#zahys

         ⇩ text. elitist ｝Fine. Get back home safely. 

Halfway across the world, Rhys bit back a grin. She knew, and Zathe knew, that the text hadn’t meant to be sent— it was unthinkable. Zathe, being concerned? She might as well start beginning to believe in coffee. 

        ⇪ text. elitist ｝i trust u to bring lots of bandages if i break my leg 

        ⇩ text. elitist ｝... Don’t break your leg.  

It went without saying that she arrived back in the flat with a broken leg and a bloody smile that spoke novels about where she’d been and who she’d met, so it fell to Zathe to catch Rhys when she tripped into the flat via window. “I specifically told you,” hissed, masking the growing amount of concern that threatened their monotone facade. “not to break your leg. And what did you do?” 

“I broke my leg,” she responded– the mild amusement was a coping device– and gingerly adjusted her arm around Zathe’s shoulders. “but it wasn’t on purpose.” 

“That’s new.” It was wearisome, sometimes, dragging out the bandages and the splints and the disinfecting alcohol every time Rhys came home, but lately she was coming home more often. It wasn’t likely that Zathe was going to complain about it. 

“I know–” the mafioso tried to sit up, and she gently pushed her back down so that she could work without interference. “–you also told me to come back safely, right?”

“...” 

“It was cute.”

“I’m not cute.” 

Rhys sat up, but the pain that shot up her leg forced her back down this time. “You’re never going to win this argument.” It was met with muted exasperation from the assassin at her side, who gave the bandages another sharp tug. The wound didn’t involve fire, this time, but she suspected that it would the next time. Until there isn’t a next time, she thought suddenly, but immediately discarded the thought. 

“I’ve already won,” Zathe replied, curtly, instead. “I’m not cute, and you’re not going to be walking for a while with that leg.” 

“Ain’t that a shame? Means you’ll have to carry me to my room.” It followed, then, that she didn’t expect the other girl to sweep her off the couch and down the hallways. The path was unfamiliar; she hadn’t slept in her own room since last year, before Bangalore. “Hey–”

The two of them tumbled onto the same bed and they blinked at each other for a few seconds, not daring and not believing. “– ... what?” at last, albeit hushed and still forced monotone. 

It took a second for Rhys to adjust herself, quick so that the moment didn’t slip through her fingers, and she ended up stretching herself languidly across the other. “Would you look at that? I can’t move, suddenly. It’s like breaking my leg’s got me sleepy, or something.”

Just like a cat, Zathe thinks, and that thought alone is just enough for her not to push Rhys off. “I have to get up early for a hit tomorrow.”