#shield and dagger

She looks down at Rosaria, golden curls falling over her face as she smiles. Rosaria gives in to impulse and catches one between thumb and forefinger, watching the way the strands twist around the silver of her claws as if they never intend to let go. 

“What about you?” Jean asks. “What do you think?”

Rosaria shrugs, tugging at the lock of hair. “It’s just a surname. I don’t even have one.” 

The corners of Jean’s eyes crinkle. “You can have mine,” she says indulgently.

Then she realizes what she says and her face goes bright red. The curl of her hair falls out of Rosaria’s grasp as she jerks away, pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks. “That is— If you want! If you wanted to take my name— Assuming that we got— Even if we did get married, I wouldn’t want to assume—”

Rosaria laughs aloud. She sits up and leans towards Jean, grinning a little meanly. “What, Acting Grand Master? Fantasizing about me taking your name?”

“Don’t—” Jean protests, leaning away. “I didn’t mean—”

Rosaria leans in further, until Jean topples backwards onto the picnic mat in her attempt to avoid Rosaria’s scrutiny. This is a poor tactical decision—Rosaria sees her chance and pins her to the mat, enjoying the way Jean’s scarlet face contrasts with her luminous blue eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about wedding bells and bridal bouquets. Do you already have the Cathedral decor planned out?”

The way Jean’s eyes skim away from her tells Rosaria all she needs to know. “That wasn’t the point!” 

“What would your mother say if she knew you were planning on bestowing the storied Gunnhildr name on a poor orphan waif like myself?” Rosaria presses.

And here she must press too far, because Jean’s eyes snap back to hers with a startling intensity. “I don’t care what she thinks,” she proclaims, so fiercely that Rosaria’s smile drops off her face. “She can’t dictate who this name goes to. And anyway, she’d be one to talk—she married my father, after all.”

Rosaria tips her head to one side, strangely touched. “I was joking,” she says. “Your mother loves me.”

Jean snorts. “No, she doesn’t. But she wouldn’t object if I… If you really did want to take my name.”

This is far too sincere for Rosaria’s tastes, and she releases Jean and collapses back onto the mat with an affected sigh. “We’re not seriously talking about weddings right now.”

Jean laughs a little sheepishly. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she says, rolling over to peer down at Rosaria. “But… For the record, the offer stands.”

Rosaria shakes her head. “Come on, Jean. You’d give your illustrious family name to…” She gestures down at herself. “Me?”

“Any day,” Jean says emphatically. Her hand finds Rosaria’s, slipping into it without ceremony, just as Jean herself had wormed her way into Rosaria’s life. “Any time.”

Rosaria squeezes her hand. “Any time, huh.”

Jean smiles, leaning over until the noonday sun disappears into her mess of golden curls and Rosaria can feel her breath on her lips. “Say the word, and it’s yours.”

It is at this moment that Klee gives a loud shriek and disappears underwater.

Jean lets out a muffled curse and drops Rosaria’s hand. She sprints over to the lake and Rosaria watches, amused, as she hauls Klee bodily out of the water. One of the girl’s hands is wrapped around the neck of a hapless freshwater eel; Jean convinces her to release it with some difficulty, throwing helpless glances back at Rosaria as she does so.

Trouble, both of them, Rosaria thinks... but rather a cute kind of trouble. The kind she wouldn’t mind keeping around.

Rosaria has never given much thought to family names, never having been in possession of one of her own. She’s never felt the lack of one, nor the need for one. 

But if Jean is offering hers...

Rosaria’s legs give out before they can even make it to Jean’s couch. Jean, unprepared for the additional weight, goes down with her and ends up on her knees, folded over Rosaria as the latter rearranges herself to sit on the hardwood. “Oof,” she says. Then, seeing as Rosaria seems to have no intention of moving further: “Don’t sit here. At least come to the couch.”

“And get it all bloody? I don’t think so,” Rosaria says, pulling Jean back down unceremoniously. “Just do your healing thing already.”

Jean sighs, giving in. “Fine.” She grips the two halves of Rosaria’s ripped bodice and begins to tear them apart.

Rosaria snorts. “There’s easier ways to get me out of my clothes, you know.”

Jean does frown down at her, this time. “Don’t be facetious or I’m sending you to the Cathedral.”

“Don’t,” Rosaria groans, wincing as Jean peels the bloody fabric away from her torn skin. “You know how Barbara gets. ‘You should take better care of yourself,’ and all that.”

“You should,” Jean says. It’s not meant to be scoldy, but Rosaria’s wounds are deep and ugly and her frustration bleeds into her voice without her asking. “You shouldn’t have tried to take on a horde of bandits alone.”

“I was out for a walk,” Rosaria lies easily. “Not my fault they set upon me, was it?”

It is a delicate line Jean treads here, admitting to knowing enough about Rosaria’s activities to keep her safe and in check, but not enough to compromise her own integrity as an officer of the Knights. “You could have run,” she settles upon saying. “Or gone for help.”

Rosaria shrugs. “Overrated.”

Jean sighs, reaching for her Vision. “Just… hold still.” 

There’s enough energy left for a Dandelion Breeze — a precaution she never used to have to take before vigilantes started running around her city and relying on her to keep them alive. Rosaria’s chill rises to meet Jean’s breeze as she calls on her Vision, and her wounds knit themselves back together, muscle and sinew coming together and then disappearing under clear, unblemished flesh.

Jean leans back to take in her handiwork and her gaze catches on the remaining scars on Rosaria’s shoulders: ghosts of injuries she hadn’t been able to or hadn’t thought to seek care for. She brushes her fingers over the raised scars and holds back a sigh. 

“Ugh.” Rosaria’s voice is amused. “I don’t like that look.”

“What look?” Jean says automatically. 

Rosaria reaches up to press a thumb between Jean’s eyebrows. Jean hadn’t even realized she’d been scowling. “That’s your disapproving look. I don’t like it when you look at me like that.”

Jean frowns. “How would you prefer I look at you?” 

In lieu of an answer, Rosaria leans up and kisses her.

Jean gasps as Rosaria’s lips meet hers. Despite the chill that pulses off her, the feel of her mouth sends heat skittering through Jean’s veins. The frustration in her stomach flip-flops and becomes a very different kind of tension: the sweet kind, the kind that Jean has spent her entire life trying not to feel. She suddenly finds herself very aware of the way they’re pressed together, chest to chest, skin to skin.

“Are you hurt?” Jean asks. “Are you bleeding?” She drops to her knees, already reaching out, but Rosaria smacks her hand away.

“Give it a rest,” she says, not unkindly. “I’m not bleeding anymore.” She offers Jean the bottle. “Drink with me.”

Jean does frown at that. But she takes the bottle, if only to get it out of Rosaria’s hands, and hazards a tentative sip. It’s not a very good vintage — certainly not one of the Dawn Winery’s. “How much of this have you had?”

Rosaria slants her an amused look, putting her cigarette to her lips once more. Her movements are slightly looser than normal, but the cadence of her speech is as low and crisp as ever. “Gonna arrest me for public drunkenness?”

“I don’t think you’re drunk,” Jean says, settling back against the wall. This close, she can feel the waves of frigid cold that roll off Rosaria, although the latter seems to be making a good-faith effort to suppress them. “Tipsy, maybe.”

Rosaria snorts. “You’ve got that much faith in my tolerance?”

“I have faith in your judgement,” Jean says, firmly enough that the amusement fades from Rosaria’s face. 

“Hm,” is all she says in response. 

Jean looks over. Rosaria’s head is tipped back, the line of her throat pale against the darkness that shrouds the end of the alleyway. Her long eyelashes paint a slash of red like wine across her cheek. As Jean watches, she opens her eyes and cuts a glance at her, not bothering to avert her gaze when she finds Jean looking back. They stare at each other for a long minute.

“Do you ever,” Rosaria starts finally, her voice husky, “get tired?”

Jean blinks at her. “Tired?”

Rosaria waves a hand, the ember of her cigarette painting swirls of gold in the night. “You work all day because the city demands it of you. And then you work all night too. Don’t you get tired?”

Jean considers that. “No,” she says.

Rosaria smiles wryly. There is silence for a moment as she takes another drag. “Should’ve guessed,” she says finally.

“The city doesn’t,” Jean starts. “It doesn’t demand anything. I do what I do out of love and loyalty. We all do,” she adds. 

“Love, huh?” Rosaria says. Before Jean can react, Rosaria’s free hand flashes up to grip her face, sharp-clawed fingers pressing cold into her cheeks. Jean’s stomach lurches. “Of course you’d say that.”

“What…” Jean says, as Rosaria leans closer, scrutinizing her like a case she cannot crack. 

“Should’ve guessed,” Rosaria says again. She is so close now Jean can almost taste the smoke on her breath. “You’re perfect, aren’t you? Perfect, untouchable Acting Grand Master Jean.”

“Not perfect,” Jean protests. She finds her chest tight as Rosaria’s gaze drops to her lips. “Not untouchable,” she manages.

“No?”

Jean swallows. “You can touch me,” she offers, weakly.

She thinks she sees Rosaria smile, but doesn’t manage to figure out how she feels about that before Rosaria’s lips are pressed to hers. 

Rosaria kisses her for barely long enough to take Jean’s breath away. She pulls away before Jean can even kiss her back and smiles a lopsided smile as the latter’s eyes flutter open. “You’re gonna regret this in the morning.”

“*I’m* going to regret this?” Jean repeats, baffled and bitterly disappointed. She can still taste cigarette smoke on her tongue. “You’re the one who’s drunk.”

“Not nearly drunk enough for this,” Rosaria says. She stares at Jean for a moment longer, her eyes tracing the lines of Jean’s face, before letting go and hopping abruptly to her feet. Jean lurches forward to steady her as she sways, but Rosaria shakes her head and neatly sidesteps Jean’s hands. “You should go to bed, Master Jean.”

“I’m not tired.”

Rosaria smiles. “Maybe you should be. I know I am.” 

Jean blinks hard as Rosaria retreats, taking the chill with her. “I’ll see you in the morning?” she asks.