Gee Whiz Comics

Hal Vukovich

He'd tried to argue with you in the car- he had a press conference to go to, for christ's sake- but one kiss from you was all it took for him to give in. He'd sat in your passenger seat long after his lunch break ended, stomach full of butterflies and a permanent smile on his face, while you kissed his cheeks and nose and lips and told him you were gonna make salmon for dinner in honor of his and Traxler's success in their first big bust of the year. He almost didn't want to leave when you finally let go of his tie and shooed him out of the car, but duty called. Now, he stands in front of Traxler and frowns confusedly at the man's look of shock, hands unconsciously drifting upward to straighten his tie.

"Think I'm ready."

"Like hell you are," Traxler snorts, "You looked at yourself lately?"

Hal huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, thinking it's another one of Ed's jokes, and Ed just sighs through his nose, removing his glasses to rub at the space between his eyebrows as he mutters, "Go clean yourself up before we talk to the press, for the sake of both our dignity."

"You're joking."

"I wish I was." The detective deadpans, lips pressing into a flat line.

Hal's stomach drops with sudden nervousness. He rushes to the restroom, expecting to see a coffee stain on his shirt or a five o'clock shadow that he forgot to shave this morning, and startles at his own reflection. Lipstick marks- some smudged, some perfectly clear- litter the lower half of his face. His first instinct is to scrub them with his hands, but all that does is spread the pigment. He stares at himself, skin now a feverish shade of red, and breathes a panicked, "Shit, shit, shit," before tearing a paper towel out of the dispenser and wetting it as a last resort. He comes out of the bathroom scrubbed almost raw, and Traxler's disappointed face tells him all that he needs to know.

"I shouldn't have even tried, huh?"

"Nope."

Kyle Reese

Cosmetics are a rare thing nowadays- any personal affects are, really. When he comes across the half-melted outer case, he mistakes it for a spent round. Perhaps it's one of theirs. He pockets it, thinking that if he can't use the jacket to make another bullet, he can at least gift it to you. Your birthday is sometime this season, anyway. The munitions manager rejects it on sight.

"It's metal," Harry had muttered, giving the object a skeptical once-over, "But it ain't military. No use for it."

So, he gives it to you. Watches you turn it over in your hands, curious fingers mapping its shape and dipping into the dents with utmost care. You pause when you feel something circling the middle of the object- some kind of seam. You dig your nail into it, and with a quiet pop! the casing splits in two. Whatever's inside looks like it melted a long time ago and reformed in the shape of the lid. It's a soft pink- a color neither of you have seen before. You rub a fingertip over it and jolt in surprise when some of the pigment comes off on your skin. You don't stop to wonder if the substance is toxic- you just reach up to smear it over Kyle's lips in one bright, messy streak.

He licks his lips on instinct and gags when the waxy material touches his tongue, face twisting into a harsh grimace at the taste. It sends you into a fit of laughter, and Reese's answering scowl- complete with pink lips- has you doubled over with tears streaming down your cheeks, sides cramping. He takes advantage of your position, snatching the tube out of your hand and dragging it over your lips while you cackle.

Your Captain finds the two of you wheezing in your own little corner of the bunker. He rolls his eyes at your antics, considers interrupting you to send you out on patrol. But, he's never seen Reese smile like that- never seen him smile at all. There's something soft in the man's eyes as he grins at you, and this makes the Captain decide to elect a different duo for patrol duty. The two of you smile and laugh your way through the night, truly at ease for the first time in years. You end up storing the tube in one of your vest pockets- a souvenir that you run your fingers over in your down time, memories of Kyle's laughter warming you faster than any fire ever could.

Sarah Connor

"Haven't had to do this since..."

Sarah's voice wavers with telling nervousness before trailing off into tense silence. You watch as her hand slowly drops to her lap, the lipstick tube threatening to tumble from her limp fingers. She stares at her reflection in the propped-up piece of broken glass that she's using for a mirror and seems to be looking through herself, eyes sad and far away. You wander toward her, moving slowly so as not to startle her, and put a hand on her shoulder that you hope is comforting. She comes back to herself, eyes clearing, and twists around to give you a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"I guess I'm just out of practice, huh?"

"Yeah." You breathe, going along with her lie to protect her pride.

You trail your hand down her arm to pluck the lipstick out of her hand, and she offers no resistance when you grasp her chin with her free hand and tilt her face toward yours. You move slowly, first tracing and then filling in her lips with the pigment, and her eyes flutter closed at the gentle contact. You take your time, the activity as soothing for you as it is for her. You don't have any blotting paper handy, but you have a roll of shop towels at your disposal. You tear off a small square and fold it over before holding it out to her. She takes it with surprisingly steady fingers and blots her lips until the pigment doesn't transfer to the paper anymore.

She tosses the shop towel aside and looks up at you with a fainter, albeit more genuine smile as she whispers, "How's it look?"

"Beautiful, as usual."

Sarah snorts at that, posture loosening a fraction, and reaches up to slide her hand around the back of your neck. She pulls you down and gives you a single, soft kiss that's equal parts a thank you and a reassurance that she's alright. The lipstick isn't completely kiss-proof, it seems, and she laughs as she uses her thumb to swipe some of the pigment off of your lips.

"Guess you'll just have to put it on for me again."

Uncle Bob/T-800

The billboard is red. 'Kiss-proof, life-proof color! Perfect for the lover boy in your life!' it screams, bright and joyful in the midst of an otherwise brown and grey world. The couple in the ad are smiling- something he has learned to associate with an emotion that falls within range of 'joy' on his self-made scale for human happiness. He scans the image as he drives past it, logging the brand and hex code in less than a second, and speeds toward the nearest mall.

He asks for the lipstick by hex number, and after a bit of tense back and forth, the saleswoman pulls out a box of every color and lets him open tubes until he finds what he's looking for. He doesn't have $8.95 in his pocket, so he leaves the woman with a 20 and doesn't wait for her to give him change.

He returns to the dusty patch of BLM land that you and the family are currently calling home and pushes his bike up onto its stand, dismounting in one smooth motion. He summons an image of the billboard and studies the woman's face, using one of his rearview mirrors to copy her lip shape on top of his own mouth. Your initial reaction reads as fear, body tensing and eyes widening in abject shock at the sight of a Terminator with vibrant red lips. He wonders for a millisecond if he has failed in his mission to create joy in you, but then, your shoulders drop and you begin to laugh and smile. Interesting. The people in the billboard were only doing those things when they were kissing.

He steps forward and puckers his lips in a way that he's seen Sarah do when she kisses John Connor, and he picks you up by your upper arms to begin administering kisses.

"W-What are you doing?" You sputter, tensing in his hold.

He pauses, ready to let go of you should your fear response resurface, but the tension between your brows suggests confusion and curiosity instead of terror, so he continues. He does not lean forward to kiss you- just lifts and lowers your body and presses different parts of your face to his lips. Your smile widens by 33%, your laughter by 45%. His processors are flooded with positive feedback. After five minutes of peppering your face with kisses, you are covered in red smears and breathless from cackling. His messy lips pull into a smirk- his version of a smile. Mission successful.

Austin/T-1000

"What's this for?"

You watch in your mirror as the T-1000 eyes the open tube with curiosity and mild suspicion, your painted lips quirking into a fond smile.

"It's for... cosmetic purposes," You explain, offering the tube to him with one hand and fixing the ouline of your bottom lip with the other, "Not necessary for functioning- just a kind of decorative add-on people like to use. I just felt like dressing up today."

You look up just in time to see his reflection waver, nanoparticles rearranging until his lips match yours in color. He stares at himself in the mirror, brow furrowed in a vague approximation of distaste, and you turn to face him with an amused snort.

"I'd go for something a little more neutral," You suggest, "That shade doesn't really compliment the uniform."

"Neutral?" He echoes, head tilting in a show of confusion.

"Yeah," You shrug, "Like mauve, or something."

You take the tube back from him and watch as his features ripple again, the bright red pigment morphing into a tamer shade.

"That matches pretty well! You're good at this already."

You hold it your lipstick out of the way while you lean forward to place a kiss on his right cheekbone. The "skin" is lukewarm and semisolid- it feels like you're trying to kiss a hunk of jell-o. You pull away, and the polyalloy sticks to you for a moment before bouncing back into shape. The print that your lips leave behind is mildly warped. The T-1000 quickly shakes his head, and the mark disappears along with his imitation of lipstick.

"You should've kept it!" You pout, "It looked good."

The desert wind carried the scent of dust and myrrh through the camp. Beyond the tents, the dunes rolled toward the horizon in endless, sun-bleached silence. Ardeth Bay stood beside his horse, tightening the saddle straps. He preferred the quiet  -  the wind, the sand, the weight of a blade at his hip. These things made sense. Orders from Cairo rarely did.

“Still pretending you can outrun your duties, Ardeth?”

The voice came from behind him—warm, amused, with a strong Arabic accent. Ardeth rose, brushing sand from his hands. He turned to face Dr. Terence Bey, who stood with his usual air of calm authority. Dr. Bey’s presence always signaled official business, a reminder of obligations Ardeth would rather avoid. A leather satchel slung across one shoulder, and his red fez on his head.

“I was not aware that I needed to report to the Museum of Antiquities.” Ardeth said evenly.

Dr. Bey smiled, that patient smile that always seemed to see through his irritation. “You do not. But sometimes our goals coincide. As they do now.”

He motioned toward the tent behind him. Inside, a map lay spread over a table—ink marks tracing the edge of the Theban necropolis. Beside it, a small wooden chest sealed with wax. Ardeth’s gaze lingered on it, alert to the tension. The air in the tent seemed heavier, charged with purpose. Ardeth understood the weight of such discoveries and the risk they brought.

“What is this?” he asked quietly.

“An artifact recently uncovered near Dendera,” Bey said. “The seal suggests it predates the Middle Kingdom. I’m sure you remember legends about such objects.”

“Legends of things that should remain buried.” Ardeth frowned.

“Precisely why I asked for your help. You know the price of disturbing the peace of these things. This chest must be escorted to an excavation site near Luxor. There, it will be studied under my supervision.” He paused. “And you will not be traveling alone.”

Ardeth stiffened. “I do not require assistance.”

“It is not assistance,” Bey said, almost apologetically. “It is a company. The daughter of the archaeologist leading the excavation will accompany you. The roads are unsafe, and her father insisted on protection.”

Ardeth’s expression darkened. “You ask me to guard an Englishwoman?”

“I ask you to guard two treasures, Ardeth,” Bey said with a faint, knowing smile. “One made of stone and mystery - and one who insists on wearing lace in the desert.”

The younger man’s jaw tightened. “The desert will teach her humility.”

“I daresay it will,” Bey murmured. “But try not to let it kill her first.”

For a moment, silence settled between them. Then Ardeth inclined his head, reluctantly. “I will see it done.”

“I knew you would.” Bey’s tone softened. “And Ardeth - do try to be civil. She is not her father.”

Ardeth did not answer. He stepped out into the harsh sunlight, the heat wrapping around him like a challenge. Somewhere out there, among the dunes, awaited a foreign girl and a relic that should never have been found. And for reasons he could not name, both already felt like trouble.

-

The caravan waited at the edge of the Nile, where the reeds whispered in the morning wind. Camels grumbled and shifted under the weight of water skins; servants hurried, their shouts carrying over the slap of the river against the dock. Ardeth approached in silence, his dark robes drawing wary glances. His gaze swept over the camp - supplies stacked neatly, chests marked by the Museum of Antiques. He petted the side of his horse, and then he saw her. She stood apart from the bustle, beneath the shade of a wide parasol. She looked around with curious eyes and a polite smile on her lips. The sun caught on her hair and the fabric of her traveling gown, pale linen with delicate lace at the collar, looked absurdly out of place against the sand. When their eyes met, he saw a twinkle in her eyes, and her smile became more trained. She came closer to him.

“You must be Mr. Bay.” She said it, her accent perfectly clear. “Dr. Bey said you would meet us here.”

“Ardeth Bay.” He bowed his head slightly. “You are the daughter of Dr. Wycliffe?”

“Yes, Y/N Wycliffe.”  She tilted her head, studying him with more curiosity than caution. “I must say you’re rather younger than I expected.”

Ardeth felt a familiar, sharp tug of irritation at the casual assessment. It was a common failing of the English to judge a man by their own narrow expectations.

“And you,” Ardeth replied, his voice a low, dry murmur that held no hint of warmth. “are exactly as advertised. Too much lace for a desert journey.”

Her smile didn’t flatter; however, the spark in her eyes faded. He didn’t see the blush on her face that he expected. Instead, she gave a small, graceful shrug.

“It is linen, Mr. Bay. And it’s quite comfortable, thank you. The lace is just a small addiction. I must agree that typical English dresses may not be the most practical travel wear…” She stepped closer to his beautiful mare. She reached out a hand, and the horse, surprisingly, lowered her muzzle for a gentle scratch. The young lady smiled at that. “But I was not aware I would be requiring the wardrobe of a warrior.”

Ardeth watched the interaction, the simple, natural grace of her hand on his horse’s soft nose. He felt a flicker of surprise cut through his annoyance. The mare was temperamental with strangers.

“You won’t be. You will be riding in the carriage.”

“I prefer riding on horseback, Mr. Bay. I assure you that the dress won’t be a problem. I’ve ridden since I was a child, and I am quite capable of keeping up.” She said, lifting her chin a little.

“The carriage will be safer.” Ardeth’s gaze snapped from the horse to the woman.

“Probably. But certainly slower and far more dull.” Her tone was light, but there was a stubbornness that he recognized instantly as trouble.  

“Your father asked for my protection. Not entertained for you.”  Ardeth stated, his voice flat and authoritative. “And that means following my instructions.”

“Dr Bey said that you are one of the most capable people to guarantee protection for the artifact and for me.” She was looking straight into his eyes. “I am not a tourist. I’m here to work. I feel the desert calling me. I want to feel the wind on my face. And to be in Luxor as fast as we can.” He studied her face - the genuine enthusiasm mixed with the frustrating defiance. Ardeth was quiet for a long moment. Doing this the faster way was tempting. He just didn’t know if he would be prepared to listen to all the complaints on the way when she got tired. He sighed, a barely audible expulsion of breath.

“Fine.” The word was clipped and sharp. “You will ride on horseback, Miss Wycliffe. But there will be conditions.”

“And what is that?” Her features brightened, and in her eyes was  almost childish eagerness.

“You will ride right beside me or directly behind me. If you slow the pace or cause any trouble, you will be put in that carriage for the remainder of the journey.”

Y/N’s smile was triumphant, dazzling enough to make him regret his agreement instantly. “We have a deal, Mr. Bay.”

-  

Not even an hour later, the caravan was in motion. Ardeth led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger. Directly behind him rode Miss Wycliffe. He expected her to already complain or at least look uncomfortable. Instead, she seemed completely at ease. She looked like she truly understood the horse. She rode not to weary herself nor the animal. The parasol had been discarded in favour of a hat that protected her face from the sun. The thin linen of her dress did not seem to restrict her. She tried to start a conversation a few times, but always met with sharp and short replies or with silence.

The time stretched under the merciful sun. Ardeth raised his hand, signaling a halt. The men began setting up camp - tents, fire pits, and hobbled camels. She dismounted her horse before Ardeth could offer help, landing lightly in the sand. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright despite the exhaustion. One of the men came to secure her horse. She sent a grateful smile to one of his men and said “Shukran” with a broken accent. She looked at Ardeth and smiled even more.

“It looks like I didn’t slow us down too much.” He could notice a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“No, you did not. You did well, Miss Wycliffe.” He nodded his head. “You should rest now. The way before us is very long.”

“I would love to help somehow with our camp.”

“There’s no need for that. Our men know their job.” Ardeth gave her one more look and turned his eyes to campside.

“I’m sure they do. This doesn't mean that they need to do this alone. I know how to start a fire without fainting. And I was told that I make excellent tea.” She raised her hand and pointed to the camp kitchen. Her tone wasn’t defensive, just matter-of-fact.

“You’ve done that before?” His brow rose a little.

“My father used to take me on digs in the north.” Her smile became a melancholic, sad one. “He believes that I should know how to manage the simple things. Fire, horses, maps. And languages..” She glanced up at him, the flame catching in her eyes. “Though I’m afraid my Arabic leaves much to be desired.”

“You speak well enough.” He mumbled when they slowly moved to the fireplace, where somebody had prepared places to sit.

“You only heard one word.” She looked up, taking the place, sitting with her back straight.

“Sometimes it is enough. And you will have many possibilities to learn more before we reach Luxor.” They both were given small cups of tea. She gladly drank something warm when the desert around them grew colder.

“This would be perfect.” She looked around with curiosity, and even Ardeth could not notice that. He nodded to himself, watching her carefully.

“If you insist, we will find some work for you, miss. But not tonight. You will be given a task when we are sure that you can manage after the journey. Tonight, focus on resting.”

She looked at him, and her smile grew brighter. “I can do this.” It was like she reminded herself to be a proper English lady and calmed herself a little. “Thank you, Mr. Bay.”

-

Through the next few days, she did everything to not be a burden to the Madjai. She was willing to do every task they have her do, not being afraid of asking for help or how they would do this. She was kind to every one of them, and soon one of the eldest warriors started to treat her like his own daughter. She was no longer a stranger. She took part in the evening storytells. More than once, she made them laugh by trying to speak Arabic with her accent. She treated them as equals, and they treated her the same. The only one that seemed immune to her charm was Ardeth. He always stayed serious and a little off to the side.

One evening, they sat around the firecamp. The wind was getting even heavier. The sand that was getting on her face started to irritate her, but still she didn’t say a word. Ardeth sat next to her when the youngest warrior, Fathi, for whom it was the first mission, came closer. The older Madjai looked at the boy with curiosity.

“Miss…” She looked at him with a kind smile. “It’s for you. It will protect your face from sand better than your hat.” He shyly gave her his reserve scarf. She took it gently, her fingers brushing the young man’s hand.

“Thank you, Fathi!” She said with warmth in her voice. “This is very kind of you.”

Fathi ducked his head, slightly embarrassed, muttering something in Arabic that made the other laugh. She unfolded the scarf. The fabric was soft against her skin and smelled faintly like cedar and smoke. She hesitated, unsure how to wrap it properly. Before she could ask, Ardeth rose to his feet and stepped closer.

“Allow me.” He said quietly. She looked at him in surprise. Seeing the sharp lines of his face made her forget how to breathe for a few seconds. He took the fabric from her hands. With practiced ease, he wrapped it gently around her head and lower face.  His movements were precise and never rough. A shiver ran across her skin when she felt his rough, calloused finger touch her cheek. “You need to cover your mouth and nose. The sand carried by wind can cut the skin and fill your lungs.” He met her eyes then.

“Thank you, Mr. Bay. I’ll remember that.” She nodded, her voice was muffled beneath the cloth. And even with her lips covered, he just knew that she was smiling gratefully.

-  

The days after settled into a quiet routine.  Dawn always found them on horses. She no longer looked out of place. Her laugh became a little light in the darkness of the desert. Even Ardeth found himself looking for her, not only to make sure she was alright.

One evening, something changed on the air. Stillness could be felt all around, and all warriors were on high alert. Even horses and camels looked nervous. Miss Wycliffe watched them all, sitting next to Ardeth. She turned her eyes on him, hoping to calm herself, watching his stoic behavior, but even he seemed to be reacting to that change.

“Mr. Bay… Is something wrong?” She moved a little closer to him, speaking in a low voice. “You all make me uneasy…” He finally looked at her and, for the first time since they met, he noticed a bit of fear in her eyes. Something deep inside him wanted to calm all her worries. He sighed quietly, and his hand found its place on his sword.

“Something is coming… But we don't know what or when.. It’s like the desert sent a warning to our bones…” She notes her lip on his words, her fingers tighten on the cup.

“If it comes…”

“Try to stay behind me. Do what I say. And if I could no longer protect you, stay with our men.” He stopped her quickly, trying to make her not think about what could come. “In the worst case… You know how to survive in the desert well enough to reach Luxor on your own.” She looked down at her fingers, and he could swear he saw tears glisten in her eyes.

“I hope we will never need to try the last options.”

“I hope so too.” He sighed again and refilled her cup with hot tea. He hoped it would bring her at least a little comfort from the dark thought.

-  

She woke up, feeling uneasy. She sat on her bedroll and rubbed her eyes. She looked around, noticing two Medjai who kept watch. It took her a few seconds to realize that one of them is Ardeth. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. She stood up and walked slowly to him.

“You should sleep, Miss.” He said, surprisingly softly, turning to look at her. She sighed, wrapping the blanket tighter around her.

“I couldn't… I don't know if it was because you were so alerted before, or maybe I felt the desert calling too…”

“It’s possible… You spent enough time in the desert to be recognized as its people.” She couldn't help but smile at his words. However, she didn't have time to answer him when they heard a commotion on the other end of the camp. They both looked there, hearing more neighing of horses and loud screams of people. Her heart nearly stopped, and she looked at Ardeth, who was already taking out his sword.

“Stay here!” He said sharply, his eyes never leaving the darkness. Then he was gone, a dark blur swallowed by the storm of sand and flame.

Panic rippled through the camp. Camels screamed. A tent collapsed in a rush of fabric and sparks. She ducked as an arrow whistled past her shoulder, embedding itself in the sand where she’d been standing seconds before. Her breath hitched.

She dropped the blanket and ran - not away, but toward the overturned supply crates. A flash of movement caught her eye - Fathi, struggling to load a rifle with shaking hands. She dropped beside him.

“Give me that!” She said, her voice steadier than she felt. He blinked at her in surprise but obeyed. Her father had taught her to shoot once, in the fields near Oxford. Targets made of bottles and laughter. This was not the same, but her hands remembered.

She took aim, fired once. The shot cracked the air, and one of the raiders fell from his horse. Fathi gaped. She didn’t look at him - she was already reloading.

Through the smoke and chaos, Ardeth saw her. For a heartbeat, disbelief froze him. The Englishwoman - bareheaded now, scarf loose around her neck - was fighting beside his men. He felt the sharp, unwelcome sting of fear in his chest.

He cut down a raider who charged toward her, sand spraying up from the blow.

“Miss Wycliffe!” He shouted. “Get down!”

She dropped to her knees just as his curved blade swept past where her head had been, striking another attacker who had lunged from the shadows. For a moment, silence fell - broken only by the moan of the dying wind.

And then it all ended. The riders started running away, leaving only their dead and the smell of blood and fire. Her hands started shaking when she realized that they were safe now. Her chest was heavy when she lowered the rifle. Ardeth was still before her, the blood and sand visible on his sword. She looked around, trying to notice if all of their men were all right.

“You disobeyed!” Ardeth's voice was sharp like his blade. She looked up at him and rose to her feet, even when she felt them shaking.

“I helped!” She shot back, breathless. “Your men would have been overrun.”

“You could’ve been killed!” He took a few steps closer to her. Their eyes looked. There was anger in his eyes, but also something different that she couldn't name.

“But I wasn’t!” She raised her chin a little, still looking directly in his eyes. She made this decision in a matter of a few seconds. She dropped the rifle from her hand. Make a quick step closer to Ardeth. She took the material of his robe in her hands and brought him closer to her. She didn't think when she rose on her toes and roughly connected their lips. The world around them stopped. All she could feel was the steadiness of his chest against her trembling fingers. And then, to her surprise, she felt his lips moving against hers. His hands found hers, gently helping her to relax her fingers against his chest. Then he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her even closer to him.

For a moment, the world fell utterly still. The sound of the dying fire, the crackle of sand underfoot, even the whisper of the desert wind. It all faded. There was only her, warm and trembling in his arms. Her lips against his, tasting of dust and courage and something that felt achingly alive.

Ardeth didn’t think. For once, he didn’t have to.

He deepened the kiss, his hand rising to cup the back of her neck. His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw. Her breath caught in a soft sound that pulled him closer. The strength that had carried her through the battle now melted into his embrace. Her hands clung to him as if afraid he might vanish back into smoke and legend.

When they finally broke apart, they were both laughing - quietly, breathlessly, in disbelief.

“You are…” He said, his forehead resting against hers. “Completely reckless…” His eyes softened, the harshness gone, replaced by something that almost looked like wonder. “But also… brave. Too brave for your own good.”

Her hands were still fisted in his robe. “You were worried.” She teased, her voice barely above the wind.

“I was.” He admitted without hesitation. “More than I should have been.”

That honesty made her heart twist. She smiled up at him, her cheeks flushed and glowing in the firelight. “Then perhaps,” she said softly, “you should stop trying to be made of stone.”

A hint of laughter escaped him - low, rare, and beautiful. “Stone can still feel the warmth of the sun, Ghalia.” She was watching him with bright eyes, her hand finally relaxed, and she started caressing the fabric of his robe with her thumb.

“What did you just call me?”

He hesitated, then smiled - a real one this time, gentle and unguarded. “Something I probably should not.”

She laughed again, quietly. “Then you must tell me… but tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” He agreed, his thumb brushing away a streak of sand from her cheek. “When the desert is calm.”

She leaned against him then, resting her head against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was the first peaceful sound she’d heard since the chaos began. Around them, the camp slowly settled back into uneasy sleep, but neither of them moved. They allowed the stars to watch their growing feelings. For the first time, the desert didn't feel lonely. It felt alive. It felt kind. And they only hoped that the ride before them would be the same. Because the hot desert brought them something that was much more worthy than the artifact, and much more ethereal. They found love.

Dictionary:

Shukran - thank you 

Ghalia - my precious

Author’s note:

Thank you  so much for reading! If it’s not too much trouble, I would love to hear your thoughts about it. Any feedback is greatly appreciated and motivate me to work.

I am sorry about every grammar mistake and misspellings. English is not my first language.

Klaudia  💜

Taglists are always open! If you want to be added fill this up or send me an ask!

You have saved a seat for him. Far enough from the noise that he could pretend not to care but also that he can follow the game if he wants. You once told him you couldn't care less for Quidditch but you still went to the matches to support the teams. He says nothing as he approaches. Just sits beside you, stiffly. Silently.

You can feel the shift and when you glance sideways you catch him looking. Not at the field. At you. For some time he doesn't say anything. Neither do you. You sit together in silence watching the game. His arms crossed, the occasional roar from the crowd echoing below. You've got an open book in your lap but you can barely concentrate on it,trying to ignore his questioning gaze.

He remembers something you said once, offhand casually, that you don't care for Quidditch. And since you're not a Head of House you don't technically have to be here. It irks him, just a little. Because it doesn't make sense. Because people don't do that. Not without a reason. A few minutes pass before he finally speaks, eyes fixed on the field. "You don't actually enjoy that , do you?".

You shrug slightly, eyes on the paragraph on the same line you've re-read like five times already ."Not really. But I enjoy not being the only one.who doesn't."

You catch a flicker of a glance in your direction, brief almost shy. Then he exhales like he has something to say but just won't say. You're still pretending to watch the game, just to keep your cool. After some time, he speaks again. Softer this time. A little uncertain."I trust my presence isn't entirely intolerable?". It's almost sarcastic. But not quite enough to hide the question underneath. You close the book and smirk. "If I found you intolerable, I wouldn't be here. I'm very good at avoiding people".

The simmering cauldron causts a dull green glow on the stone walls. You're working carefully, measuring powered Asphodel, elbow deep in Wolfsbane preparation, when his voice cuts through the quiet "You're handling that with surprising competence ".

You pause mid pour, wondering if you misheard, perhaps the fumes have finally gotten to you. He, already turned away, fiddling with a quill like it's a defense mechanism rather than a writing tool. "Excuse me",you say half grinning. "What did you just say ?"

"Nothing"he replies immediately, a bit too fast "Just...try not to drop the bezoar. It's brittle."

You hadn't mind him,not even from the start. He was reserved, but in a place where every corridor echoed with someone else's opinion, some silence can be quite refreshing.

You smirk, eyes narrowing playfully . "Mmh that's not what you said.

"Don't be absurd. Focus on the Asphodel." "So it was a compliment".

"If I had said such a thing ",he muttered,clearly regretting every moment that led to this conversation.

"That...would've been a lapse in judgement. Consider it retracted."

You laugh ,quite enough, to not push your luck , and he shoots a sharp glare at your way, that could cuddle milk ,though there's an unmistakable tint of red on his cheeks. Not quite blush but something leaning dangerously close.

You go back to stirring. Maybe a bit too smug for your own safety. A sliver of silence slips in before the cauldron starts to hiss, very loudly. A swirl of noxious smoke erupts, the colour wrong,it's magic so unstable it makes your hairs on your arms rise. You flinch, instinctively stepping back ,but not fast enough.

In one fluid motion he grabs your wrist, pulls you towards him and out of range just as the cauldron lets out a loud crack-pop! Threatening to explode. You stumble against him, breath caught in your throat. The potion sizzles down, fizzling now harmlessly now, as if it never meant harm at all. His hand is still around your wrist. His grip is tight not bruising but enough to remind you that he doesn't do anything by accident.

His voice is steady and clipped "Not nearly as careless as I feared. For now".

Neither of you moves. Your fingers are dusted with powered Asphodel. He smells faintly like herbs and ink. His robes brush your side, a bit too close.His eyes,usually sharp and assessing, are softer now, like they're studying.You catch your breath, eyes locked on his.

The silence thickens,charged with unspoken things. Then his gaze flicks to your hand in his.you don't step back, neither does he. He clears his throat,abruptly releasing you, quickly turning his back the cauldron like it bail him out of this conversation. He wears his hair in a short ponytail. Sloppy and perpetually uneven, shifts as he moves, a few strands escaping a curl around his ears.

"You're insufferably reckless" he mutters, voice a bit too tight.

"Oh?". You lean against the counter as if you haven't just had the wind knocked out of you by his mild heroism act and accidental hands holding. You're maybe a bit lame but, he doesn't have to know that.

"I thought I was ... how did you say...handling it with surprising competence?", you tease, still breathless.

"One compliment and it's gone to your head". "Unbelievable",he mutters and you catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A surrender, maybe?

And now you just can't help it, you grin at the back of his figure. Looking at the strands of his messy ponytail, that stick out as if they have personal vendettas. The kind of disheveled that isn't quite messy but deliberately in it's refusal to be polished. You wonder if he even notices how attractive it looks. Probably not. That would require some level of vanity or self-awareness.

"Hey,admit it" you say lightly "you don't hate it having me here".

"You nearly blew us up". "But we didn't."

The potions Professor shots you a glare over his shoulder, like he's mentally drafting a list of a safer list of assistance, to recruit next time.

"I saved you from a potential explosion. I'm hardly in the habit of encouraging recklessness."

You hum, tapping a spoon against the rim of the cauldron " So heroic,so brave."

"I regret everything" he says flatly.

But his tone lacks it's usual venom. It's dry yes, but not cruel. You even see a slight grin on his face. You've been around long enough to know the difference.

You peer now into the settled cauldron, a little scorched maybe, but salvageable.

He's already prepping a fresh vial,muttering calculations unded his breath,quill forgotten in favor of practicality. But his hands linger a bit longer than necessary as he adjusts the burner. His brows furrowed with concentration, the glow of the flame catching on the curve of his cheek. He looks tired. Commited. Brilliant in the way only people with too much knowledge and too few people to share it with ever look like.

---

Snape was speaking, but you weren’t taking notes. You weren’t even listening, not really. You were just sitting there, staring blankly at the blackboard. It was your last year at Hogwarts, and it didn’t feel too great. You still weren’t sure what you’d want to do after school. There were too many options, and too little information. What if you’d make the wrong choice? End up doing something you weren’t good at, or didn’t enjoy? What if your boss would turn out to be an asshole? What if you wouldn’t make any friends? What if-

But there was something else, too. Something that made your chest feel tight for another reason than anxiety. It was the nagging feeling of being invisible. Forgettable. That once you’d leave, it’d be like you never even walked these hallways. The younger students probably didn’t even know you ever had been there, and the teachers would just continue on with their lives and forget about you. Your brain was digging up memories after memories, each proving you right, showing how no one had ever cared. And it hurt. Badly.

Your gaze moved from the blackboard to Snape. Those dark eyes might look at you, but you doubted they ever saw you. You’re just another face in the mass, a bitter voice in your head said. He won’t remember. Why would he? You’re nothing special. You let out a quiet sigh, and looked down on your parchment. What had he been talking about, anyway? Something about valerian root… You wrote down a few words, and were happy when the theory section of the lesson was over. When you’d be making a potion, you’d at least have to focus unless you wanted to get a zero.

But even the potion-making didn’t seem to go too well that day. You weren’t a top student, but you weren’t bad either. Usually you managed to do fair work, not perfect, but easily exceeding the mark for passing. Now, however, you weren’t exactly interested in the task at hand, and despite your good intention, your thoughts wandered away from it.

“If you keep stirring your potion like that, miss Y/L/N, you’ll find yourself sick instead of sleepy”, Snape’s voice suddenly dragged you back into reality. 

“Right”, you said, and stopped stirring. 

When you didn’t do anything after, Snape raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Mhm?” You mumbled, stared at your potion for a second, then let out a little ‘oh’, and looked down on your book to find the next step.

Snape shook his head, but for once said nothing and moved to inspect the next student’s potion. You didn’t even notice, having fallen back into your miserable thoughts. When the lesson ended, you were as absent-minded as before. You poured a sample of your potion into a bottle, brought it up to Snape, and cleaned your desk. Just when you had finished packing and were about to head out, he called after you.

“Miss Y/L/N. A word.”

You sighed again, expecting to get reprimands for not paying attention in class. Snape wasn’t blind, and you knew you hadn’t listened, or focused on your potion. Of course he would notice such a slack attitude. And just as predicted…

“Is there a particular reason you’ve decided to stop participating in your education this term?”

“I- I haven’t…”, you started to defend yourself, but he cut you off.

“No? Then what is this? Your body might have been attending my classes, but your mind has been absent for days.”

You went still, trying to come up with something to say, but instead just shrugged. What could you say? Your mind had been elsewhere. For a good reason.

“If you intend to drift through the rest of your final year in a fog, do let me know. I’ll lower my expectations accordingly”, came Snape’s biting comment, but when he still didn’t get anything but an averted gaze out of you, it was his turn to sigh.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

You looked up at him.

“What I’m trying to do here is to figure out what has made such a good student become so inattentive - and it would be of great help if you would speak up.”

He sounded annoyed, but your eyes widened not because of his tone, but his words. Since when had Snape given a flying fuck about his students?

“I, uh…”, you tried, but were too stunned to even begin to gather your thoughts.

Snape looked at you for a moment, but you just couldn’t turn your feelings into words. Not like that anyway, not right there, under his gaze. It was just a swirling mess of bitter thoughts in your mind that you were unable to get out. You swallowed, and looked sad again.

“Very well”, he said evenly. “Should you find your tongue, you know where I’ll be.”

No mean comment this time. No punishment. Just the offer. You could only stare at him until he dismissed you, and left the classroom feeling funny. How could Snape, of all people, be the one to notice you? The more you thought about it, the more your heart was racing. He had been paying attention to you. He wanted to know what was wrong. He was willing to listen. It was near impossible to believe, but Snape wasn’t one to joke around. He must have meant it. Right?