#thornlee

Ripley Hawthorn. Ruin.

If anyone asks you, letting the Rat Council form full sentences was a huge mistake. In fact, both you and Rhan can attest to that. Those damned critters have been incessantly bothering the two of you about “putting your useless tinkering to good use for once” in that infuriating voice module that the Abelards recently installed to their translator. Seriously, whose bright idea was this? Weren’t the single word death threats enough as is?

With a grunt, you pour the contents of your bag onto the table, letting various mechanical bits and pieces clatter onto the surface. So it turns out that the Rat Council really, really wants someone to build them a flying vessel. Since the Abelards were completely unfazed by their chittering, they’ve been alternating between nagging you and Rhan into doing them the favor. For a brief time, there was a degree of solidarity in your shared suffering. But of course, that fragile truce soon fell apart when the two of you got into a petty argument about the apparent insanity of your perfectly coherent workflow. You grumble under your breath at the memory as you organize the parts into small piles. Your sorting criteria makes total sense to you, but Rhan called you deranged for it. As if they know any better than you.

And that’s what led to your latest project. Whoever makes the drone vessel that the Council likes the best, wins. Sure, there’s no prize to this other than freedom from the rats’ nagging, but your pride is on the line.

You somehow manage to have a few uninterrupted hours to yourself, but something that good doesn’t last very long. Just as you’re about to assemble the body, Marion makes their way into the common area, humming some tune that you don’t recognize. You throw a glance back when you hear dry marker squeak against the communal white board. That thing is already filled to the brim with notes, isn’t it? How are they trying to fit more onto it? Just as you turn your attention back to your project, they take notice of you and do the telepathic equivalent of poking you, signaling their intent to bother you. When you don’t make a move to retreat into the privacy of your own room, they take a seat across from you with a bag of… Are those teddy graham crackers?

"You’re building something,” they say, tossing a headless bear into their mouth.

During the time you’ve spent with Marion, you’ve noticed that instead of asking questions, they have a habit of making observational statements, then expecting you to elaborate on it. You suppose that it’s some sort of conversational tactic, but you don’t care enough to figure out what that’s about. What matters is making them work for the explanation they want.

“Duh,” you toss back, because that somehow never fails to get a twitch out of them. You suspect that it might be out of amusement rather than irritation, though.

“And those,” they point at the propeller blades, “look like propeller blades.”

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you drawl, words dripping with sarcasm. “Now just learn to tell the difference between bolts and screws, and you’ll be well on your way to qualify as my assistant.”

There it is. You sense signature bursts of their mirth at the back of your mind. By now, you’ve figured out that it feels like a sprinkle of popping candy against your tongue.

You continue putting together the smaller components of the drone without looking up, expecting them to keep making obvious remarks until you inevitably cave and let enough information slip for them to piece together the picture. That’s how it usually goes. Instead, they change the subject.

“Huh. That’s a recent development.”

“What is?” you ask, squinting past your reflection on the glass and down at the bustling crowd to try and spot who they’re talking about this time. They like pointing out random pedestrians that they somehow recognize as a recurring passerby. Is there one that got a haircut or something?

It’s only when they snort that you flit your gaze back to them and find that their eyes are trained on you and not anyone else. When you give them a questioning look, they tap an uplifted corner of their mouth. Your hand comes up to mirror their gesture, only to find that you’re… Shit, you’re smiling. That’s weird. You practically scrub the expression off, making room for your familiar frown to take its rightful place.

“I knew I shouldn’t have pointed it out,” they sigh, though their pretense of a pout doesn’t last long as their mouth soon widens into a grin. “And you wore it so well, too.”

Upon their comment, your scowl deepens on instinct. You click your tongue, tightening a screw a bit too hard as you internally swear to one day punch that smirk off their face. Your mistake doesn’t catch up to you until they burst out laughing. Shit, you projected that thought, didn’t you? And now it’s too late, because you’re picturing that one time that you did try to punch the smug out of them. Busted lips and bared teeth. Curved eyes of a cat that got its cream. Because they only press your buttons as much as they want to. Because they’ve somehow figured out the precise length of your fuse and never quite pisses you off enough for fists to fly—unless that’s exactly what they want from you.

There’s just no winning when you’re dealing with this fucker. It feels like you’re playing right into their hands no matter what you do, and it drives you crazy. The worst part? Your frustration is just another reward to them. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. Your anger is supposed to solve your problems, not enable them.

You know better than anyone how easy it is to just… get mad. Take the bait, then tear through it. Once they get a taste of your ire, most people know better than to provoke you twice. Sure, some persistent idiots keep coming back to you for some reason, but at least there’s satisfaction in aiming your anger at people that don’t want you to be mad.

Well, it turns out that some freaks enjoy making a sport out of your anger issues. How the hell are you supposed to deal with that?

The flirting threw you off at first, but at least it didn’t take long to figure out that they’re just fucking with you. There’s no weight behind their passing remarks, and that’s something you can deal with. Even if some of their nonsense lingers longer in your mind than it should. It’s just one more person among many others that’ll get a piece of your mind for messing with you.

… The problem is that neither your bark or nor bite have had any luck fending this one off. That leaves you here, at a standstill. Even your hands lost track of what they were doing while you were lost in thought.

With a groan, you let your tools go and bury a hand in your hair, glaring daggers at the culprit behind your distraction. Marion leaves you at a loss. Makes you think too much. Think about things like crushing the perpetual assurance on their face. Crushing your lips against theirs until their insufferable grin has been ground into gasps.

Fuck. Your eyes widen just as theirs do. In a pathetic attempt to damage control, you scramble to gather as much of your irritation as possible and shove that to their face. Thankfully, they take the hint and avert their gaze from you, pursing their lips in an attempt to hold back the laughter that leaks through telepathically anyways.

“Shut up, Lee.”

“But I didn’t even say anything?”

You throw your head back, dragging a hand across your face. Fine—it’s true that you’ve been getting thoughts about them. Thanks to the likes of Ortega and Chen, you’ve dealt with this side of yourself for long enough to be able to admit that much. So what?

“Well, what if I told you that I like your idea?”

They say it so casually, but their question makes you sit back straight in disbelief. “You what?”

“Your idea. I like it—”

“I heard you the first time,” you interject, desperately trying to reel your thoughts back in. Why? Why the hell would they like the idea when they’re just toying with you?

There it is again. The popping candy. Amused, are they? Satisfied to see you give in? That must be it. There’s no other explanation for what they claim.

“I’m not kissing you for your entertainment,” you snap, slouching against the table with crossed arms to take up more of the gap between you and Marion. Daring them to invade your personal space. And of course, they accept your challenge.

“But you want to,” they say, matter-of-fact. They learn forward until your faces are only inches apart. “Do you not?”

The glint of vibrant green reflected in their eyes almost distracts you, but you manage to catch onto the touch of uncertainty in their last question. It’s enough for you to feel compelled to reflect. Do you? Well, yes, if your gaze drifting down to their lips is any indication. But why?

It’s not a thought you ever gave ground to—the notion that you might have a type is stupid and ridiculous—but it’s true that you can’t help but see glimpses of Ortega in Marion. More specifically, there are echoes in the little details that you were once trained to catch onto. It’s the confidence they exude in the way they carry themself, even when they’re trying to be unassuming. It’s in how they scratch their neck to put on a show of shame when they feel no such thing. It was the intensity of their glare when they raised their voice at the Ricardo of this world that one time, standing between him and you.

As if making a fool out of you isn’t enough, they even see you as something that needs their pity—their protection. Just like he does. It makes your skin crawl and your stomach churn.

Just as that thought crosses your mind, the ever-present smile on Marion’s face collapses right before your eyes.

“Oh. So that’s how it is.”

You frown, tamping down the twinge of disappointment at the sudden distance between the two of you as they plaster their back against their seat.

“What?”

“I didn’t understand why you would want this, but I get it now.” They let out a hollow laugh.

“You’re not making any sense.” The waves of jealousy emanating from them do give you an idea of what they could be on about, but that doesn’t make this any less absurd.

“Look, Hawthorn. You don’t need to kill time with a stand-in. The real deal is practically drooling to get into your pants.”

“That’s—”

“I get that he’s not your Ricardo, but hey, if you want an outlet, it might as well be the guy that actually shares a face with him—”

“Holy shit, cut that out!” you shout, trying to pry the clinging jealousy off of your shields. “You’re making the entire room feel nasty!”

Raising your voice seems to do the trick for once, since the air tunes back to being breathable. You sigh, pressing against your clenched eyes.

“If you find the comparison that unbearable, then fine. You’re nothing like him. You always try too hard, while he makes things look effortless. You make yourself a nuisance just to get a fraction the attention he does by just existing. And if he had even half of your audacity, he’d literally be unstoppable, so don’t make me imagine that. There, happy?”

You open your eyes to find that no, they’re not happy. In fact, this is the closest you’ve ever seen them to looking upset. Crap. This isn’t as gratifying as you thought it’d be.

“Alright, alright, You want me to fuck off, I get it,” they mutter, brushing crumbs off their hands. Before they get the chance to get up from their seat, however, you jump out of your own and march over to their side of the table. They scrunch their nose as they blink up at you like a cat that just got squirted with a water spray.

Yeah. You know what? Fuck it.

Without warning, you grab them by the collar and pull them in closer, shoving your lips onto theirs. There’s no helping the widening smirk when you feel them gasp against you. Your other hand grips onto the back of their head, letting the whiff of mint in their quivering sigh carry the the moment onward and onward because you can’t stop until you’ve made your point.

The moment you separate to catch a breath, Marion tries to fit in a retort.

“Hawthorn, what the fuck—”

“There. Now you get to say you kissed me before Ricardo Ortega.” The insanity of what you’re saying doesn’t quite catch up to the pace you’re setting. Good. “Happy?”