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We know that Kate found out about Monica after hearing Yelena talking to her over the phone. But what was Kate's reaction when she saw them for the first time and saw that Yelena haven't been as miserable as her with her new partner, and she actually looks "content" (?)
Here's 2.5k of them being M E S S YYYYYY. This is a few months after. Tweedle Dee & Tweedledum haven't seen each other/talked to each other since that night.
---
The sun has just dipped below the Los Angeles horizon, leaving behind a bruised violet sky and the soft gleam of strung lights crisscrossing an obscene hillside property in Bel-Air. One of those houses with an eight figure view and a valet line full of black Escalades. No press. No paparazzi. Just money. Cause-forward money, sureâŚbut still money.
As the lighting dims, so do the conversations. Flutes lower. Silverware stills.
On stage, a politely handsome nonprofit exec taps the mic, grinning like he just landed a punchline.
Yelena doesnât look up. Her fingers trace the rim of her glass with lazy disinterest. Monica sits beside her, all poised elegance, one hand resting lightly on Yelenaâs knee beneath the white-draped table. Theyâre laughing at something still hanging between them. Low, private, and warm. Eyes only for each other. Their tableâs near the front. Not spotlight-close, but close enough to see the stage without craning.
Unlucky, in hindsight.
They werenât supposed to be here.
Monicaâs friend, a clinical director at the West Los Angeles VA, had bought the table weeks ago at a private silent auction. Food poisoning wiped her out two hours before the event was supposed to start. Sheâd offered Monica the tickets, insisted they go.
Monica doesnât care for glitz. But the cause matters. She told Yelena itâd be relaxed. A fun, easy night out. Yelena had shrugged. Said okay.
They threw on the best they had and showed up.
Yelenaâs in a matte gray tux cut like it was designed for herâŚbecause it was. Single button. Peak lapels. Crisp white shirt. Slim black tie. Polished oxfords. Everything immaculate.
Monicaâs dress is a rich burgundy that clings in all the right places. Strapless, boned bodice, thigh slit high enough to make a statement. Sheâs soft where Yelenaâs sharp. A walking contrast.
They werenât supposed to be seen. Especially not like this. Not when Monicaâs hand slides higher up Yelenaâs thigh. Not when she leans in, murmurs something that makes Yelena smileâŚreally smileâŚand presses a kiss just below her jaw.
On stage, the host keeps talking.
âI know we said Alice was our final speaker. But we have one last surprise. One Iâve barely managed to keep under wraps.â
Yelena glances up. Mild curiosity. Nothing more.
âThis next guest doesnât need an introduction. Sheâs one of the most acclaimed women of our generation. A longtime advocate for veteransâ mental health initiativesâŚâ
Yelenaâs stomach drops.
âA cause that, after some extended conversations with her, I can tell you is deeply personal. And sheâs graciously agreed to close out tonight with something special.â
Something in Yelena shifts. Call it instinct, or that bone-deep, unshakable radar sheâs always had for Kateâs proximity. Her entire system goes on alert. Subtle, not visible to anyone, but unmistakable in her own body. A cold edge takes over as her mind starts mapping threat vectors. They werenât on a curated guest list. Werenât vetted. Which means no one cross-checked the rest of the room either. Thereâs no security outside. No bag checks. Who else is here that shouldnât be?
Yelena pulls out her phone, thumb flying. She logs into her firmâs backend portal. Runs a live staffing report.
Whoâs on Kate tonight?
After a few seconds, the spreadsheet loads. Alexei: off-duty. All week.
Thatâs a problem.
Yelena trusts every member of her team. She wouldnât have hired them if she didnât. But not like she trusts Alexei. Not with Kate. Especially not here, at a barely secured hillside event with strangers, alcohol, and a wide-open perimeter.
None of the tension shows. Monica hasnât even noticed. But Yelenaâs already running contingencies.
Monica traces gentle circles on Yelenaâs skin with her thumb, eyes up on the stage, sipping her champagne, watching the stage.
âSheâs asked we keep this low-key. So please, phones away. I think youâll understand why.â
The lights shift. The crowd leans in.
âPlease welcomeâŚKate Bishop.â
Yelenaâs head snaps up from her phone. Monica hums beside her. A hush sweeps the crowd. Then murmurs. Recognition. Surprise.
And thenâŚthere she is.
Yelena sweeps the room as Kate steps out in a satin number the exact same shade as Monicaâs. Elegant. Simple. Sexy as hell. Her hairâs down in natural waves. Minimal makeup. No dancers. No band. No fanfare. Just Kate, a mic, and a baby grand glowing under the lights.
Kate waves to the now extra cheery crowd as she walks to the piano. Within seconds, Kate's blue eyes connect with Yelena's green. Almost as if she knew exactly where to look. Almost as if sensors guided her to them.
Kate takes her in. Her half-finished salad. A glass of Syrah. The way she sits still as stone.
Kate falters, forces a smile. Just a hitch. One breath. Then her gaze drops to her handâŚThe bare one.
The one without a ring.
The first time she hasnât worn it in public since she called off the engagement with Eli nine weeks ago. No cameras here. No press. She thought it wouldnât matter.
Great fucking timing.
Yelena doesnât move. Doesnât blink. But she registers everything. The way Kateâs collarbone shifts when she swallows. The tremor in her fingers as she positions them over the keys. And the distinct lack of a giant rock on her hand.
After an extended moment of silence where the audience anxiously awaits, Kate clears her throat. Speaks into the mic, voice softer than usual. She wasnât planning to say anything. She was going to get on stage, play, get off. But now her lips are moving and thereâs not much she can do about it.
âI donât do a lot of these, but this oneâs personal. This cause⌠it matters to me.â
Yelena huffs a breath. Monicaâs hand tightens around hers.
âThere are people who go through hell to protect us. Who come home changed. And those of us who love them⌠if weâre lucky⌠try to hold them anyway. Even when itâs hard. Especially when itâs hard.â Kateâs voice wobbles. Steadies. âI wouldnât be me without some incredibly special veterans in my life. So, this is forâŚthem.â
Kate pauses. Looks like she might say something more. Might name Yelena.
Instead: âThank you to my cousin Leila for her service. She couldnât be here tonight.â
Applause. Warm. Earnest.
Kate doesnât have a cousin named Leila. Yelena knows that. Kate knows Yelena knows.
Kate breathes deep. Composes. Smiles like it doesnât hurt. Like sheâs not about to throw her entire setlist out the window.
âThis song was written at a time when I didnât think anyone understood what was happening inside me. Like I imagine a lot of vets feel, coming home. Iâve never played it in public before. So⌠be gentle with me.â
Then she plays.
No theatrics. Just chords. Quiet truths buried in a low register that creep up your chest before you realize it.
The song is about coming home from abroad and not being the same. About silence that grows too big for a room. About grief that doesnât belong to death, but distance.
Yelena knows itâs about her. The second verse makes that painfully obvious.
Kate plays like remembering hurts. Like this is the closest sheâll ever get to confession.
The song ends. Applause comes late. Staggered at first. Then loud. Real.
Yelena doesnât clap. Neither does Monica.
Kate nods. Her hands limp. She glances up. Not to the room. Directly at them.
Right at Yelena. At the gorgeous woman touching her. At the smile that doesnât belong to her anymore. At the woman whose hand is intertwined with her wifeâsâŚEx wife.
Yelenaâs face doesnât change.
Monica watches all of it. Doesnât ask a thing. Just taps her fingers tenderly on Yelenaâs wrist.
Kate launches into a stripped-down version of one of her biggest singles. Slower than the version that gets screamed back at her in stadiums. (Itâs this âŹď¸)
Yelena drains her glass.
âYou okay?â Monica presses quietly.
Yelena nods. Once. Lies.
âDid you know sheâd be here.â Yelena asks.
âOf course not. Do you want to leave?â
âNo,â Yelena shales her head. âWe were here first.â
Monica smiles, doesnât argue. Just leans in closer. They stay like that as Kate finishes the second song and starts the last of her improvised set. (This âŹď¸)
Kate finishes her three-song set. Walks off. No encore. No bow. The host returns. Says something about dessert and auction lots. Yelena doesnât hear any of it.
Because across the lawn, somewhere behind curtains and handlers, the woman who broke her heart is probably crying in a some makeshift dressing room.
And for the first time in five years, Yelena doesnât care.
///
Yelena was wrong.
Kate isnât curled up on some couch. Sheâs not sobbing. Sheâs not hiding. Sheâs out hereâŚsmiling. Working the room. Polished and warm and lethal.
Yelena watches her circulate. Watches her thank donors. Hug foundation execs. Wrap strangers in tight, too-familiar embraces like theyâre old friends. Radiant. Fucking charming.
Monica doesnât say a word, but Yelena can feel her tracking the same thing. The way Kate keeps glancing over. The way her eyes keep ricocheting back to their table.
An hour passes like that. Stolen glances. A dessert cart. Small talk about wine.
Then Kate walks over.
WHY THE FUCK IS KATE WALKING OVER?!
Yelena sits up straighter. Monica doesnât let go of her hand.
âHi,â Kate says, hovering with a too-bright smile. Voice casual. Instantly suspect.
Monica smiles, polite and unbothered. Doesnât rise. Yelena nods. Controlled.
âKate,â Yelena replies cooly.
After a long awkward silence where Yelena doesnât introduce themâŚKate extends her hand.
âKate Bishop.â
Monica chuckles.
âI donât think you need an introduction.â
âStill feels rude not to.â
Monica shakes Kateâs hand.
âMonica.â
âBeautiful name. Stunning dress too.â Kateâs smile curls. Friendly. Biting. âI heard all about you the other night. When Yelena slept over.â Airbrushed innocence, voice sweet as poison.
No she didnât???
SHE DIDNâT.
They hadnât talked about Monica.
At all...
The air crystallizes. Monicaâs smile stays in place, but her eyes sharpen. Cut sideways. She knew about the break-in. Knew Yelena hadnât come home. Knew sheâd been working the whole night.
Apparently, not where she thought.
Kate hadnât been able to sleep. Shaken. Vulnerable. Asked Yelena to stay. Yelena had. Over the covers. Hands to herself. Respectful. She told herself she was being respectful. That nothing happened. She was just doing her job.
But judging by the side-eye Monicaâs drilling into her skull, that explanation might not fly.
Yelena doesnât flinch. She just recalibrates.
âShe had a break-in, remember?â Yelena says calm. Even. âI stayed to make sure things were secure.â
Kate turns to Monica.
âShe looks hilarious when she sleeps sitting up?âŚFully clothed. Such a gentleman.â
Monica hums.
âSounds like a very secure situation.â
âI felt safe.â Kate shrugs.
Yelena clears her throat. Points toward the group of people eyeing them from across the room, eager to catch a moment with The Kate Bishop.
âDonât let us keep you.â
Kate looks like she might push it, might say something else. Instead, she just smiles again.
âIt was nice meeting you, Monica.â
âYou too.â
Kate turns. Walks off. Doesnât look back. Monica lets the silence sit. Then turns to Yelena.
âWeâre gonna circle back to that later.â
Yelena sips her wine.
âFigured. Looking forward to it.â
Monica leans in, presses a kiss the corner of her mouth. Kate catches that from where she stands with the group of people fangirling over her. Maybe that was intentional.
Monica stares at Yelena. Serious.
âDid anything happen?â
Yelena shakes her head.
âNot a thing.â
âOkay.â
âYou want another drink?â
âUhum.â
Yelena stands. Speedwalks to the bar, trying to get her bearings again.
Yelenaâs fingers drum the countertop while the bartender muddles something unnecessarily artisanal behind the counter.
âTwo more of the Syrah,â she says, then immediately second-guesses. âNo. One Syrah. One gin and tonic. Heavy on the gin.â
She doesnât want the drink. She just needed the walk. The space. The breath.
Yelena doesnât flinch when a figure slides in beside her. Doesnât look. Doesnât speak.
Kate leans against the bar. Close but not touching. Just enough to feel the heat between them. She doesnât order anything. Doesnât even pretend sheâs here for a drink. Sheâs shed the stage persona, the borrowed grace. Now itâs just her. Stripped down. Quiet. Ringless hand wrapped around champagne flute.
âI was wondering if youâd run.â
Yelena doesnât turn to her, keeps her eyes on the bartender.
âI didnât.â
Kate hums like she doesnât buy it.
âI know that look.â
Yelena doesnât answer. The drinks land with a quiet clink. Yelena doesnât reach for them. Just stares ahead. Kate angles her body a little more toward her.
âSheâs beautiful.â
âShe is.â
âYou look good together.â
âWe do.â
Silence.
âI didnât mean to blindside you.â
Yelena finally turns her head. Meets her eyes.
âYou didnât.â Beat. âBut you tried to.â Kate doesnât deny it. âWhy?â
Kate shifts, watches her drink instead. She chuckles. Changes the subject. Deflects.
âI didnât know youâd be here.â
âI didnât know YOU would.â
âThat was kind of the point.â Kate adds with a smirk.
âYou always did like a surprise entrance.â
âWhy didnât you leave if it bothered you this much?â
âWhy would I?â
âIf I knew, I mightâve worn something else.â
âWhat? Like your engagement ring?â
That lands. The air between them thickens. Electric.
âYou really didnât tell her about that night?â
âNothing to tell, Kate.â
âYou stayed.â
âYou asked.â
âWould you have told her you slept in my bed if I hadnât said anything?â
Yelena fully turns now. Body squared. All steel.
âWhy did YOU?â
âDo you love her?â
âYes,â she says firmly. No hesitation.
Kate doesnât look away.
âDoes she know about me?â
Yelena lets out a short laugh.
âThe entire world knows about you, Kate.â
âYou know thatâs not what I meant.â Silence. Then softly. âTell her thank you.â
âFor what?â
âFor catching you.â
Yelena takes a long sip.
âI wasnât falling.â
Kate eyes the near empty glass.
âWhat is that? Gin? You only drink Gin when youâre spiraling.â Yelena says nothing. Kate fiddles with a cocktail napkin. âYou look happy.â
âAnd thatâs a problem?â
âNo. You deserve that.â
Yelena studies her face.
âSo do you.â
Kate laughs. Bitter, under her breath.
âDoesnât feel like it.â
âYou picked him.â That comes out harder than she intended. âHave a happy life with him.â
Kate goes quiet.
âThatâs not what happened.â
âIt was. And you donât get to be surprised I moved on.â
âIâm not surprised. Not about thisâŚâ Kate meets Yelenaâs eyes. âYou really never called again.â
âI told you I wouldnât.â Yelena lifts her glass. âYou stopped choosing me long before I stopped showing up.â She downs the rest of her gin. âYou shouldnât have come over.â
Kate laughs once. Small. Sad.
âI never shouldâve let you leave.â
Silence. Thick again.
Yelena picks up Monicaâs Syrah. Looks Kate dead in the eye.
âTell your cousin Leila I said thank you for her service.â
Kate lets out a breath, fragile and furious. Wounded. Yelena walks away before it can become anything more.
Monicaâs waiting. And sheâs already clocked everything.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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they are so terrible about the cannibalsm. they love tubbo. they loved being a part of him. they loved knowing him so deeply as much as they know their own skin (which they now have to get to know again. it's been like half a year maybe. their bodies are strangers to them even if they kept all the old scars). but oh god they are Not smart about joking about it sometimes
its the charm, being eaten turns you a little dumber is their excuse tho (it doesnt they are just Like This. theres no cure </3)