Chapter Text
NOVEMBER 1st, 1994
Gideon pulled her truck to a rumbling stop at the very edge of the dirt road before it gave way to the old wooden bridge. She thrummed her fingers against the steering wheel in quick succession, hard enough that they became sore after just seconds. Stomach turning and hackles raised, she couldn’t help but worry about getting caught. She wouldn't be, of course. She was completely free to go now. She could have left a year and a half ago and every day since then if she wanted. But she had an arrangement. She'd made stupid promise at sixteen years old, and had spent the following three years kicking her own ass for it. And yet.
She glanced at her rearview mirror, anticipating a black shadowy figure, and saw nothing. Something pulled taut in her chest—the feeling of being proven right and the anger and frustration that implied. But then the figure was there, speed-walking around the curve of the road, dragging just a single suitcase. Completely idiotic.
When Harrow reached the truck, she was very clearly winded, but still made a pathetic attempt to toss her suitcase into the bed. The tightness in Gideon's chest loosened, and she hopped out of her truck with nothing more than a release of breath.
"Allow me," she said, obnoxiously leaning over to grab the suitcase from Harrow's struggling arms. Fuck sake—the thing was heavy. No wonder Harrow had been late, she'd had to lug the thing all the way across town. Which—
"You know," Gideon said, tossing the suitcase in the back of her truck, securing a tarp over it. "If you would've just let me pick you up at your house, you wouldn't be on your way to passing out right now."
Harrow said nothing, just turned her face up and opened the passenger door. Relief and annoyance both settled over Gideon's shoulders as she climbed back into the truck.
Gideon didn't start the engine right away, a strange, disbelieving anxiety upsetting her nerves. "So. . . you have everyth—”
"Drive, Griddle," Harrow interrupted.
"Okay," Gideon said immediately, and turned the key over in the ignition, hitting the gas with all her weight. The truck lurched forward with a groan.
They drove in complete silence—save for the truck's usual mumbling and sputtering—for around ten minutes before Gideon couldn't take it anymore. She reached over to her cassette player, turning the volume up and punching the play button. She just had one tape that she'd found abandoned at the library in the neighboring city a few years ago—she called the tape Greg because that's what was scribbled on the front of it—and she only liked about a third of the songs. But Drearburh didn't pick up a single radio station, and it was better than nothing. Sometimes Gideon sat in her truck for no reason other than to listen to Greg.
The song that played was one she actually did enjoy; a bouncy, hopeful beat that immediately lifted Gideon’s spirits. Looking at the rearview mirror, she couldn’t even see the Drearburh bridge anymore; just the thick spray of dust and dirt her tires were kicking up.
She was leaving. Finally, finally.
Through the speakers, the singer said:
Man, I ain’t getting nowhere
I’m just living in a dump like this
There’s something happening somewhere
Baby, I just know that there is
Drearburh was history, behind her now; this was the first day of her life. How many nights did Gideon listen to this song, hope rising like a balloon in her chest, counting down to this moment? She didn’t really know what the true meaning of the song was, but to her it had always been about wanting to escape; about the desire to do something , even if you had nothing. She’d listened to the singer talk about how he wanted to change his clothes, his hair, his face, and felt seen . She still didn’t know if she was hoping to become someone new entirely or just become herself, but she was eager to find out.
Gideon ignored Harrow’s noises of complaint as she rolled her window down, turned the volume up. She was having her moment.
You can’t start a fire
You can’t start a fire without a spark
This guns for hire
Even if we’re just dancing in the dark
It was a perfectly cinematic moment, just like she’d dreamed of, just like something from the VHS tapes she borrowed from the library or had been allowed to rent: Gideon, one hand on her steering wheel, the other recklessly dangling out of the window to feel the breeze on her bare skin, hair flying in the wind. The sun had only just started to rise, spilling across the road and the grass like someone Upstairs, if they existed at all, had knocked over a bucket of liquid gold. A new world spread out before Gideon, hers for the taking.
They say you gotta stay hungr—
“Stop the car,” Harrow suddenly demanded, bringing reality crashing down onto Gideon in the form of her fist slamming against the volume knob, twisting it down.
With the music shut off and the moment smashed, the wind didn’t feel quite as nice smacking Gideon in the face. The scenery before them had dulled, no longer golden with the morning sun, but rather a pitiful pale yellow, light catching off the dry expanses of grass on either side of the dirt road. Drearburh probably wasn’t even all that far behind them, now that she thought about it.
"There's a gas station coming up," Gideon said, confusion almost drawing her attention to Harrow—she forcibly focused her gaze on the empty road out of fear of swerving.
"Griddle, stop the car now." Harrow's voice had gone all wobbly, and when Gideon couldn’t stop herself from stealing a glance, she noticed how pale the other girl had gone, the sweat on her temple.
She pulled the truck off the road and barely had time to put it in park before Harrow was throwing the door open and catapulting herself as far as she possibly could. She hit the dead grass with her knees, leaning over. Gideon didn't even have the chance to say that she would not be turning around, no fucking way—Harrow started puking.
So instead, she said, cautiously, "you okay?"
Harrow couldn't answer. Her palms had come to rest on the ground before her knees, and she spewed what looked like everything she'd ever eaten and then some. Gideon swallowed down a gag of her own and, with a sigh, she unbuckled and got out of the truck.
Usually Harrow kept her hair relatively short, rarely hitting her shoulders, but clearly she'd missed a haircut or three; it now fell in her face in thin dark sheets, sticking to her cheeks unpleasantly. With a grimace and a muttered swear, Gideon used both of her hands to gather up Harrow's hair and pull it to the crown of her head in ugly make-shift pigtails. Gideon averted her eyes for both of their sakes, tried to pretend she couldn't hear the retching.
When Harrow was finally done, she swatted Gideon's hands away petulantly. Gideon glanced downward, having to choose between looking at Harrow or looking at the vomit, which was no choice at all, so she watched as Harrow dragged the back of her hand across her mouth before spitting onto the ground. She looked at Gideon for the first time since getting in the truck, and it was a very pitiful sight. She had dark, heavy bags beneath her eyes, tears staining her cheeks, nose running from her puke-fest. She sniffled, flicking her eyes away.
"Feel better now?" Gideon asked. "I have a hoodie in the truck if you want it.” She was trying to be polite, really, even if she was on the verge of laughing.
"Die in a fire, Nav," Harrow spat, wiping her face again, before setting off toward the vehicle.
“You have vomit on your shirt,” Gideon pointed out, following.
Harrow made a noise of frustration or embarrassment or both, and Gideon had to hold up an old blanket so that Harrow could change behind it, despite the fact that there hadn’t been a single other car for miles.
Back in the truck, Gideon asked, "are you still on for this?"
"Just drive." Harrow turned her head back towards the window, pulling Gideon’s hoodie up over her head. It was far too big; she’d had to roll up the sleeves to keep her hands from getting swallowed.
"You know," Gideon said, "looking out the window like that is probably why you got carsick in the first place."
"I wasn't carsick," Harrow hissed. "It's nerves . In case you're unaware, we have potentially just made the biggest mistake of our life."
Gideon barked a laugh at that, despite the annoyance the statement bred. Harrow made a moody noise beside her, shifting around to find a comfortable position. "Speak for yourself, Nonagesimus." At the use of her family name, Harrow went still—whatever. "If you think it's such a mistake, why'd you even come? It wouldn't be the first promise you've broken."
She was prodding, of course. She was poking all the sore spots and hoping for a stab in return—it was easier than the silent treatment. Harrow, predictably, soured.
"Because I'm a coward who made a deal with the devil instead of accepting my fate. Leave me alone, I'm taking a nap."
Gideon considered hitting every pothole she saw, just to make Harrow's head go thwack against the window, for the devil comment. She had no room to talk, being a fucking demon herself. In the end Gideon decided it wasn't worth beating up her poor old truck.
From Gideon's perspective, if Harrow actually was a coward, she would have stayed. Of Harrow's three options, she’d taken the least cowardice. Or, maybe second least, but that depended on the type of person you asked. Gideon’s options were: run away and live a life worth something, or stay in Drearburh until she died a miserable, lonely death, just like everybody else there. Leaving was never a decision Gideon had to make, it was merely a fact—a matter of when, not if.
Gideon didn’t say any of this, of course. She just huffed out a sigh and turned the volume back up, this time to a reasonable level and without rolling her window down.
1991
Gideon Nav was sixteen years old, and she was getting the fuck out of Drearburh. This time was different from the others: she wasn’t eleven years old, running away on pure emotion after a fight—and she wasn’t thirteen, sneaking off with fifty bucks thinking it was enough to start a life with. She was sixteen, had two hundred dollars, and Aiglamene had politely looked in the other direction when Gideon snuck out the back door. She was thankful to the old woman for that and not a wholly insignificant amount else.
It could have been perfect. Gideon was good as gold; she had almost started whistling when she came up on that cursed bridge. The river below it was a familiar sound, water rushing against the rocks. She spent many summers splashing around in the water or wrestling Nonagesimus down onto the muddy bank—knocking Harrow’s flat ass onto the river rocks had been some of Gideon’s most cherished memories. To be fair, there weren't many to compete with.
And then she saw it—them— her, actually, though Gideon hadn’t realized that at first. It was a person standing at the railing of the bridge, leaning over the edge so far they folded in half. A person that small, a person with bird-bones Gideon was all too familiar with—well, all they’d need was a harsh breeze to be sent tumbling over the side.
Gideon didn’t think about much as she sprinted forward and wrapped her arms around Harrowhark, pulling her back into a standing position.
“What the fuck?” Harrow screamed, attempting to jerk free, violently swinging her head.
Gideon had to spit black hair from her mouth so that she could sputter, “what the fuck to you, ” like a genius. For a brief moment, Harrow went still.
She said, in a disbelieving tone, “Griddle?” And then, all at once, realized she was being pulled away, and that’s when she started thrashing again.
It was a nasty scuffle. It only ended when they tumbled ass-over-tits down the slope that led to the river and landed on the bank, a tangle of limbs and fuck-words, covered in mud like they were kids again.
Gideon asked questions. Harrow surprised her with answers. They reached an agreement; they decided to be smart, to be patient. Gideon made a promise, Harrow gave her one in return. Wait and see.
1994
An hour into driving, Gideon pulled off into a truck stop diner. Harrow was dead asleep, head pressed against the window, and Gideon leaned over, flicking her on the ear. Harrow snapped awake, hand flying to Gideon's wrist, nails painfully digging into her skin.
"Fuck," Gideon swore, jerking away. "Get up, we're getting food and we need to talk."
It took Harrow three minutes to gain full consciousness and get out of the truck, and even longer to go through her suitcase and find a shirt. The moment they stepped into the diner, she requested that Gideon order her a plain black coffee, then darted into the bathroom to change out of Gideon’s hoodie and into something of her own. Gideon asked for Harrow’s coffee, got orange juice for herself.
"Okay," Gideon said upon Harrow’s return, attempting to sound casual. They hadn't exactly become best friends again after that night three years ago—they'd always be balancing on a tightrope, it's just how they were—but an agreement was an agreement, a promise was a promise. They'd have to push past the awkwardness. "I have around six hundred." She would have had more, but she'd had to put a lot of her money into the beaten up truck Aiglamene had given her when she was seventeen.
She stole a glance at Harrow over her menu, and saw the other girl's dark eyes bulging. A flicker of anxiety erupted in Gideon's gut.
“I only have four hundred."
Relief squashed her nerves. "Jesus. That's fine. You had me nervous."
Gideon leaned forward as the waitress approached and pointed at the meal with a picture, not caring much about the contents, before flicking her eyes up to the woman. "I'll take that."
The woman smiled at her, a perfect row of teeth behind cherry red lips, and only turned her gaze away to scribble down her order. Gideon loved anywhere-that-wasn’t-Drearburh already. She smiled back, hoping it was more charming than dopey.
Across the table, Harrow was scowling as she ordered two plain pancakes and another coffee, which, whatever. If they were going to do this, Harrow would have to take the stick out of her ass and deal. Gideon was leaving Drearburh for the precise reason of freedom—she wasn't going to stop herself from smiling at a pretty woman now.
When the waitress walked away, Harrow muttered, "pick up your jaw, Nav, you're drooling all over the table."
Gideon could do nothing but laugh, shaking her head. "Get used to it. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
Harrow’s face twisted with confusion—Gideon could see the way she was about to say when have we ever been to Kansas?—but then understanding broke through. Once, when they were kids, Aiglamene had to babysit Harrow because Crux had a doctor's appointment. Gideon had borrowed The Wizard of Oz on VHS from the library, so the two of them sat and watched it together, because by that point they had known better than to wail on each other when Aiglamene was around. It was probably the first movie Harrow had even seen in her life, at eleven years old. She'd been terrified of the flying monkeys.
Harrow said, "fuck yourself."
Gideon felt a flash of surprise deep in her chest at the way Harrow's lips had turned upwards into a half-smirk—her own smile grew a fraction larger.
"In your wildest dreams."
The gratification was immediate upon seeing the self-satisfied smirk fall off of Harrow's face. Gideon got a kick to her shin under the table, about as strong as a chihuahua's.
When the food came, they took a few moments of silence to stuff their faces, reenergizing as the seconds passed—and then it was time to talk.
"Okay, so, we have, like, a grand, in total. That should be plenty to find us somewhere cheap to stay while we look for jobs—we could probably find a motel that’ll let us."
Harrow swallowed a gulp of coffee. Gideon could not fathom what kind of monster someone would have to be in order to drink black coffee—well, they'd have to be Harrowhark, she presumed.
"You make it sound so easy," Harrow said.
"It's not as if we haven't thought about it for years," said Gideon. They’d talked for hours that night on the riverbank, exchanged promises, and then never mentioned it again. The whole thing should have been forgotten in the way it had been all but ignored, and yet they both were at the bridge this morning, they'd both saved the money. They'd both actually left.
Harrow only hummed, tracing the rim of her coffee mug, eyes faraway. "What have we done, Griddle?" She sounded vaguely astonished.
Gideon shrugged, having no reason to be doubtful. "Something for ourselves."
"I can never go back," Harrow said quietly.
"Any regrets?"
Harrow didn't answer. Gideon hadn't expected her to.
They grabbed a map and bottles of water and snacks at the truck stop next door before walking back to Gideon’s pickup.
"Hey, so, do you think we could drive in shifts?" Gideon asked.
Harrow gave Gideon a very brief glance, a cut of her eyes before they darted away. "I don't know how to drive."
"Oh!" Gideon said, surprised, before she realized that actually made sense. "Okay. I could teach you, if you wanted."
Harrow only pursed her lips and slid into the passenger seat. Rude.
On the road, Gideon decided to see if the radio could pick up anything worthwhile. She had to flip through static channels and multiple televangelists before she finally found something actually playing music. She didn't recognize the song, but in her defense, her experience with music had been mostly limited to Greg the Tape. She turned the volume up and fixed her eyes on the road, content enough to listen to the lyrics and try something new. That was the whole point of this.
You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we can make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Gideon must have been grinning like she didn't even know what—it was such a ridiculous moment, she couldn’t help herself—because Harrow audibly scowled and said, "don't be corny, Griddle, it's a very unattractive quality."
"Are you invested in my attractiveness?"
"Let me out of the vehicle."
Gideon laughed and Harrow reached forward, clicking the radio off. She only elected to turn it back on once Gideon's improvised karaoke proved to be even worse.
***
They made it into the city by nightfall, and pulled into the parking lot of the first inexpensive-looking motel they saw. Harrow grabbed an unnecessarily large wad of cash from her suitcase, shoved it into her pocket, and told Gideon to wait outside while she checked them in.
Gideon was fine enough with this arrangement, stretching her legs and delighting in the pleasant burn sizzling through her muscles and joints. It only took Harrow about ten minutes, and then she was coming back outside, telling Gideon where to move the truck and handing her a room key.
The drawback was that the room only had one bed. A single queen sized bed in the middle of the room, and not even a couch to accommodate another person.
"It's all they had available," Harrow said as she flicked the lights on. There was, at least, a private bathroom and a kitchenette. "You can take the bed."
Maybe Gideon should have been chivalrous and offered to take the floor instead, but she couldn't lie to herself: she was exhausted, she'd been driving all day, and she wanted a mattress. So she simply shrugged and said, "you can have it tomorrow. We'll switch."
Harrow, surprisingly, agreed without so much as a sneer. They were far too tired to go out and find something to eat, so they sat on the floor, shoveling gas station potato chips into their mouths until the corners of their lips started to sting. Then they took turns in the lackluster shower. And then they passed out without another discussion. It could all be done tomorrow.
Tonight, they'd made it, and that was enough for the time being.
Gideon managed to find a job at a construction site being paid under the table. It was a nearly perfect thing; the only downside she could see was that she didn't get paid nearly as much as her coworkers—Gideon assumed this was because she wasn't legally hired, Harrow said it was because she was a woman; they amicably agreed that it was both—but she found it hard to care. It was better and more stable than the jobs she'd been doing back in Drearburh and its neighboring city, and the walk to and from the construction site gave her the opportunity to see the city everyday, even if it was just the same shops over and over.
She'd also struck a deal with the motel owner, helping with maintenance and touching up the paint in return for bringing their rent down to fifty dollars each a month. This generous offer meant that she and Harrow were able to save as they worked; the evening of their paydays, after showers and dinner, they'd huddle around an old coffee can, count up their savings, then add what they could to it.
The motel room was tolerable at best: a single room, a single bed, a single bathroom. They did their best at keeping things amicable, despite themselves, but you can’t live like that and expect shit to be all rainbows and butterflies. They needed an apartment, that was the second step after securing jobs. It’s just, well, shit was fucking expensive and nothing seemed worth it yet.
In their defense, it had only just been a month. All things considered, it was a miracle they'd made it this far. It helped that as they started working more, they didn't have to spend so much time around each other. Most days, it was like having a ghost roommate; they were rarely home at all, much less at the same time, and by the time they did get back, the other was usually asleep or otherwise shut off to the outside world.
It helped immensely to keep the peace; it was insufferably lonely.
Gideon puffed warm breath into her cold, chafed palms, wishing she’d thought to buy a pair of gloves last time they went shopping. Soft snowflakes landed in her hair and she had to swipe them from her eyelashes. She missed her truck terribly. It was fine, hadn’t keeled over and died on her yet, it was just that she quickly learned that if you wanted to get anywhere in the city, it was easier to do it by foot or subway. Her worksite wasn’t too far away and the walk wasn’t so bad during the day, but the nights were relentlessly cold.
She came up on her pitiful truck, looking over its rusted bumper and hideous blue paint job, all scraped and chipped— from the 70s, Aiglamene had told her when she was seventeen and walked outside to find it sitting on the front lawn. As soon as Aiglamene went back into the house, Gideon had been beside herself, crying like a baby. She’d known it wasn’t so much of a thoughtful gesture as it was a message reminding her that her time was nearly up, along with Aiglamene’s goodwill, but she couldn’t help but feel sentimental about the whole thing. She’d had to pay to fix it up herself, taking it into the neighboring city for the issues she couldn’t begin to understand, which had been most of them. A few months after Gideon turned eighteen, Aiglamene had asked her why she hadn’t left yet. Gideon told her the truck wasn’t ready. It wasn’t a complete lie.
Now, Gideon gave the tailgate of her shitty pickup an affectionate pat, and took the final steps to the motel room—home at last.
Her plans for a warm shower and peaceful night were immediately interrupted when she saw Harrow huddled against the wall. Chin pressed to her chest, eyes shut, lips turning blue. Snowflakes littered her whole body, stark against her black hair and clothing.
Gideon rushed forward, thoughtless, taking Harrow by the shoulders. “Harrow?” When she got no response, her hands reached up to touch Harrow’s cheeks, entirely on their own accord. The skin was so cold it made Gideon’s fingertips burn. She grabbed Harrow’s shoulders again, slightly panicked, shaking her. “Harrow, wake up.”
For a terrible moment she didn’t respond. Gideon shook her again, a bit more violently, and then Harrow’s eyes fluttered open.
She said, “hhhnghhh?”
Relief was a bomb in Gideon’s chest. “Are you fucking stupid? Do you know how cold it is?”
Harrow didn’t say anything, she only blinked wearily, teeth chattering. Gideon realized that she wouldn’t be able to yell at Harrow if she froze to death, so she swallowed her temper and her panic, and took her work jacket off. She pulled Harrow forward so that she could work the other girl’s arms through the sleeves of her Carhartt—it was awkward as hell.
“Can you stand?”
“Yes,” Harrow said. Her eyes closed, and she did not move.
Gideon grunted with frustration, then grabbed Harrow under the arms, pulling them both up to stand. Harrow didn’t complain about this or smack Gideon away, which did nothing to help the growing anxiety in her stomach; Harrow’s head simply lolled forward, falling heavily against the front of Gideon’s shoulder, face almost in her armpit. Briefly, Gideon felt embarrassed—she’d worked a long day and just because it was cold that didn’t mean she hadn’t been sweating—but Harrow was far too gone to care.
Which did not bode well.
Gideon would have to be quick about this next part; she squatted once more, fast as she could, and folded Harrow over shoulder, hooking her arm around the back of her thighs. To this, at least, Harrow groaned. Gideon had to fumble around, swearing as she tried to get the key to work with just one hand, but she managed, stumbling in with Harrow tossed over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She did not know the first thing about hypothermia. Surely, Harrow didn’t have that, but she was freezing, shivering against Gideon, teeth still clattering. So Gideon did what she thought seemed most reasonable, and took Harrow into the bathroom.
The first thing she did was sit Harrow on the floor, propping her against the wall. The second was stopping up the tub and turning the hot water tap all the way on, before thinking better and also turning the cold tap slightly. Boiling Harrow would, likely, not help her condition.
When the tub had filled just enough, Gideon felt another surge of panic. Removing Harrow’s clothes was a one-way trip to Yikesville— where Gideon had no interest in visiting, so Harrow would just have to get over it.
She took her jacket from Harrow, who made a pleading noise that Gideon ignored, and left her in the rest of her clothes. She lifted Harrow for the second time that night and did her best at putting her in the tub without injury.
Harrow’s eyes tore open when she made contact with the water, and she hissed, fingers cramping around Gideon’s forearms.
“Ow, fuck,” Gideon said, trying to pull away from the grasp unsuccessfully. It took a few painful moments for Harrow to adjust to the temperature and let go of Gideon’s arm. Once released, Gideon took a few steps back, rubbing her stinging skin, cold from the touch.
Harrow squeezed her eyes shut but sank further into the water, the tension in her body melting away like the snowflakes in her hair. She floated in the water like a black leaf; tiny waves from her languid movements lapped at her ears. The usual light brown of her face had turned an upsetting, irritated shade of red; her already chapped lips were now flaking and cracked, bleeding. At least they weren’t so blue anymore. When Harrow opened her eyes again, Gideon realized with a start that she’d been staring. She fled the bathroom before registering Harrow’s reaction, if there even was one.
She tried to keep her mind blank as she went through their drawers in search of clothes. She tried, and failed. She couldn’t help but go back to the image of Harrow blue-lipped and chattering in the cold. Cold enough to put her to sleep. Even with her limited expertise, Gideon knew that was bad news. She remembered reading a book in the library once. It said that when people start to freeze, they get really tired. If they’re not already dead by that point, then they’ll get really hot and take off all their clothes. The warm blood from their heart circulates down to their hands and their feet, that’s why they suddenly feel hot, and when the freezing blood works its way back up to their heart, it kills them.
What if she’d gotten home just a little while later? What then?
The shower curtain was drawn when Gideon stepped back inside, and there was a pile of wet clothes on the tiles. She set the dry, clean clothes that she’d grabbed blindly on the counter and went back to the main room.
Snow was melting on her hair, dripping down her neck, sending a chill over her skin. She grabbed a tee shirt and mopped at the wetness, shaking her shoulders out. The heat was on, at least. Harrow’s spontaneous hot tub would probably mean that Gideon would have no hot water for her own shower—whatever. Whatever, whatever, what fucking ever.
She fell onto the mattress heavily, exhaling a deep breath. She’d already saved Harrow’s life once—she didn’t exactly sign up for doing it again. That wasn’t what she’d promised. It was, in fact, closer to Harrow’s end of the bargain.
That, Gideon realized with a sudden wash of relief, explained the sharpness in her chest, the twisting of her stomach. That, at least, soothed some of her nerves, all too familiar. She knew how to be mad at Harrow.
Gideon threw her arm over her eyes, aiming for a quick nap.
At some point, Harrow came out of the bathroom, her footsteps shuffling along the carpet. Gideon pulled her arm away, blinking the grogginess from her eyes. She hadn’t quite fallen asleep, but was close enough to feel slightly disoriented. Then she sat up, saw Harrow’s wet hair and her red cheeks, and remembered everything, annoyance rushing in to shove the sleepiness out of her brain.
The shirt Gideon had grabbed for Harrow was one of her own, one she’d gotten from a thrift store a few weeks ago. It fell to Harrow’s thighs and the pint-sized idiot was wearing it backwards; the design intended for the back was a fire station logo with large text reading: “COED NAKED FIREFIGHTING”, and in smaller text below that: "Find ‘Em Hot, Leave ‘Em Wet!”
Harrow must have not looked at it. Gideon didn’t even tell her to give it back and change into one of her own shirts, instead deciding to let Harrow make the discovery for herself.
Sitting up, Gideon said, “so, is there any particular reason you were trying to get hypothermia?”
Harrow stood still in the kitchenette, frozen, ha, with a paper cup in her hand. She said, eventually, “I forgot my key.”
“You could have gotten one from the owner. He’s always at the front desk.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Harrow said sharply. “I asked. He told me that he’d given us the only two keys he had. The maintenance employee has the other, but he clocked off.”
“So sit inside the lobby.”
Harrow was quiet. It did nothing but stoke the flames of Gideon’s temper. Harrow, unconcerned, filled her cup with tap water. There was still melted snow dripping from Gideon’s hair, but it wasn’t as cold anymore; she ignored the droplets sliding down her temple.
“If I wanted to be leered at,” Harrow said after some time, “I would have put on a skirt and walked by your workplace.”
Something inside Gideon suddenly stopped . She said, very plainly, “What.”
Harrow sipped her water, then, cagily: “Your coworkers are pigs.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Gideon could not explain what was happening inside of her, then. It lacked the warmth and familiarity of anger, and it was stronger than annoyance, too dark for confusion. Mostly, it felt terribly like nothing at all; everything simply dropped away, and in its wake there was a numbness that started at her core and made its way all across her body. Except for hands, which felt quite heavy, and the surface of her skin, which felt quite hot.
“The owner is a pervert. I figured it best not to subject myself to his gaze.” Harrow was trying to sound casual, as if she didn’t care. It may have convinced anyone else. But Gideon heard the unnatural cadence, she saw the tightening of Harrow’s trembling fingers around her cup, the way she’d purposefully shaken her fringe into her face.
“Has he ever. . . done anything?” Gideon kept her mind utterly blank. It was easy, now, with that numbness seeping into her brain. Her palms itched.
“Don’t be stupid,” Harrow said instantly. Gideon hadn’t realized her shoulders were tense, but at those words, she felt them sink. “He’d be dead, I can very well handle myself.” Finally, Harrow turned to Gideon, and looked at her. Her face had been thoroughly schooled into a blank expression, but her eyes were intense as she said, “do not start something about this, Nav. I can see it in your fists—don’t look at me like that—we need a place to live, and you’re not going to ruin it because of a balding degenerate with a staring problem.”
“You’d tell me if he did, though,” Gideon said, not quite feeling like herself, ignoring half of Harrow's words. “You would, right?”
Harrow crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you I can handle myself.’
Gideon’s arms flew about on their own volition, and perhaps her voice was needlessly loud when she said, “it’s not about handling yourself!" At Harrow’s expression, Gideon lowered her volume. “It’s about. . . I want you to tell me if a fucking creep is bothering you, so I can do something about it.”
“Why?” Harrow sounded genuinely unsure, which pissed Gideon off more.
“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, slightly embarrassed, but whatever. “Because that’s not something you should have to handle on your own? Because I’d fucking help you? It’s this thing people do for each other.”
"People," Harrow said.
“Look, we’re—” she cut herself off, watched Harrow’s eyebrows lift minutely. “We’re roommates now. So we help each other out. You don’t have to handle everything on your own.”
She thought about all the times she’d asked Harrow to go to the desk to ask for more towels, more cups. . . fuck. Gross. She shuddered and tried to shake the thoughts away, wringing her hands.
Harrow seemed disconcerted—looking away, downing her cup of water. “Stop being weird about this, Nav.”
“We help each other out,” Gideon pressed on, “which means communication, and it means honesty, and it also means not freezing to death outside the motel. Next time you forget your key just come to the construction site and get mine—if someone there makes you uncomfortable, tell me, and I’ll—we’ll—take care of it.” The strange, nothing feeling was long gone, replaced with annoyance, nerves, frustration, exhaustion. “You’re an idiot, Harrow. You could have died.”
Harrow didn’t say anything, but she did look at Gideon with a blank expression.
Gideon was worked up. She probably wouldn’t have said it if she wasn’t so damn antsy.
“We made promises. You freezing to death kind of breaks both of them.”
Harrow’s mouth flattened, eyes narrowing with irritability. “I would not have died, and frankly, I’ve had quite enough of your theatrics.”
“Get fucked, Harrow,” Gideon said, the pulsing anger warmly welcomed after the numb spell. “It’s the go-to-sleep-and-don’t-wake-up kind of cold out there, and you were already sleeping. And even if you didn’t die, you could get, like, fucking frostbite—or something. You’re welcome, by the way. Most people would say thank you to the person who saved their ass.” She didn’t say, for the second time. She didn’t have to.
She watched Harrow deflate, narrowed eyes falling slack. She suddenly seemed very tired. She turned away as she spoke, which Gideon almost appreciated.
“Thank you, then,” she said, with some difficulty, shocking Gideon and probably the rest of the planet. It almost could have been kind, if not for the bitter addition: “For preventing me from minor frostbite.”
Either way, it was a small miracle, if those were real. They could keep arguing, or they could go to bed. Gideon was tired.
They were silent for a few long minutes after that, looking at each other without looking at each other, before Harrow eventually went to the blanket pallet on the floor.
“No, take the bed,” Gideon said. “I’ll take the floor tonight. You should stay warm.” She was already getting up from the mattress when Harrow protested.
“It’s your night.”
“Who gives a shit?” Gideon asked. “We make the rules.”
Harrow hovered halfway crouched to the floor. She said, “so they can be changed at any point.”
“Yeah,” said Gideon, “that’s kind of what we’re doing right now.”
Harrow stood and climbed on the mattress, pressing herself close against the left side. “Fine. Stay on your side.”
Miracles were real, and they were fucking horrific.
“Dude,” Gideon said, slightly frantic. “Now you’re being weird.”
“Do you prefer sleeping on the floor every other night, then?”
“No,” Gideon had to admit.
Harrow took a pillow, placed it in the middle of the mattress. “So just—stay on your side .”
Gideon felt strange as she settled onto the bed, and she was about to pull the comforter back when Harrow gave an indignant shriek.
“For the love of God, Nav, shower first! You smell like an animal.”
Oh. Right. Gideon slipped off the mattress once again.
“You know, you didn’t mind all that much when you shoved your face into my armpit.”
Harrow scowled, working her way under the blanket. “Stop being disgusting. I’d do no such thing.”
“Did too,” Gideon said, gathering up a change of clothes. “You so didn’t mind.”
“I was also half-dead, according to you.”
The shower was lukewarm. The bed was better, at least, soft and warm and enveloping.
Until Harrow said: “If you so much as brush your pinky against me, I will kill you.”
Into the pillows, Gideon scoffed. “As if you’re in any state to follow through on that, popsicle ass.”
“Try me,” Harrow yawned.
Gideon didn’t. She fell asleep only seconds later.