

Once they were back, Bridger paced around the back yard, taking full advantage of their warm parka. AMP paced as well, not in tandem, and not deep in thought, it just seemed like the thing to do. Once Bridger paused, they noticed AMP paused as well, and they broke down laughing.

"This is fucked up, right?"

"I guess."

"I mean, you were right though, it's also kind of cool."

"Yeah! I told you it was."

"You did. Thanks AMP, I'm sorry to have… cried on you."

"It's fine. I got your back, bobcat. We are friends."

"That's true. That's true. You're really the first friend I've kept."

"Well now, what about Saint and Hugo."

"I mean, Saint and I are married, right? And Hugo is sort of like, he's like my dad almost. More so than my actual dad ever was. And well, he's also your… Boyfriend. And while that has taken some adjusting to, I am happy for you two. You're a good match. But then there's you. You're my best friend, like family except I've never wanted to fight you."

"Right, cause you weren't into me."

"I- no- no I wasn't ever into you, and no I don't want to fight because- okay, listen here you little shit."

AMP laughed, then meandered around the side of the house. Bridger followed, faux enraged.

"Hmmm." AMP started. "Has this always been here?"

"Some sort of flowery bush thing… No I feel like I'd remember that." Bridger said, catching up and staring at the odd, new plant.

"Baby's breath." AMP elaborated. "Another check on the side of Fae nonsense."

"Fuck. Am… Am I in danger? Is the baby in danger?"

"Impossible to tell, but, I will say this. I've got you, Saint's got you, Nell's got you - this city's fucking got you Bridger, nobody's gonna let a thing happen to that baby."

Bridger exhaled heavily, then smelled the flowers. They were sour, almost milky, but not entirely unpleasant. "Huh."

~Ostara Three~

Three months later, the house had a different layout. The living room was cleaned, spotlessly, by its neurotic and very pregnant Gangrel resident. The bedroom however became a bit of a nest of pillow and blankets, something akin to a fort, though for napping rather than for childlike mischief. On most days, Bridger could be found lounging around in stretchy pants and their parka, unclosed as they were beginning to slightly show. They ceased making trips to the Biltmore, rather, Nell would make occasional house calls to maintain a proper watch on their impending child. AMP kept them company when they could, often times with a movie to their liking. Hugo too was allowed in to pester them about things like maintaining themselves. Sometimes the two would take turns, other times they'd be there together. And then of course there was Saint's doting. This… didn't surprise Bridger, but this difference in style of attention was something they were very quickly getting used to. One evening, they woke up in their nest with Saint holding them softly but supportive.

"Good morning darling."

"Ugh, not the darling."

"Got any plans today?"

"Yeah, it's full of naps, eating, and getting closer to getting Pulling Teeth down pat on guitar."

"You hungry? I can make some breakfast for you."

"Saint, I love you, I can do these things on my own."

"That's fair, but I have a little bit of time. Nell keeps having me come in later and later. She wants us to have more time to ourselves. Plus, the little kitten should get used to hearing my voice."

"I know this is weird, and that I'm able to transform into some animals, but I'm not doing that while the small creature is in me. Regardless, it's going to be a person, not a kitten."

"I just don't know what to call it yet."

"I mean… Fox… or Dana."

"You're still okay with X-Files names?"

"I think it was too kismet that we were talking about those as a joke, and then this just happened. It feels like it has to be part of it."

"Dana… Fox… Well, I'm going to get up. And I'm going to head to the kitchen to make something."

"No."

"No?"

"Ten more minutes. Your hands feel really good on me."

"Okay, that's fair, I understand."

"And then, I will make us breakfast."

"You will?"

"But I need a favor from you."

"Is it an outside favor?"

"Mmhmm."

"Bridge, it doesn't actually help does it?"

"It does. I can watch you smoke and vicariously live through that."

"Won't that just make you want to smoke more?"

"Trust me, nothing could make me want to more, but I'm stronger than my desires."

"So the plan is, we lay here for the next… nine minutes, then you make us breakfast while I wait outside and smoke on the back deck."

"Yes."

"You're a mess. But, whatever you want dear."

"What music should I play for them today? - outside of Metallica of course."

"What about some more Maiden? You think they like it?"

"I do. I don't think they mind when AMP has their 1960's folk shit on, but for me, if I have to suffer another Simon & Garfunkel vinyl, I'm going to snap."

"Heh, fair, I'll see if they can bring anything else next time."

"Maybe more Beatles. They're a Beatles nerd. But it's never the White Album. Hmm."

"Hey Bridge."

"Yes dear?"

"You really are beautiful, you know that?"

No matter what, no matter their new found comfort with their spouse, Bridger was never prepared for compliments. To them it always felt like an opening gambit to a combat scene.

"Wha- no, you, fuck you too."

Saint smiled and shook their head, preparing to get up.

"Nonono wait."

"What is it now?"

"Ten more minutes."

"I'm gonna miss my date with a cigarette."

"Two more minutes."

"I'm just gonna annoy you more."

"Please. Do that."

"Fine then. You're cute when you're flustered anyways."

They ran their fingers through Bridger's hair, and the Gangrel shivered.

"Hhhh, th-thank you."

"Not done."

They reached down the length of their back, and scratched the entire length, thoroughly. This yielded a constant purr.

"Not a kitten my ass. You're gonna birth our child and it's just gonna be a little kitty cat."

"Am not! I'm not going through these mood swings and food cravings over a kitten. I refuse."

"Fair, just teasing. Come on though, while you'd be perfectly content to be here all day, I wanna do something for you to make you happy."

"You do plenty in that regard."

"I know but," Saint started, getting out of the nest. "You have needs and requests, and I refuse to fail at providing for either of those."

"Fine." Bridger followed them out. Standing, their silhouette showed a small but notable belly bump. They followed Saint to the kitchen and began working on making food for the both of them. Saint, staying true to what was asked, went out on the porch, and lit up a cigarette. They wore pajama pants and their binder. Bridger nearly got distracted from their cooking while staring. Fuck, they look hot. And they're about to smell even better. What is this voice. Hot? This is not me. They sizzled some bacon on a cast iron, they pressed some waffle batter in their sizzling hot waffle maker, and they started a pot of blood coffee. It wasn't for them, it was a half pot for on-the-go blood consumption. When Saint came back inside, their food was ready.

"Woah Bridge, you weren't kidding."

"When have you ever known me to be kidding."

"Well, you're carrying my kid so, in a literal sense-"

"I'm going to hit you with this cast iron if you don't try harder than that."

"Fine, you were kitten when-"

"I'm warning you, I'm gonna thwack you."

"Sure, hey, we should sit and eat."

"One sec first."

Bridger nearly tackled Saint, nuzzling their face against them and taking in all the smells. The fatty, buttery food smells in the air, the earthy coffee aroma, Saint's natural body smells, and now the smell of Saint's Marlboros. After a few moments, they peeled themselves off of them, and handed them a plate, and a to-go mug.

"You didn't have to do all this babe."

"I'm not so fragile. In fact if I don't keep up some amount of action, I'm going to stagnate, and then this won't all be baby weight, it'll be laziness, and I am not about to do that to myself."

"I- well then, thank you."

They sat together and enjoyed breakfast.

"When's the next time Nell's supposed to come by?"

"Wednesday, we're two days out from that, but the little kitten appears to be in good human health. The flutter is a full blown heartbeat now."

"Damn, that's so crazy. I still don't understand how my genetics are in there. You've explained how it felt that night, and I don't disbelieve you, I just can't comprehend it."

"It's okay, I can't either, but I mean, it's not like I could have done this to myself. And you're the only person I've ever been with."

"Yeah, for sure."

The TV had Criminal Minds playing. Neither of them hated it, nor were they obsessed with it, it was just there. The episode was called The Lesson and was about a man who used people as puppets to portray the story of his dead father. By the time they were done with breakfast, Saint said their goodbyes and well wishes and promised to be back as soon as they were finished with the evening.

"Well, I'll be here. Stay safe out there."

"Of course. You stay safer in here."

"If the most difficult thing is not injuring my fingers, I should be pretty set."

"Then when I get home, I'll annoy you in very different ways."

"O-oh? You will?"

"It's supposed to be good for that, but also, I have a hard time resisting you."

"Hhhhhh, get out of here you punkass."

Saint smiled, kissed them goodbye, and drove off.

Bridger's day was mostly boring. They were serious when they predicted napping, making more food, and Guitar Playing. When they started they had little to no experience with playing Pulling Teeth by Metallica, but they mastered it before Saint returned. During their naps, they'd play Piece of Mind over headphones, and place the ear parts over their belly. When Saint did return, they held true, and absolutely rocked their shit. Bridger was well taken care of on all fronts. They went to sleep as comfortable as their day was, if not more exhausted, but also more satisfied. Wednesday came and went, Nell came by and checked up on the health of Saint and Bridger's offspring. Passed with flying colors. She was also able to accurately tell the its sex.

"Dana it is." Bridger said, confidently.

"Dana Parks. That has a nice ring to it. If they change it, they change it, but for now it'll do." Saint chuckled. Bridger pulled them in to a kiss.

~Ostara Four~

Three more months passed, and now the slightly showy Bridger had become round. It looked like when a scrawny cartoon character had eaten a watermelon whole. Slipping on XL band shirts was the only way they would go out into the back yard, if that was even in the cards. Food cravings were incredibly specific, it switched from only Spicy foods, to only Sweet, then to Vinegar based sour foods, then back to Spicy. It had been seven months without needing blood, seven months without a single cigarette, and seven months without getting to fight Saint out back. They only had the energy to practice more music. Slam the drums in frustration. Rip on a Guitar until they perfected another track. Scream lyrics in the shower at the top of their lungs. And Write. Bridger was not typically the one to write for Psychic Assault, that was mostly AMP and Saint work, but with the time they had as Dana developed, it was something to keep them busy.

Bridger up kept every ritual to ensure the baby could be delivered healthily. They took prenatal vitamins, though the effects were questionable as they rode the line between dead and not. This did have an effect on their chest, though, they frequently requested Nell fix that. They were comfortable with their breasts as they were, not what they continued attempting to grow into. They conversed with Nell about the best kinds of exercises as the delivery date was only about two months out. Nell suggested the possibility of temporarily un-doing what Octavius had done, but the solution was simple, when the Dana was to be born, she would simply reach in and retrieve her, and in doing so, remove all the necessary organs that would allow this to happen again.

Their nerves were shot at the encroaching date, their mind bullied them into all the worst possible scenarios. But one thing they could count on for sure is that Saint would be there.

One day during this time frame, Bridger was a particularly emotional mess. Something they weren't particularly used to. They were curled up in their nest, and tears were running down their cheeks constantly. Next to them they had gone through most of a box of tissues. They texted Saint to help them get through this, and while they couldn't just abandon their post, they had time to respond.

But what if I can't do this? What if this was all for nothing? What if we've built up this hope and then something goes wrong?

Then it goes wrong, and we get you back to normal. But it won't. You're strong and resilient and determined.

Ugh. Thank you, but that doesn't really appease my fears. No matter how determined someone is, that can't prevent disaster.

Babe, that's true with anything, sure, any given day isn't promised. We both know what that's like, we've both endured hell, but we've wound up here. If everything isn't one hundred percent, you'll still have me.

You promise? You won't leave me if I fuck this up?

Nothing could make me leave ya Bridge. Hold up.

Okay.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for this constant worry.

I don't feel like myself.

I need to be this strong, cold, fierce creature.

And now I'm resigned to the house and the backyard.

Like a caged animal.

I guess that's my own decision though.

Being in public like this would kill me. I can't be perceived like this. I can't.

I don't want to have Tarheel Nell give me the appropriate organs.

I don't want to feel that there. That area is for you and you alone.

When it's time, I think I'll just have her pull Dana out, safely, and then patch me back up.

And obviously I want you there too. She needs to see her good parent.

Fuck. If all things do go right, what would she even call us? "Parent" is so sterile.

Probably just our names, right?

Sorry about that. False alarm. Thought someone might have been sneaking in with malintent, but it was just a wild deer that tripped the sensor. Not even a ghoul.

It's fine. I'm fine. I'm sorry for the spam. I'm just really going through it.

It's not that I wish you were here. I'm happy that I'm not pulling the entire trio out of work.

I already feel bad enough for not being able to do my own job right now.

Stop that. You shouldn't feel bad. A) This wasn't planned. B) Even if it was, fuck it, you earned some rest, some time off, something good.

Something good? Saint, is this something good?

I think of the word "parent" and I get sick.

PTSD I think. Or Nerves. I don't fucking know.

This is going to be the best thing that's ever happened to us.

Maybe not The Best thing, but definitely up there in like the top three. I admire your enthusiasm.

I Reread that gap of time I couldn't respond. I think those are all the right options. Honestly a Vicissitude birth is going to be the least painful and awkward for you.

And I don't know what she's gonna call us. What we should teach her. Probably just baby talk of our names unless we impress something else.

Fuck, I'm no good at that though. I know toddlers have a hard time with R's, and while my own name would be ideal, I'm not trying to be called Bidge cause it sounds like Bitch. S's are the same way, Aint.

Hmm, yeah I can see that being less than ideal. Especially when she references us to their classmates or peers.

Should we homeschool her? Should Someone homeschool her? Public schools are a cesspool and are often terrible places to be. We wouldn't be able to meet her teachers.

Let's think on it. Luckily a baby doesn't have to go to school, so we have time.

Thanks for comforting me Saint, I Really needed that. I was spiraling bad. I think I'm going to watch Fight The Future. Bad sci-fi aliens usually lift my spirits.

Have fun Bridge, hit me up if you need anything. I love you.

Yeah yeah. Love you too. See you later.

By the time the first swarm of bees arrive on screen, Dana started kicking. While this wasn't a rare occurrence, it filled Bridger with pride. They immediately got their cellphone back out.

Saint! She's kicking! She started kicking when the bees showed up!

Heh, that's so cool. Wish I was there to feel.

May call her my little bumblebee or something like that.

That's really cute babe.

Shut it, I wasn't trying to be cute, never mind!

There's the Bridger I know. Adorably flustered.

I'm warning you punkass. I'll show up and deck ya.

Unfair, I couldn't strike ya back.

Yeah, that's true, I don't want a cheap win. Never feels good.

Alright, back to it. Sorry for the distract.

Bridge, these distractions are well needed. It's what makes it all worth it.

Bridger sat on this text for a while. It filled them with butterflies in new and interesting ways. I make it all worth it? They thought. That's fucking crazy. They're fucked up for thinking like that… But I do like it. Guess I'm fucked up too. They cracked a wide smile. They caught a reflection in the mirror. Their wide maw full of razor sharp teeth made them wince. Probably shouldn't smile in front of her. Don't want to scare the baby. I'll just have to be the stoic parent. They tried smiling with their mouth closed. It looked unnatural. Then they scowled, but it made them laugh. They were in a silly mood, so they proceeded to make faces back at the mirror. Suddenly in the movie, The Well Manicured Man's car exploded and their attention returned to the screen.

Sometimes all a grumpy cat needs is the love of their life and a good movie. Or at least, that helped Bridger. The rest of their evening went along as per normal, with the occasional unintentional grin as they thought of how lucky they were. Not just to be having a child with their spouse in a way that shouldn't be possible, but that they were married to such a warm and kind person. The irony of them being the warm one these days wasn't lost on them. When the movie finished, they killed a whole jar of pickles and heated up some Barbeque from Little Pigs BBQ. By the time Saint made it home, they tried to remain stoic and play-grumpy, but they couldn't upkeep it. They were doted on instantly, and their cold act melted instantly in their embrace.

~Ostara Five~

Two months and some change later it was approaching zero hour. Any day this could kick off, though they'd have to know by instinct as there was no place for water to break. It was a day where Hugo was looking after them. This happened pretty rarely as he too had many obligations that weren't lessened with Bridger out of commission.

"Now, I know I say this every time I see ya, but this is not a visual I ever expected to see."

"No fucking kidding, pops. This wasn't exactly possible as a Kine either, so it's… a lot."

"And with Saint no less-"

"Go ahead and cease the references to my spouse and I in such a way."

"My bad kid, my bad."

"Ugh, no, it's fine, it just, much like everything else - doesn't make any fucking sense."

"You were saying it was likely the Fae, but even that you don't know one hundred percent."

"Yeah I mean, considering that Vampires and Werewolves and Ghosts and shit are all real, it isn't all that hard to believe that something weird would work out in such a way."

"Boggles the mind still."

"Yeah man. For sure."

Suddenly there was a knock at their door. Bridger looked concerned, as they weren't expecting visitors. Hugo, having read their expression, drew a pistol and headed for the door. Bridger looked through with Auspex, their abilities having heavily waned. Rainbow… I don't know what that is. And… sparkles.

"Be careful, it's a magic user of some sort."

"Understood."

Hugo opened the door and spotted what appeared to be a short child with pointed ears, curly white hair, and wearing a light blue tunic. Although Hugo kept his pistol hidden behind his back, it commented first. "No need for violence future grandpa, may I enter?"

"Depends, what's this about?"

"It is time, the Bobcat will have to deliver - tonight." The Piskey said with a wide grin.

Hugo's eyes widened. "Hey bud, remember that Fae theory?"

Bridger didn't answer, they only made their way to the door.

"Yes! That one! It's time, bobcat!"

"Great. What's your involvement in this?" Bridger responded with an uncertain tone.

"I merely set this in motion. You two were certainly trying for quite some time and-"

"Enough of that shit, why?"

"Because! Er, how did you put it? Why listen to a favorite song? Why stop and smell the flowers? Why do anything for yourself ever? I don’t know."

Hugo turned to stare at Bridger who looked confused. It said this in Bridger's voice. In fact it was an old quote from decades ago, when Hugo first asked them why it was so important for them to want to best Saint in combat.

"No direct answers. Of course. You're saying it's time though. We should go then."

"Correct, go go go, the Monarch is busy but she will stop what she's doing, your Panther will be there for you, the Bard will appear and herald the newborn's arrival."

"It sounds like a Malkavian."

"Of course it does, the Bard is one, are they not?"

"No, I mean You sound like a Malkavian. Seriously though, what's in this for you? You think it's funny to give me some flush of life for nine months?"

"A little! But that's not why, it's because she should be here."

"You gonna take her from me?"

"No? I want her to be healthy."

"Is this a trick? Some kind of… gift? Because I did not ask for this."

"You quite literally did ask for this. You wished for it even. On Ostara no less. Fertility day. If you have changed your mind, once she's born I can take her back to-"

"No!" Bridger screamed, tears welling. "Please, please let me keep her."

"Then keep her you shall!"

"What do I owe you for this? An exchange makes us even."

"An open invitation to visit in the Springtime. At least while the child lives as a child. I desire playtime. Enrichment. When they are an adult and afterwards, I will have no interest. I don't care to have adult friends. You lot are a finicky sort."

"That's all? And you won't harm her? In any way?"

"Scout's honor. Oh, and one more thing."

"We're in a hurry here aren't we?"

"Last thing, then we'll be square."

"Fine, what is it?"

"Can you sign this Psychic Assault CD?"

Bridger looked shocked, more than this at anything else. They let out a chuckle, and took the CD. They quickly found a sharpie, and signed B~~~R, squiggling between the first and last letter as they were accustomed to doing on documentation. They handed the signed CD back to the Piskey.

"This is the weirdest day I've ever had."

"It will get even weirder! You're welcome! And also thank you!"

"Come on kid, we gotta go if it's as urgent as this one is saying."

"Oh, I am not this one, I am cornflower."

"Right, cornflower, I don't know what I was expecting. Nice to meet you, wish us luck."

"You won't need it bobcat. Go with health, and be merry."

cornflower clutched the signed CD tightly like it was a teddy bear, spun in a circle on Bridger's doorstep, and then vanished into thin air. Bridger simply shook their head, then followed Hugo to his truck.

"Haven't had to ride shotgun in this since…"

"Yeah, since you first got here, since I took you to the Biltmore decades ago."

"Right. No need for further sentimental nonsense then, to Nell!"

"You got it, kid."

Hugo started the truck up once Bridger was secured and their mouth was covered in their mask. About halfway through the ride, the contractions started back up and they were more painful than ever.

"Fffffuck!" Bridger winced. "Yep, she's uh, on the way I fucking guess."

"Hold on tight." Hugo floored it the rest of the way, some of it was him driving through the woods that surrounded the Biltmore. Towards the grounds of the Estate, the Diamondbacks, who would otherwise intercept incoming speeding vehicles, parted like the Red Sea. Hugo rolled his window down and shouted. "Make yourselves sparse! The only folks who need to be in here are the Prince, the Scourge, and the Seneschal!"

"Ugh." Bridger grumbled. "They all know." They said under their breath.

"They don't. I told them you were out of commission, and that's all the Diamondbacks needed to know."

"Hmmph. Thanks pops." Bridger smiled through a pained face. It wasn't visible, but Hugo could tell.

Once the rest of the Diamondbacks were cleared, Hugo helped Bridger out of the truck, but they didn't have their footing. They nearly fell over before Hugo caught them.

"I don't want to ruin your image or anything, but-"

"Just do it. I'm a bit heavier, but you got Potence to spare."

"Understood."

Hugo lifted the extremely pregnant Gangrel, covered them in a towel, and carried them inside. Nell's emergency instructions had been laid out ahead of time. If I'm not the one with Bridger when the time has come, take them to the Spa, and ring the bell twice. I'll be there in a flash. He did as instructed.

"Wha- why not some sort of hospital wing?"

"She insisted."

"Of course she did. Fuckin' extra ass Toreador."

"Bridger."

"Sorry, I just, ack, fuck, it, hasn't stopped."

He set Bridger down on a Spa bed, and rang the bell twice. Bridger removed their mask, and pants, but left their underwear on - there shouldn't be a need to access that area, as Nell had assured them.

"I… don't imagine you'd want me here for the rest of this? I understand it can be pretty gnarly, and you don't really let me be that involved, not that-"

"Do you want to be here or not?"

"Uh-"

"Cause I don't really care about any of that, if you want to be here, please, stay here."

"Understood."

Hugo found a bench to sit on nearby. Soon enough, blood flowed from the ceiling, quickly forming Asheville's Prince Tarheel Nell.

"Came as fast as I could. Alerted Saint, and AMP they'll be on the way."

"Great, can we go ahead and get the show on the road? The contractions are a BITCH!"

"Let me do some investigation first to make sure everything is as it should be, then we can get moving right along."

"Fine, just, fucking, hurry. Ugh, safely, hurry safely."

Nell placed a hand on Bridger's right thigh, and surveyed their insides in blood form. Dana was in fact ready. There was nothing in the way for delivery. She noticed the heavy contractions, and used her Vicissitude to lessen them as much as possible. Nell felt Bridger's body relax somewhat around her. She returned the rest of herself to her body.

"Okay, so, your body is attempting to make it easier for a more traditional birth, but you don't need that, so I lessened those effects. Let me fetch the medical basinet and let's get this operation underway. You hanging in there Bridger?"

"Y-yes ma'am. Thank you."

AMP arrived next. They approached and put their hand on Bridger's shoulder. Bridger took their hand.

"Thanks for being here bud. This is the fucking weirdest shit."

"No kidding." AMP chuckled.

Bridger's pained expression shifted into a blank one at the attempted humor. AMP was briefly unsure if it was not the right time for jokes, but then Bridger broke into laughter.

"Fuck you AMP. Thanks for that. While I'm not gonna say it was a good one, it fucking got me."

"Any time Bridger, you got this, plus Saint is almost in."

Bridger let out a sigh of relief. "Thank fuck."

Oliver was next. He waited patiently after nodding to Bridger who nodded back.

AMP sat close to Hugo on the bench, and leaned on him. Shit was bizarre, and while they weren't specifically enduring anything themselves, having their boyfriend present was entirely mandatory for them.

"Heard you had to drive through the damn woods."

"Yeah, their pain increased so I said fuck it, and floored it. Shortest distance is a straight line."

"Nice." AMP smiled. Their hand rested on Hugo's thigh, and it was held in comfort.

Finally Saint arrived. Oliver gave them a light slug on the shoulder which made them smile immediately.

Saint was in rare form internally. Excited, but nervous, but they didn't let it show. They remained their typical consistent self with Bridger. Taking their hand and smoochin' them on the forehead. Bridger didn't care about the PDA, they needed their Saint, almost as much as they needed to get the show on the road. Vanderbilt came back with a medical bed that was clearly from the maternity wing of a hospital. She outfitted the team in hospital gowns to cover their clothing, then placed a pair of sterile gloves on Saint's hands..

"Alright, everyone ready? This will not take long. As per request, the organs that had been dormantly inside are to come out as well. Is that still the plan?"

Bridger turned to Saint with a pained look, before they both turned their attention to Vanderbilt, nodding in unison.

"Bridge, I want you to pay attention to me. Nell is an artist, and a damn good one at that, and this may be a bit gory, but we're going to have to trust the process. If all is well and good, we should hear some crying."

"Uh huh." Bridger said, keeping their emerald green eyes locked on Saint's sapphires.

"Now, it's probably going to feel very weird here in a sec, losing this amount of weight this quickly, but you're delivering our little Dana. I know that the uh bowel situation can be weird, but nobody is going to judge that of you. You're only sort of alive for this. Then Nell is gonna patch you back up."

"Just keep talking to me Saint. Ah, her hands are doing something strange, but I don't want to look. I'm just going to keep looking at you."

"That's right, eyes on me, just stay with me, not that you're in any danger. Just, I don't want you passing out or anything and missing-"

Their words were interrupted with cries from a tiny body. Saint looked over, just for a second, and they were already being handed Dana. The newborn looked into Saint's eyes, and ceased crying. "Ooh. Well, look at you." Their smile was that of relief and unconditional love. They brought the fresh Dana Parks to meet with Bridger. Bridger only stared in amazement. Dana stared back. Bridger fought off a wide toothy smile, so instead they grinned with their mouth closed, it wasn't as unnatural looking as before. Dana roached out and nearly touched Bridger's face, but Saint pulled her back a bit. "Shouldn't do that." Saint chuckled.

"Saint."

"Yeah?"

"Nine months inside of me, and she comes out looking like her punkass other parent." Bridger smirked.

"Hey now-"

"Her grey-greenish-but-mostly-blue eyes, dark hair, covered in blood. Tiny version of Saint to a T."

Saint chuckled. They looked over at Nell for a moment. She was enamored at the sight, but ultimately had finished up with their operation on Bridger. She reached for Dana and Saint handed her back. Nell placed the newborn in the sterile carriage. AMP looked to the Parks in anticipation, Saint smiled at them, Bridger sighed but shook their head.

"Presenting to the world, Dana Allison Parks!"

Eventually everyone in the room got their turn welcoming Dana Parks into the world. She was to stay the night so that Nell could monitor her vitals before she could return home with Saint and Bridger. So, the trio stayed in the Spa Room. It was off limits during the daytime, and well covered, and while it was comfortable, it was not home. Before the sun rose up in the sky, Nell finished up one last procedure. She hooked Bridger up with an IV of Vitae. Their body did not react poorly to it. They let it happen naturally. By the time the next evening came, they were cold as they were before, like none of it had ever happened, except now, they were short a few internal organs, and they had Dana as proof that it did. They woke in Saint's loving embrace. Looking around briefly anxious, they clocked where Dana's carriage had been moved to.

"Mx. Parks?" a Nurse ghoul Bridger had encountered before addressed them from a distance.

"Yeah?" Bridger responded sleepily.

"Miss Parks has remained in good health through the day. Her heart rate is well within normal ranges, maintained a stable temperature, and is eating consistently. She even did a little poo for us. I'll check with Mrs. Vanderbilt to see if she's ready to go home with you, but I don't see any reason she wouldn't be able to."

"Th-thank you, Syd."

"No problem, this has been… a surprise. Suddenly we have a childbirth in the Biltmore instead of handling wounds or illness, but it was quite exciting. I wasn't allowed to know many details, and while I was told to defer to you, I was warned about asking-"

"Yeah it's ours."

"Yours and… Mx. Saint's?"

"Correct."

"H-how? That shouldn't be possible. She's a living breathing human baby."

"The Fae."

"I- that shouldn't explain everything, and yet, I have no further questions. Congratulations. If you need any further assistance, there are other nurses here, but Mrs. Vanderbilt advised I assist you as long as you need."

"Saint?" Bridger nudged their spouse who woke up groggily.

"Yeah Bridge?"

"I think Nell set us up a caretaker for the daytime."

"Oh, I mean, we were planning on one of the Diamondbacks, but if you don't mind-"

"Not at all Mx. Parks."

"Nono, none of that, I'm Saint, that's Bridger, and that's Dana. You work for Nell, like we all do, well, all of us except Dana. Only person you gotta be formal around is our collective boss. Understood?"

"Yes Saint."

"Cool. Bridge you cool with this?"

"I mean, not like I can stay awake during the day and take care of her."

"I'll be right back, let me check with Mrs. Vanderbilt."

Sydney left, and the two were alone for the first time with Dana.

"Bridger, I can't believe this. She's finally here."

"Yeah, no kidding. Hey, I need to talk to you about something now that we're alone."

"Uhhhh, okay?"

"It's about the Fae. A little-kid lookin' Fae came by yesterday, it told me it was time to come here, which was pretty helpful considering I had nowhere for water to break, and had I waited for contractions, I probably would have been too late."

"A Fae came by? To the house?"

"Yeah and it was apparently not the first time. It was the one who made this possible."

"Oh god."

"They had demands, but they were reasonable."

"Alright Bridge, let's hear em."

"Once a year visiting to hang out with Dana, until she's eighteen. No harm, no funny business."

"Okay that doesn't sound too bad, what else?"

"And it wanted me to sign a Psychic Assault CD."

Saint tilted their head. "What the fuck?" They whispered.

"I know. But I mean, for what was basically a throwaway, and eighteen visits, I think we got off light."

"Heh, damn, yeah I was worried I'd have to find some cold iron to keep some Fae from taking her from us."

"cornflower was pretty reasonable. I don't know Fae tribes or whatever, but I know they don't all look like children."

"It's true, some of us look like monsters, or animals, or people." cornflower said, suddenly appearing.

"Uh... hi?"

"Hi. I know you don't know me, or owe me, but what could I exchange with you today for an autograph?" it said, holding out the signed Psychic Assault CD to Saint.

"Hmm." Saint thought for a second, but decided to be nice. "It's not a big deal, what would you be willing to trade for it?"

"Oh, uh, I, hold on, let me check." It rooted around in its pockets, and then produced a small brass trophy of a record player. "It's. It's a record player, but it's too small, and doesn't work, is this amicable?"

"Sure?" Saint said, taking the Grammy while up keeping a neutral facade. "Thank you."

"Nonono, thank you." cornflower responded quickly, producing a sharpie from its other pocket and extended it to Saint with the CD, its hands shaking.

Saint signed a well practiced art of their signature. The left tilted A, and the Right tilted N spike, formed the bottom two points on an upside-down star. They handed both the CD and the Sharpie back to cornflower who was nearly vibrating out of its skin. "Ah! One More! I just need One More! I will see you both in a year!" It tapped Bridger on the shoulder, then somersaulted in the air and vanished before landing.

"Do you think it showed up because I said its name?" Bridger asked, no longer on edge, no longer frozen.

"Possibly, let's just avoid referring to The Fae unless we really want to see it. Yeah?"

"Agreed. Though I suppose it was useful. I haven't hung out with a lot of children. And while I know it probably wasn't a child, I can sort of better prepare my brain for that level of energy."

"Heh, good point. You were an old child after all, you'd've had no reason to have experienced younger kids during childhood. So, you think you're up to the task still?"

"No Saint, I'm done with it." They said sarcastically. "Dummy, I'm gonna commit to this. We're gonna raise someone together and be fucking great at it."

The two smooched, until Bridger's stomach rumbled. "I - hold that thought." They got up and ran off. Saint didn't think about the process of returning to a kindred form, and how potentially messy and upsetting it would be. They were just there to be ready to comfort them when they returned. When Bridger did return, they were wiping blood from their mouth. Saint raised an eyebrow. "I am pretty sure that was the last of the food and water and meds, I'm back to all blood now." Bridger remarked.

Saint put their hand on Bridger's face, and moved it down their neck to their belly, then around their back. "You're back to your cold self, but please don't let it be anything more than physical."

"Nono, the me you see before you is a Bridger who produced your child. You have nothing to fear."

"I wasn't— never mind."

Sydney returned. "You're cleared to go, you three."

"Hell yeah. You too, right Syd?" Bridger asked, to which Sydney nodded, and the four of them exited the spa, and headed for Saint's Red Jeep. Once they got home, Saint showed Sydney around, their spare room that had previously been a makeshift practice space for the band, had been converted into a baby room with a crib and various lounge spots. AMP had loaded them up with Toys that develop motor skills and problem-solving to entertain and help educate the young Dana Parks. Bridger waited outside the house, taking out their Filtered Camels and lighting one after pressing it to their lips. The inhale calmed them almost as much as Saint did yesterday. Not from a chemical sense, but rather how a comfort blanket would. Nature was healing. Soon enough, Saint joined them on the porch and wrapped an arm over their shoulder, sparking up a Marlboro Red by pressing its end against the end of Bridger's Camel. Bridger gritted their teeth for a second, and Saint looked disappointed, but this was quickly rectified with Bridger laughing and coughing, smoke exiting their mouth as they barely recovered from the laughing fit.

"God could you imagine. I carried your baby, but lighting your cigarette with the end of mine? That's where I draw the line."

"Bridge, buddy, I can imagine that, that's how it'd been for years about all sorts of shit. We needed that honeymoon. I needed that honeymoon. And afterwards, we slowly thawed that hold up you had about even being seen with me. Like, obviously I'm not going to like, fuck you in a public place, that's not anything, but like, light, flirty, romance? Like that. It's okay now right?"

Bridger took a long draw and looked a bit more serious. "Of course. I mean, I can hide a wedding ring, wore it on the wrong hand for a lil while, and while that sucked for you, and I am sorry about it, I could play against your unintentional flirtiness with fake anger, and nobody assumed I was weak, or at least, that's what I was thinking at the time. Now? With Dana? I refuse to be secretive about her. I'm not going to leave her home if I go into town. Sure, if I'm on the job, that's different, but I wanna take her places. I wanna travel with her and with you, I wanna do things she would like, get her things that make her happy, support her with whatever she does with her life. I wanna give her what was so rudely withheld from me. A proper childhood."

"Yeah." Saint smiled, leaning their head on Bridger's. Bridger began to nuzzle them back. "I'm right there with you babe, we're gonna spoil this girl rotten."

"Come on, this is all I needed." Bridger ashed their cigarette in the ash tray on the front porch. They took Saint by the hand. They butted their half finished cig into tray and led them inside.

"Um, you two, aren't entirely un-accustomed to photos, would you mind if, while holding young Dana, if I got a photo of the three of you together?"

"Fine with me, let me grab some real clothes first." Bridger requested.

After looking a bit less haggardly, they returned with a shirt on under their parka, and their more usual pair of tactical pants. Saint looked how they always looked. They held Dana in the purple baby onesie that they brought her home in. Bridger kept the mask off for the photo. Their arms cradled the newborn, while Saint's provided additional protection by her side, and also held onto Bridger simultaneously. They smiled genuine smiles, standing there in their living room. Dana looked up at Bridger with a curious expression. In the background, on a mantle, sat the Grammy that Saint now owned. The photo snapped.

November 27th, 1972 (Born)

1992 (Embraced)

December 14th, 1991 (Married Maria Cortez)

6th Gen Banu-Haqim Warrior

Likes:

Completing Missions

Operating in a Cohesive Unit

Their Supportive Partners/Taskforce

Dislikes:

Enforced Gender Roles

Memory Haze

Falling

Style: Tactical, Desert Camo

Featured In:

Desert Rose

Conflict of Interest

The French Defense

Tagged - Nour Tuhami

Comments:

JD -

November 26th, 1966 (Born)

March 20th, 1991 (Embraced)

2038 (Married Nour Cortez)

7th Gen Banu-Haqim Vizier

Likes:

Spicy food

Cooking

A good western film

Dislikes:

Racist shitheads

Being bossed around

Losing someone dear to her

Style: Goth Cowgirl

Featured In:

The French Defense

Conflict of Interest

Tagged - Maria Cortez

Comments:

JD -