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Harrowhark didn’t know why she sat there for that long, but she did, watching the slow and rhythmic rise and fall of Gideon’s chest as she slept.
Not like she had much to look at. Gideon looked like right shit. Which reminded her of another piece of shit.
That fucking theorem’s test had been bullshit; Gideon had almost died, and for what? What had she learned? That yet again, one of the Lyctors had crafted something so close to the impossible? Harrowhark dug her fingernails into her palm, hard enough almost to draw blood. She almost wanted to; her frustration and her impatience and her fear were coalescing in the pit of her stomach, anxiety and restlessness coiling into a wound spring, sure do to make her explode again at any moment -- and no doubt it’d be Gideon who’d light the match.
Gideon. Who’d almost fucking died for Harrowhark to complete the shit theorem’s test.
And now she looked like jack shit. They both did.
Finally, cavelier and necromancer, matching outfits. Except Harrowhark reached a hand up to her face; the entropy field had withered away her face paint, leaving her skin unnaturally bare and smooth, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Then she looked at Gideon’s face. Even with face paint on, it’d looked like Gideon had slipped in shit and then ate shit.
Harrowhark didn’t know why, but she got up, went to the bathroom, got a dampened cloth, and came back to Gideon’s blanketside -- she couldn’t call it a bed -- and sat down again.
She sat there for a little longer, the damp cloth in her hand as she grit her teeth, jaw clenching and unclenching. This was stupid. Gideon could wake up at any moment, see her sitting there, and then say something incredibly obtuse about how Harrowhark had lovingly waited for her dearest cavalier to awaken from the throes of sleep.
If Harrowhark had eaten anything in the past twenty four hours, she was certain she would’ve thrown up at her own thoughts, but she didn’t, and instead she sat there with that damn stupid wet cloth in her hand and she sat there and stared at her stupid cavalier. Gideon. Stupid Gideon. Stupid Griddle.
Harrowhark would never say it aloud; she’d rather die, be resurrected, and then die again than admit it, but more often lately she’d begun thinking of Gideon as Gideon, and not Griddle. Griddle was a childhood name, meant for an annoying toddler who could only flail about. Gideon was a name for a warrior, someone who could survive a regenerating construct and live to tell the tale. Gideon was the name for the cavalier who’d almost died helping her necromancer become Lyctor.
And all it had taken for Gideon to do it was...for Harrowhark to just... ask.
Harrowhark still couldn’t believe it, all these hours later, even after she’d finished that task. She still couldn’t believe Gideon had said yes to being siphoned, to bearing the most intense pain and agony anyone could possibly feel. And she’d done it because Harrowhark had asked.
Something stung at the corner of Harrowhark’s eyes. She whispered, “What the fuck,” to herself, then blinked rapidly and it went away.
Again, to no one in particular, Harrowhark said, “Fuck this.” She’d faced the damn theorem. The least she could do was wipe her own cavalier’s face.
But just as her hand was an inch away from Gideon’s face, she abruptly remembered that Gideon could either wake up as she was doing it or Gideon would wake up later, realize her face was clean, and then that damnably stupidly hot grin she would do would be on her face the next time Harrowhark saw her.
“Damn it,” Harrowhark said under her breath, jerking away again and throwing herself back into her seat, glaring at the wall. She’d rather punch that idiot Naberius Tern in the face than let Gideon see her...taking care of her.
But a part of her really did want to. Harrowhark really did want, in some way, to -- her shoulders stiffened a little at this thought, it was just so foreign to think this way -- to show her appreciation for Gideon’s efforts. For her...her help. Gideon hadn’t needed to help. But she’d done it anyway.
She’d helped Harrowhark, even when Harrowhark had done absolute jackshit for Gideon her entire life. She hadn’t helped Gideon enlist to the Cohort, she’d forced Gideon to join her on this maniac’s quest to impossibility, and through it all Gideon had said yes anyway and through it all Harrowhark was still a stupid, cowardly little girl who wouldn’t admit that she was human too.
And that she was a girl who wanted to help...her one, and only...friend.
Friend.
Harrowhark had never thought that word before, in her entire life, in the context of someone living. Hell, she’d probably never even thought of that word in the context of someone dead.
She put the wet cloth down, settling her thin hands in her lap, her slim fingers interlacing with each other in her anxiousness. Again, she sat there for some time, still watching Gideon sleep; as time went on, some color returned to the little spots of skin that Harrowhark could see.
The column of Gideon’s throat, where her hood had fallen back. The hairline of Gideon’s brilliant ginger hair, contrasting with the jet black of her face paint. Then Gideon’s hands, one on her chest, the other at her side, closest to Harrowhark.
Harrowhark’s gaze stayed just a little too long on Gideon’s hand. She abruptly looked away again, face burning.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, Harrowhark did her best to burn a hole into the wall with a glare, but instead she found herself looking back again at Gideon’s hand.
Just lying there.
Palm up, all calloused and fucked up from those years of sword training. Fingers loose and relaxed, twitching every now and then as Gideon dreamed.
Exhaling, Harrowhark looked at the ceiling, counting to ten and back. Her heart was beating a little too fast for comfort, and she didn’t like thinking of what that meant. Even so, Harrowhark clenched and unclenched her hand, nails into her palm, then away, then back in again.
Maybe...maybe she could spare herself just...that much. She didn’t deserve to, and she certainly didn’t believe she deserved anything really, but...maybe...just this once…
Harrowhark glanced back at Gideon’s hand again, and she pursed her lips. Maybe she was just exhausted, and stupidity was getting to her. She shouldn’t be thinking these kinds of things, and she shouldn’t be wasting so much of her time sitting here looking at a sleeping ginger-haired brick.
Loosening her posture, Harrowhark leaned forward, breath held in her throat. It was so silent in the room, all she heard in her ears was the pounding of her heart, a reminder that she didn’t deserve this, and she didn’t deserve Gideon.
Tentatively, slowly, painstakingly, Harrowhark put her hand in Gideon’s, her unnaturally thin fingers wrapping around Gideon’s palm, warmth between their skin. It was a feeling unlike anything Harrowhark had ever felt; she had never learned intimacy, only read about it, but to feel it for the first time in this kind of way, with adrenaline rushing through her body and her lungs nearly about to burst, something beat in her heart, something that wasn’t a normal heartbeat, something different that she’d never known she could feel before.
“Gideon,” Harrowhark whispered, swallowing. She hoped she didn’t choke, not here, not now. “Thank you.”
Of course, Gideon was dead asleep, unmoving but breathing. There was no reaction from her at all, and Harrowhark had expected that and known that but she felt a little sinking in her heart anyway. She knew she was too prideful and arrogant and afraid to ever say something like that aloud to Gideon, and she didn’t think she ever could.
It was with that thought that Harrowhark pulled her hand away, feeling loss at the loss of warmth, the contact between their hands. She knew then that that would be the first and last and only time she’d ever feel that kind of way, and the first and last and only time she’d ever be able to touch Gideon in that kind of way.
Standing up, Harrowhark forced herself to turn away from her cavalier. It was time to return to reality; she had no time to waste, and she had to repay Gideon in some way. All of that couldn’t have been for nothing.
With carefulness to make sure she didn’t touch Gideon, Harrowhark withdrew the keyring for the pockets of Gideon’s clothes, then she inhaled once more, ignoring her heart, as she’d always done.
But just this once, her heart beat louder, making sure it heard her. She could, and should, spare kindness for her cavalier.
And it was that little unbeatable strand of hope that spurred Harrowhark to find Sextus, to find a piece of bread, and to return back to Gideon and leave notes behind. Gideon had bitched to her about communication; now just this once, Harrowhark intended to answer in kind.
But that was it; as Harrowhark reapplied her face paint and saw her reflection in the mirror, she once again put on that mask she’d worn since she was born, one made with two hundred other faces. And it was with this that Harrowhark shut her heart away again, to close the door behind her and leave Gideon behind as she went back out alone into the unknown.