Chapter Text
It’s been nearly two years.
Two years since the no-fraternization policy was abolished.
Two years of Fade and Deadlock learning how to breathe without waiting for the next mission to take it away.
Two years of scars—physical or otherwise—stitched closed not by time, but by each other.
The first year slipped by like a dream.
Nothing changed around the protocol, not really. There were still briefings and deployments, joint training and quiet mess hall meals. But they had changed. Fade and Deadlock were no longer just ghosts slipping through the shadows of war.
They were a we—a unit.
It was imperfect love, all sharp edges and soft silences, but it was real. So real, in fact, that most days passed with quiet certainty—until they blinked and a year had gone by.
Including their anniversary.
Deadlock was sent on a recovery mission to Omega Earth’s Lotus site. She deployed with Yoru, Phoenix, and Omen—her usual squad. The mission was meant to be low-risk. Hold C site, secure the intel, and extract before the breach.
Then Omega Killjoy appeared.
The ambush was surgical. Her bots swarmed like locusts—coordinated and merciless. Deadlock held them off long enough for Omen to secure the data and for Phoenix to pull Yoru back from the fray. But she didn’t make it out unscathed.
A bullet shattered her prosthetic. A knife found its way beneath her armor, slicing deep into her abdomen.
Yoru blinked back just in time, killing the Omega agent with a slice to the throat, and dragged Deadlock out.
By the time they returned to the VL/TR, Deadlock was barely conscious.
Like always, Fade was waiting for her in the hangar when the team returned.
She didn’t scream or cry or demand to know what happened to her partner. She didn’t need to. Her silence was louder than any scream, any alarm. Her eyes locked on Deadlock’s battered frame as she limped down the drop ramp, blood crusted on her tactical gear, metal arm hanging uselessly by her side.
The fire behind Fade’s gaze could’ve turned the whole building to ash.
But she said nothing. She simply followed—shadowlike and steady—behind Skye and Sage as they rushed Deadlock to the infirmary. While Killjoy and Raze pried apart the wrecked prosthetic, Fade silently stayed in the corner until they told her she could take the soldier home.
That night, after the stitches and morphine and exhaustion had settled, they stood beneath the stream of the shower, barely able to hold themselves upright.
There was nothing sexual about it.
Just intimacy. Just steam and breath and the sense of you’re still here.
Fade held her carefully, fingertips skimming along the bruises that would bloom by morning. Her hands rested at Deadlock’s hips, thumbs brushing bone. Deadlock’s organic hand curled around the back of Fade’s neck, drawing her closer until their foreheads touched.
The Initiator leaned in first, pressing a kiss to the corner of the Sentinel’s mouth, then another, slower one to her lips.
Then she pulled back, brushing soaked blonde strands out of her partner’s face.
“Happy anniversary, aşkım,” she whispered, voice like smoke and velvet.
Deadlock’s heart stuttered.
She had forgotten. Not because she didn’t care, but because her body still buzzed with residual adrenaline and painkillers. The day had blurred into noise and instinct, into combat and survival.
She hadn’t realized what today was.
Fade saw it in her eyes—those flickers of guilt, of panic, of self-loathing. The shadows never left Deadlock entirely. Even now, they curled faintly around her ribs and shoulders.
Fade reached up and plucked one of the tendrils gently from the air, watching it dissolve between her fingers.
“Relax, baby,” she said with a soft laugh. “I’m not mad. You’ve had an eventful day.”
“But I should’ve—”
The Turk silenced her with a look. “You got shot, Iselin. And stabbed.”
She leaned in again, kissing her jaw with reverence. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters to me.”
There was heat in their next kiss—slow, still, but deeper, more desperate. Not lust, but love sharpened by near-loss.
When they pulled apart again, both were flushed—not from the water, but from each other.
“Happy anniversary, kjære,” Deadlock whispered back.
They left the shower when the water ran cold. They dried off in silence and slipped into soft cotton shirts and clean sweats. Fade helped Deadlock climb into bed, careful not to jostle her sutures.
They lay there, bodies close but not tangled, hands clasped between them like a tether. It wasn’t a perfect anniversary. Not by a long shot.
There was no wine, no candles, no celebration.
But it was more than either of them had ever let themselves want.
They were alive. And they were alive together.
They had survived the darkness—and in each other’s arms, they’d found something neither thought they deserved.
Not just love, but the right to be loved.
Two killers. Two survivors.
Two women who once believed they were nothing but weapons, now learning they are human after all.
They had each other.
And that was everything.
Notes:
Translations:
Aşkım - [Turkish] My love
Kjære - [Norwegian] Dear/My dear
Chapter 2: Chapter 1
Notes:
Double chapter upload because I love yall sm <3
Chapter Text
The clock on the nightstand blinked 04:13 AM in soft, sterile red. The room was still, cast in the shadowy hush that lingered before dawn. Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic clack of keys broke the silence—Fade’s fingers dancing restlessly over her laptop as if movement alone could pull the answers she needed from the digital void.
She’d been sitting there for hours. Seven, maybe more. Lost in surveillance footage, internal reports, and whatever half-redacted intel she could pry out of Cypher’s encrypted archives. Her shoulders ached from leaning forward, but she didn’t notice. Her eyes had blurred so many times she’d stopped counting. She only paused to rub at her brow or scribble something half-legible onto a nearby post-it—like the one she was working on now, a new set of coordinates she hoped were more reliable than the last. Kadir’s last known location, again. The sixth variation she’d written in three days.
All around her, the desk and floor bore the quiet chaos of obsession: open folders, stacked files, sticky notes curling at the corners. Her old sketchpad lay underneath a pile of printed transcripts, untouched.
Behind her, the soft weight of sleep shifted.
Deadlock mumbled something in Norwegian as she rolled onto her back, her bare arms goosebumping in the sharp chill of the AC. She reached blindly for the blankets and pulled them up over her head with a soft huff. But even cocooned in warmth, something pulled her from sleep—the rhythmic tapping of keys, subtle but persistent, threading through her dreams and gently tugging her awake.
She blinked at the clock. Then at the empty half of the bed.
Oh, Hazal…
Deadlock lay still for a moment, chest rising slowly beneath the heavy comforter, watching her from across the room. She knew the posture by heart now—Fade hunched forward, legs crossed beneath her, that telltale furrow between her brows. Always chasing ghosts. Always chasing him.
A pang struck low in her chest. Not anger, just a kind of tired ache.
It wasn’t the first time she’d woken up to an empty bed, the glow of the laptop painting pale light across the walls. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time this week. But every time it happened, it took her breath in a different way. Because no matter how close they got, there was always a part of Fade she couldn’t reach. A part still trapped in the Istanbul she barely talked about. A part still chasing her brother’s shadow like it would vanish if she stopped moving.
She knew how badly Fade wanted to find her brother. How badly she wanted that closure—that peace. She just hated that Fade thought the best way to achieve that peace was to run herself into the ground.
Deadlock sat up slowly, the cold air biting at her arms. She didn’t move right away. Just watched. The blankets pooled around her hips as she leaned forward, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Eventually, she stood, careful not to let the floor creak, and padded across the room in a few slow steps. The wood was cold beneath her bare feet, but she didn’t flinch. She ran her hand through her hair, yawning as she came up behind Fade.
The Initiator didn’t notice her at first—too absorbed in the text and maps on the screen, eyes shadowed in the dim light. She only spoke when she felt her presence.
“What are you doing up?” she asked, voice low. Her gaze softened as she looked up at her. The laptop cast a faint glow across Deadlock’s face, catching the sleep-softness around her eyes and the slight curve of her mouth.
“Got cold,” Deadlock murmured. “Heard you typing.”
She bent to press a kiss to the crown of Fade’s head—an instinct now, one that always grounded her. Fade’s hair was soft beneath her lips, smelling faintly of jasmine and ash.
“I’m sorry,” Fade said, guilt blooming behind her ribs. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Deadlock didn’t respond right away. She looked down at the desk, the sea of notes and files, the ever-expanding trail of breadcrumbs Fade had been following for years. The circles under her eyes weren’t from insomnia alone. They were from hope. And sometimes hope was heavier than grief.
Fade reached to close the laptop, already sweeping papers into a stack. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be there in a second.”
But Deadlock caught her wrist, the grip gentle but firm. “It’s okay,” she said, giving her a crooked smile. “Let me help.”
“You should rest—”
“I’ve done much worse on less sleep.”
She straightened up, went to the nightstand, and opened the drawer. The soft clink of metal broke the quiet as she retrieved her prosthetic. She sat on the edge of the bed, lining it up to the connection point at her elbow. It clicked into place with a low whirr and a brief shimmer of radianite-blue.
Fade watched her, heart swelling with something too complex to name.
After checking the connection points on her prosthetic and flexing her fingers once for good measure, Deadlock turned toward the window. With a soft hiss of fabric, she pulled the curtains just enough to let in a sliver of predawn light. Pale blue filtered into the room, casting long shadows across the tangled bed and cluttered desk.
Behind her, Fade shifted in her seat, the glow from her laptop dimmed now. She stared down at the file in her lap, thumb rubbing the edge of the manila folder in restless repetition—bending the corner back, releasing it, then bending it again. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to avoid the ache in her chest.
She wanted to tell Deadlock to go back to bed. That this wasn’t worth her losing sleep. That she didn’t need to sit on the cold floor and help sort through dead-end leads and classified scraps. But truthfully, Fade didn’t have it in her to argue over sleep when they were both running on borrowed time and stubborn hope.
Deadlock sank to the floor with a soft grunt, back pressing against the side of the bed. She reached for the closest stack of files, pulling one into her lap and flipping it open without hesitation.
“All of that is old,” Fade murmured, reaching over to pluck the file gently from her hands. She offered her the folder she’d been fidgeting with instead. “This has the most recent intel I’ve found.”
Deadlock quirked a brow and took it, flipping through the sparse pages. “This is most of it?” she asked, frowning.
Fade nodded. “Yeah. It’s mostly just travel logs and passport stamps. Kadir’s bouncing around Europe—Italy, Spain, England, and…” she hesitated, “Norway.”
That made Deadlock pause. She looked up, brows raised. “Norway?”
The Turk nodded again, this time more cautiously. “I don’t know why. Could be that Hourglass is headquartered there. Could be that he knows someone. But he never stays more than two days at a time, and there’s no pattern.”
The Sentinel didn’t say anything. Her expression had gone neutral, unreadable in a way that she defaulted to when something landed too close to old scars.
Fade turned her attention back to the laptop, rubbing at her temples as the early pulse of a migraine throbbed behind her eyes. She didn’t need another dead lead. She needed a trail she could follow—something to justify the weight of the last eight years. The sleepless nights and frayed nerves and silence from the man she once held when he cried.
Deadlock stood and reached past her, one arm on either side of the chair as she clicked through the open files on the screen. The heat of her body bracketed Fade in. It was protective, steady, familiar.
A few windows flicked past until she landed on a grainy surveillance image. She enlarged it with one tap, the camera’s static blur sharpening just enough to reveal the curve of a neon sign tucked into a narrow alley, glowing electric pink against a pale brick wall.
Fade tilted her head. “What is that?”
Deadlock stared at the image, eyes narrowing. Her jaw clenched slightly before she spoke. “A downtown bar.”
For a moment, her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was thinner. Strained.
Because in the space between heartbeats, she was back there.
Back in Oslo. Back in that very alley. Back when her nights blurred together with the taste of vodka, the rush of meaningless sex, and the pounding bass of a bar that never closed. Her body had been a vessel for pain back then—something she could use up, break down, and leave behind at the bottom of a bottle. And that bar… it had been a sanctuary. A poison. A confessional where no one asked questions.
She remembered the feel of a woman’s mouth against her throat. The sting of alcohol on an open wound. The sick comfort of pretending nothing mattered. The night she threw a punch at a man who looked too much like someone she couldn’t name. The morning after, waking up with her head swimming and a busted lip, realizing she didn’t even want to get better.
Deadlock exhaled slowly through her nose, the memory burning in her chest. She clicked the image off before the weight of it could crush her.
Fade didn’t press, but she noticed.
She noticed the way her partner’s body had gone still. The way soft tendrils of her Radiance had begun to curl at the woman’s skin—inky shadows drifting like smoke, subtle but there.
“Iselin,” she said softly.
Deadlock shook her head once. “It’s nothing.”
Fade didn’t believe her, but she let it go.
For now.
But something had cracked open in that quiet moment—a shadow left untouched for too long. And no matter how tightly Deadlock tried to close the door, the past had already started leaking through the seams.
The soldier kissed the crown of Fade’s head again, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The moment grounded her—calmed whatever was still coiling tight in her chest.
“I’m gonna get breakfast for us, okay?” she murmured, her voice low and even.
The Initiator nodded, watching her partner with searching eyes. There was something unreadable flickering behind Deadlock’s expression—something that hadn’t quite left since she looked at bar photo. But the Norwegian had always been good at burying her thoughts. At slipping masks on before anyone could ask what she was hiding.
Deadlock moved with practiced quiet as she scanned the room for her sneakers and jacket, careful not to disturb the calm. She stepped into the hallway like a shadow, her breath misting faintly in the chilled morning air. She cursed softly under her breath as she zipped up her jacket, the fabric catching once before giving way.
The image of the bar sign still lingered at the edge of her thoughts like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.
That stupid, pulsing light. That alleyway stench of cheap liquor and adrenaline. Her body moving on autopilot—finding fights, finding hands, finding lips that didn’t belong to anyone but still left their mark. Those memories were buried deep, sealed in the dark corners of her mind where Kaia had once lived too.
That was a different life. That woman died years ago.
She swallowed hard and kept walking.
The early corridors were beginning to stir. She passed Harbor and Astra, jogging in near-perfect sync, murmuring between breaths about stormfronts and battlefield drills. A few seconds later, she spotted Iso and Gekko roughhousing, the two men trading half-hearted shoves and sharp banter as they made their way toward the common room. Then, from across the hall, a door clicked shut. Yoru emerged, hair mussed, jacket slung over his shoulder, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Their eyes met.
Deadlock raised one unimpressed eyebrow. The duelist froze like a child caught sneaking candy, the tips of his ears reddening.
She held a finger to her lips, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.
He gave a sheepish two-finger salute, then blinked out of sight with a low zip of dimensional energy.
By the time she reached the mess hall, the stillness had begun to fade. A few staff milled about the kitchen, prepping for the morning rush. At a corner table, Jett and Neon sat with energy drinks and protein bars, still in their training gear. Normally, the two women didn’t start their day until eight or nine. But they’d been training for an upcoming race they were having to settle who was the fastest once and for all—wind or lightning.
The girls waved when they saw her.
Deadlock returned the gesture with a nod, but her expression remained unreadable—cold, some would call it. But they didn’t know her well enough to understand what quiet cost her. She wasn’t upset. Just… elsewhere.
She made herself a protein shake, added a scoop of powdered greens, then grabbed a yogurt and a granola bar for Fade. At the coffee machine, she punched in the custom code for Fade’s favorite Turkish blend—the one that tasted like roasted earth and spice and memory. The scent alone reminded her of the first time Fade brewed her a cup, the way she gently pushed the mug toward her like it was an offering instead of a peace treaty.
With full arms, she made the trek back to the suite in silence.
When she returned, the door clicked open with a quiet hiss, and Deadlock stopped.
Fade had fallen asleep at the desk. Her arms were folded under her head, her laptop dark, her notes scattered like petals around her. She was curled in on herself, as if even unconscious, she was protecting something fragile. Her hair spilled like ink across her face, catching the soft glow of the rising sun through the curtains. She was snoring, just barely—a soft, rhythmic sound that tugged at something deep inside Deadlock’s chest and bloomed into a slow, aching warmth.
She set their breakfast down on the nightstand and crossed the room quietly, knees aching a bit as she knelt beside the desk.
‘God, she’s beautiful,’ the soldier thought. ‘And she’s going to drive me to an early grave with how little she sleeps.’
She reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from Fade’s face, letting her fingers linger against her temple. The bounty hunter murmured something in Turkish, voice low and slurred with sleep. Deadlock didn’t catch the words, but the cadence was familiar—something affectionate, maybe. Something rooted in a dream.
Carefully, she slipped her arms around Fade and lifted her. The Initiator’s body melted against her with instinctive ease, as though even in rest she recognized the shape of Deadlock’s embrace. She carried her to the bed and eased her down gently, but as she moved to pull away, Fade’s fingers curled into the collar of her jacket, refusing to let go.
Deadlock huffed a quiet laugh through her nose.
“Of course,” she whispered.
She slid out of her jacket, draped it over the foot of the bed, and slipped in beside her. Fade immediately turned, instinct pulling her toward Deadlock’s warmth like a sunflower chasing light. Her face nestled into the crook of the Sentinel’s neck, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she clung closer.
Deadlock’s arm wrapped around her in return, her organic hand splaying over Fade’s back like a tether. She kissed her temple with a featherlight press of lips and let her eyes flutter closed.
Her stomach growled. The coffee was probably getting cold. But none of it mattered.
Not yet.
For now, she just held the woman she loved and let the world stay quiet a little longer.
Chapter Text
Deadlock didn’t know how much time had passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe two hours. All she knew was that the quiet, steady rhythm of Fade’s breathing and the warmth of her body curled against hers had lulled her into a rare kind of peace—one she hardly ever allowed for herself.
But of course, peace never lasted.
The low buzz of her phone on the nightstand shattered the stillness. It vibrated once, then again, a soft, insistent hum that might as well have been a foghorn in the sanctuary of the bounty hunter’s room.
She groaned under her breath, careful not to disturb the sleeping woman beside her. With practiced ease, she rolled onto her back, reaching blindly for the device. Her muscles protested slightly—they were warm, relaxed from sleep—but she gritted her teeth and answered the call without checking the ID.
“Hello?” she rasped, voice thick with sleep.
“Oi, Locky!” Skye’s voice practically shouted through the speaker, full of sunshine and godless energy. “Where ya at, girly? You’re late for our run!”
Deadlock winced, pulling the phone away to glance at the screen. 08:47 AM. Shit.
They were supposed to meet nearly two hours ago.
She cast a glance sideways.
Fade was still fast asleep, finally facing the wall, one arm tucked under her pillow, the other sprawled toward Deadlock’s side of the bed. Her expression was soft, almost peaceful—lips slightly parted, lashes still dark and heavy with sleep. She was no longer gripping her, but still close. Always close.
Deadlock leaned in and pressed a kiss to the bridge of her nose, right over the scar Nightmare had left behind. She let her lips linger there a beat too long, memorizing the warmth of skin, the stillness of this rare, perfect moment.
She didn’t want to leave.
Didn’t want to pull herself out of the only place in the world that felt quiet.
But she’d promised Skye they’d train today—and besides, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could lie there pretending like her brain wasn’t already starting to drift back toward old ghosts and half-forgotten signs in Oslo alleys.
She pulled away with a quiet sigh and lifted the phone back to her mouth.
“I’ll be in the courtyard in a few,” she murmured, then ended the call. Deadlock sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, just breathing, grounding herself. Then she spotted the half-used notebook on Fade’s desk—pages filled with scribbled notes, coordinates, and late-night ramblings—and tore a corner from a blank one near the back.
She grabbed a pen and jotted down a quick note in her precise, efficient handwriting:
Be back soon, kjære.
Coffee’s still warm. Don’t work yourself to death.
– I
She folded it and tucked it gently under Fade’s phone, where she was sure it wouldn’t be missed.
Then she slipped into her shoes, shoved her phone in her pocket, and padded quietly out the door, shutting it behind her with a soft click.
The hallway was louder now, busier. But her mind was still back in that room, wrapped in warmth and breath and silence. Wrapped in her.
The courtyard was still and quiet, blanketed in the soft hush of early summer. Most mornings, especially in the warmer months, it was teeming with life—agents sprinting drills, lounging in the grass, or watching the waves crash against the cliffside edge of the island. Sometimes, Skye led gardening sessions out here to give the space more color, more softness. It was one of the few places on base that didn’t feel like a fortress.
Deadlock didn’t usually mind the sharp lines and sterile halls of the protocol—structure had always been her comfort zone. But the courtyard? It unsettled her in a way she didn’t have words for. Something about its openness… its peace. She didn’t know what to do with it.
And maybe that's why she liked coming here. Maybe she was trying to learn.
She found Skye leaning against one of the old oaks at the far end of the field, humming a low, aimless tune as she lazily stroked her tiger’s head. Taz was curled beside her, eyes closed in radiant sleep. Even now, years into knowing them, Deadlock still wasn’t fully comfortable around the spectral creature. But with time—and Skye—she’d learned to trust the tiger’s presence. It didn’t unnerve her the way it used to.
When Skye spotted her, she lit up instantly.
“Finally!” she called, practically leaping off the tree trunk and nearly flattening Taz in the process. She lunged into a hug with zero hesitation, wrapping Deadlock in a warm, bone-crushing squeeze.
The soldier allowed it, even gave a half-smile. Her arms wrapped around the Aussie with measured restraint, but it was genuine. Two years ago, she might’ve flinched or stiffened. Now, it felt almost… welcome.
Skye was loud, warm, and never let anyone isolate for long—not even her. Especially not her.
Deadlock used to hate being touched. Still did, in most cases. But there were exceptions now. Skye was one, Fade was the other. When Skye hugged her, it felt like someone had noticed. When Fade touched her, it felt like someone understood.
But right now, she’d left that second warmth behind in a tangle of bedsheets and notebooks.
“Let’s get movin’, yeah?” Skye said, clapping her hard on the shoulder. She recalled Taz with a shimmer of light, then stretched with a long groan. “Trail’s waitin’.”
Deadlock took a swig from her water bottle and nodded, falling into step beside her. For the first few laps, they walked, the kind of slow stroll that made time feel like molasses.
They chatted idly about everything and nothing—Fade’s latest findings, what flowers could survive the salt air, Deadlock’s inexplicable craving for Solo soda. The Aussie promised she’d smuggle some in on her next visit home.
Then, gradually, the pace quickened—walk turned to jog, jog to run. They hit a full stride around mile three, competitive only in rhythm. No one was trying to beat the other; they were simply pushing each other, letting the motion bleed out the tension from their bones.
An hour later, Deadlock leaned heavily against a tree trunk, chest heaving, sweat dampening her already-worn muscle tee. Her shoulders rose and fell in slow, deliberate effort. The humidity clung to her skin like another layer of clothing.
Skye dropped onto a nearby bench with a groan. Her braid had unraveled during the run, leaving thick auburn waves plastered to her neck. Her tank top clung to her back, and her forearms were dusted with sweat and dirt.
“Knew I should’ve eaten something…” Deadlock muttered, sliding down to sit with her back against the bark, head tipped up, eyes squeezed shut.
“You didn’t eat this morning?” Skye’s voice cut sharply, tone shifting from casual to clipped in an instant. She turned toward her with a glare.
Deadlock waved a hand lazily, still trying to catch her breath. “I fell asleep, remember? It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“No, it’s not.” Skye bent, picked up a small stone, and flicked it at her. It bounced harmlessly off her thigh. “What did I say, Lock? You don’t eat, your system crashes. You know this.”
The soldier didn’t react to the pebble. She just dragged the hem of her shirt across her face, smearing sweat. “We can in a minute.”
Skye stood, brushing off her legs. “No. Now.”
Deadlock cracked one eye open. The Initiator was already holding out her hand.
Reluctantly, she took it, allowing herself to be hauled to her feet with a quiet grunt. A soft crack sounded from one of her knees.
“Forbannet bølle,” she muttered under her breath, smirking faintly.
Skye squinted at her. “Dunno what that means,” she said with a grin, “but you better watch it, girly.”
Deadlock just shrugged, all faux innocence. But a small, tired smile tugged at her lips—one her friend didn’t miss. The kind of smile that means thanks for caring, even when I make it hard.
The moment Deadlock and Skye stepped into the mess hall, a familiar crackle of energy met them like static in the air.
A flash of blue blurred across the room as Neon bolted from her table, leaving behind a half-eaten plate and a very confused Gekko in her wake. Her arms were already crossed, brown eyes narrowed like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Deadlock,” she said sharply, stopping just inches from the Sentinel. “Where the hell is Fade? She’s not answering my calls.”
Deadlock blinked, caught off guard. She looked to Skye instinctively for backup, but the Aussie simply held up her hands in mock surrender.
“Nope. This one’s all you, blondie,” she said with a grin, backing away and heading straight for the kitchen, already halfway through debating what they should eat.
Deadlock shot her an unimpressed look and flipped her off with her organic hand before turning her attention back to Neon. “She was asleep when I left,” she said evenly. “But knowing her, she’s probably up and wandering by now.”
Neon’s eyes narrowed further. “You left her?”
“I went for a run in the courtyard, Tala,” Deadlock replied, voice calm but tight. “I didn’t abandon her.”
She moved to step around her, but the duelist shifted with her, blocking the way like a human tripwire.
Before she could escalate, a gentle hand landed on Neon’s shoulder.
“Come on, chica,” Gekko said, voice low and steady. “Let the viking lady breathe. We’ll check on Fade later, yeah?”
Neon didn’t respond right away. She stared Deadlock down a moment longer before tilting her chin. “Whose room?”
“Hers,” the blonde answered.
She glanced at Gekko, but the boy just sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. His lime-green dye had faded to a soft mossy color, and his curls had grown out just enough to fall haphazardly over his forehead and show his chestnut brown roots. Too long to ignore, too short to style. The look suited him, even if he didn’t know it.
“She was exhausted,” Deadlock added. “Up for almost two days straight. If you wake her—”
“If I wake her, you’ll kill me,” Neon finished, rolling her eyes. “I know the drill.”
With that, she was gone again—zipping out of the mess hall before either of them could say anything more. Gekko watched her leave, then ran a hand over his head, visibly deflating.
“Sorry about her,” he muttered, his usual spark dulled. “She’s been looking for Fade all morning. Got it in her head that she vanished or something.”
Deadlock exhaled and brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair behind her ear. “It’s fine,” she said quietly. “She loves her. They’re like sisters.”
That much was obvious. Everyone in the protocol knew Fade’s inner circle was razor thin, and Neon had always been at the center. Through everything. Even after the blackmail incident, when most of the agents kept Fade at arm's length, the sprinter had never flinched. She saw through the shadows. Treated her like a person when others treated her like a weapon.
Cypher and Omen may have understood her, but Neon chose her.
People like Skye and Sage had taken longer, slowly warming up after seeing how gentle she was with Deadlock. How human she became in the small, quiet moments.
“She’s lucky,” Deadlock added, mostly to herself. “To have someone like that.”
Gekko gave a small nod, eyes lingering on the space Neon had just vanished through. “Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. “She is.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized hoodie and turned back to his table. His breakfast was cold now, but he sat down anyway and picked at the remains of it, quiet and alone.
Deadlock stood there for a beat longer, watching him with a faint pang in her chest.
She knew that look. The one he wore when Neon wasn’t looking. That impossible mix of longing and fear, of hope that something would change and dread that it never would.
She didn’t know him well enough to say anything. And even if she did… advice felt like a hypocrite’s currency lately.
So she left him to it, shoulders squared, boots silent on the tile as she followed the smell of toast and eggs into the kitchen.
The Aussie was finishing up their breakfast, flipping an egg with practiced ease, when the Sentinel leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the smallest smirk playing at her lips.
Skye glanced at her sideways. “What was that all about?”
“Just Tala being Tala,” Deadlock muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “But… I think Gekko has a thing for her.”
That made Skye pause mid-flip. “What?”
Deadlock nodded once, slow and sure. “As soon as Neon left, it was like a switch flipped. His whole posture changed. Looked like someone kicked his puppy.”
Skye set the spatula down with a soft clack. “Now that you mention it… poor kid’s been shot by Cupid, hasn’t he?”
“Feels more like he got struck by lightning,” the soldier said dryly.
That earned a good laugh from Skye, who shook her head and muttered, “Bloody hell,” as she pulled two plates from the cupboard.
She quickly assembled their breakfast sandwiches and shoved one into the Norwegian’s hands. “Eat first. You can play matchmaker after. No fainting in my courtyard, yeah?”
Deadlock gave a small salute. “Yes ma’am.”
She grabbed a knife and cut the sandwich in half, taking a bite as the two of them walked the halls toward the Initiator wing. The familiarity of it all—the banter, the quiet rhythm of footsteps, the peaceful lull of morning—felt grounding.
When they reached the wing, Skye peeled off with a quick wave, disappearing into her suite. Deadlock caught a flash of a certain navy-blue jacket sprawled across Skye’s bed and raised a brow, but decided that particular teasing could wait until later.
She kept moving toward Fade’s door.
With her half-eaten sandwich in hand, she eased it open and paused at the threshold.
Neon was curled up in bed beside Fade, limbs tangled in that way only people who shared a bond deeper than blood could manage. One of her arms was slung loosely across the Turk’s waist, her fingers curled into the hem of her shirt—Deadlock’s shirt, actually, stolen by Fade a few days ago and now thoroughly claimed.
Fade sat propped against the headboard, one knee bent, blanket pooled around her waist. She had a sketchbook open in her lap and earbuds in, scribbling quietly with her pencil. When she saw Deadlock, she looked up and smiled softly, lifting a hand in wordless greeting so she didn’t wake the duelist.
Deadlock’s heart clenched.
It was like watching a child sneak into bed with a parent after a nightmare—seeking comfort, safety, something familiar. And Fade had given that to Neon without hesitation. There was a warmth in the scene that rooted her in place for a beat longer than necessary.
She finally stepped inside, shut the door gently behind her, and placed her plate on the desk.
“Did she actually come here to sleep?” she whispered.
Fade shrugged, brushing an electric-blue strand from the younger woman’s face. “She climbed in ranting about something dumb she did with Gekko. Next thing I knew, she was out.”
Deadlock arched a brow, watching Neon stir and mumble something incomprehensible before tightening her hold on Fade’s shirt. The sight made something quiet and tender settle in her chest.
She shook her head, amused, then picked up her plate again and offered the other half of her sandwich. To her surprise, Fade accepted.
That alone made her smile.
“What were you drawing?” Deadlock asked after finishing off her half.
Fade chewed for a moment, then passed over the sketchbook. “Still rough,” she said. “But I’ve been working on it the last few days.”
Deadlock glanced down at the page and stilled.
Dozens of stylized evil eyes were drawn along the borders, inked with sharp, mesmerizing detail. But in the center was the focal point—a realistic anatomical heart, rendered in clean, stark lines. And curling through the branching veins, subtle but unmistakable, were three curved letters.
ISE.
The soldier’s breath caught. Her fingers hovered over the paper before she gently traced the outline of the heart, following the careful way each vein wove together to form her name.
Fade watched her, quiet but smiling.
“I know you know that I love you,” she said after a moment. “But sometimes I wanna show it without saying it.”
Deadlock didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to. Her gaze lingered on the drawing like it held some kind of sacred truth—proof of something she hadn’t realized she’d needed to see.
She finally closed the sketchbook, set it aside, and leaned down.
Her kiss was slow and full of quiet awe, lips brushing softly against Fade’s. The Initiator responded instantly, reaching up to cup Deadlock’s jaw and draw her closer, her thumb brushing just under her cheekbone.
The kiss wasn’t heated or rushed. It was reverent. Grateful.
They pulled apart only when Neon snorted softly in her sleep and shifted her weight, still firmly latched to Fade’s side.
The Sentinel chuckled under her breath and shook her head. “Guess I’ll have to share today.”
Fade smirked. “You say that like I’m not worth sharing.”
“You are,” Deadlock murmured, brushing her fingers through Fade’s hair, “but I still hate doing it.”
Fade’s cheeks warmed at that, and she nudged her forehead against her partner’s shoulder with quiet affection,
But Neon must’ve sensed the Turk shifting beside her, because she let out a groggy whine, rolling toward the wall and burying her face in a pillow.
“Can you two not eat each other’s faces off in front of me?” she mumbled, voice muffled by the cotton.
Deadlock raised a brow, completely unfazed. “I’d much rather eat something else, but you’re in the way,” she muttered flatly.
Fade snorted, the flush rising immediately in her cheeks. She tried, and failed, to hide her face behind her hand.
Neon let out a theatrical gag. “I did not need to hear that!”
She blindly lobbed the pillow backward. Deadlock caught it one-handed and launched it to the couch with a soft fwump. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction.
The bounty hunter just shook her head and ran a hand through her tangled hair, watching the chaos unfold with the kind of tired fondness usually reserved for babysitters and saints. She didn’t even try to stop them—just leaned back against the headboard, an amused smirk playing at her lips. This was her life now. A calm, brooding partner and a neon-blue storm of a best friend bickering like sisters in her bed.
It should’ve been irritating. But somehow, it filled her chest with something warm. Something that hurt in a way only comfort and love could. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
But as the seconds stretched into minutes, Deadlock’s earlier comment echoed louder in her mind.
And honestly… she had a point.
Unfortunately, her phone buzzed before she could think about it too much. She reached for it and scanned the screen.
Brimstone: My office. 10 minutes. Bring Deadlock.
Fade sighed. So much for morning peace…
She looked up just in time to catch a ridiculous sight—Neon now straddling Deadlock on the bed, trying to pin her arms down like they were in a WWE match. The duelist’s face was twisted in exaggerated determination, while Deadlock lay flat, glaring with maximum unimpressed energy.
“Tala,” Fade said smoothly, “let her go. Brimstone wants to meet with us.”
Deadlock’s gaze flicked to her, grateful for the lifeline. But Neon didn’t budge.
“Your girlfriend is a freak,” Neon said, trying to justify the roughhousing. “You heard her. She deserves this.”
“I only want one person on top of me right now, and it isn’t you,” Deadlock deadpanned, using both hands to shove Neon off with minimal effort.
She stood, brushing her palms on her sweats and adjusting the slightly rumpled hem of her shirt, which still clung faintly to her from the run. “Besides,” she added casually, “Hazal likes it.”
Neon’s jaw dropped. “Bro?!”
Fade couldn’t stop the small laugh that bubbled from her throat. She covered her mouth, amused and mildly scandalized, as the blonde disappeared into the bathroom.
Neon whipped around, eyes wide. “See what I mean?! She’s a freak!”
“And I like it,” Fade replied, not missing a beat.
The sprinter groaned, collapsing into the blankets like she’d been betrayed on a cosmic level. “I’m never sleeping over again.”
Fade chuckled again and rose from the bed, stretching with a soft grunt as her joints cracked. Her bones always popped first thing in the morning—a lovely little reminder that she’d been through too much, too young.
By the time Deadlock emerged from the bathroom, she looked markedly more put together. She hadn’t changed out of her sweats, but she’d swapped her sweat-drenched top for one of Fade’s—black, worn in, normally a little oversized but snug around her sculpted frame—and had run a towel through her hair. The faintest trace of mint toothpaste lingered on her breath.
“Ready?” Fade asked, pulling on her boots.
Deadlock nodded. She reached out, and without hesitation, Fade slipped her fingers into hers—flesh and metal interlocking like puzzle pieces.
Neon stayed behind, sprawled in the middle of the bed, dramatically fanning herself like she’d been through a war. “Tell Brim I want hazard pay for this trauma.”
Fade shot her a knowing look over her shoulder. “You’re the one who climbed into my bed.”
“You’re supposed to protect me from this corruption,” the Filipino huffed, burrowing under the covers.
Deadlock just smirked, squeezing Fade’s hand as they slipped out the door together, leaving Neon behind to gather whatever was left of her dignity.
“Ah, girls. Come on in.”
Brimstone’s voice rumbled through the office as he looked up from the paperwork scattered across his desk. He was dressed more casually than either woman was used to seeing—no vest, no tactical gear, just a simple black t-shirt and joggers. It made him look ten years younger, like the weight of the world wasn’t usually perched on his shoulders.
Fade and Deadlock exchanged a brief glance before stepping in. Their hands untangled with natural ease, and they each took a seat in front of the desk.
Brimstone shoved the files aside and folded his hands, elbows resting on the wood. “You wanted to speak with us?” Fade asked, her voice quiet but steady.
“Yes, actually,” he said, watching them closely. “I’ve been reviewing both of your performance logs—on and off the field—and I think it’s time I rewarded you.”
Fade blinked, Deadlock tilted her head slightly, but neither moved.
Brim leaned forward, amused by their confusion. “Two weeks off,” he said simply. “Effective immediately. No missions. No patrol. No training. Just rest.”
Fade’s shoulders tensed. “Brim… we’re fine. I’m fine. There’s still work to be done—”
“It’s not a request, Fade,” he said, cutting her off gently but firmly. “You’ve earned a break. Both of you.”
The Initiator opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, she heard Deadlock shift beside her.
“I think it’s a good idea,” the Sentinel said, leaning back in her chair.
Fade’s head snapped toward her in surprise. The blonde didn’t look smug or superior—she just looked… calm. Like she’d made peace with the decision already.
A flicker of hurt sparked in Fade’s chest before she could stop it. ‘She’s just like the rest…’ a voice hissed in her mind, scraping at the edges of her skull.
But as she met her partner’s eyes, that sharp sting dulled, and the whisper went quiet. There was no betrayal there. Just quiet concern. A silent kind of love. Still, it didn’t make it easier.
“I can’t just stop,” she said softly, fingers curling against the edge of the chair. Her voice was low, weighted, like it cost her something to admit. “Not when he’s still out there…”
Brimstone’s expression softened. He sat back, folding his arms across his chest—not like a commander reprimanding a soldier, but like a father trying to soothe a storm he couldn’t control. “I’ll ask Cypher to pick up where you left off. Quietly, of course. He won’t disturb anything or burn any leads.”
Then with a glance at Deadlock, he added, “Your anniversary’s coming up, isn’t it? Think of this as my gift. And… my apology for interrupting the first.”
Deadlock offered a small smile. Fade didn’t return it, but she didn’t shrink away either. Her grip on the chair slackened, tension leaking slowly from her shoulders.
A long silence stretched between the three of them. Then finally, Fade exhaled through her nose and gave a single nod.
“Fine.”
Brimstone smiled and rose to his feet. “Good. You’re both dismissed. Vacation starts immediately. Go do something fun—or at the very least, something that doesn’t involve surveillance footage or paperwork.”
Deadlock stood and extended a hand toward her partner. The Turk hesitated, then took it. Their fingers laced together without a word.
The Sentinel gave Brimstone a curt nod. “Thanks, Brim.”
As they turned to leave, the commander watched them with a faint, knowing look—half amused, half relieved. Letting go was never easy, but sometimes, the hardest work was knowing when to rest.
They left Brimstone’s office hand in hand, drifting down the hallways with no real direction—just the kind of aimless, comfortable wandering that came when the mission was done and the adrenaline had worn off. The base was surprisingly quiet this time of morning. Lights low. Footsteps muffled against the steel floors.
When they reached the north stairwell—the one that spiraled down toward the Sentinel wing—Fade came to a halt. Her grip tightened slightly around Deadlock’s.
“Since we’re being forced to take time off…” she started, her tone dry, one brow arched as if the idea still annoyed her. “How about we go somewhere?”
Deadlock glanced over. “Where were you thinking?”
Fade’s lips quirked into the hint of a smile. “Norway.”
Immediately, the blonde stopped walking. She turned fully toward her partner, one brow raised in quiet suspicion. Her expression was calm, but alert—like she was waiting to see if the woman in front of her would tell the truth, or try to sidestep it.
Fade held up her hands, palms out in surrender. “Not to look for Kadir,” she said quickly. “I mean it. I want to see your city. Where you grew up. Your favorite places to eat, where you lived before the protocol. Just… things I haven’t gotten to know yet.”
Deadlock searched her eyes for a long moment—silent, measured. If there was a lie in there, it was buried so deep even Fade might’ve believed it. But all she saw was sincerity. Tired, hopeful sincerity.
So she nodded, just once. “Alright,” she said softly. “I’ll talk to KAY/O, see if he’s up for flying us out tonight.”
The Initiator smiled—small, almost shy—and Deadlock could feel the tension finally leave her shoulders.
“I’ll go pack,” Fade said, already stepping back. “Assuming Neon doesn’t try to hold me hostage again.”
Deadlock chuckled under her breath, then caught her by the waist, gently pulling her back in. She was careful—always careful with Fade, even after all this time. Even in private. Their noses brushed, and then they kissed—slow, warm, quiet. A touch meant for no one else's eyes.
Fade looped one arm around her neck, fingers threading through the edge of her undercut. Her other hand came to rest over the soldier’s chest, right where her heartbeat lived, steady and strong beneath her shirt.
There was no hunger in it. Just softness. Trust. A reminder that they didn’t need words to feel full.
They pulled away before the moment could build into something heavier—before the softness could smolder into something that would’ve gotten them both a stern talking-to and an HR warning.
The Turk smiled again. The Norwegian did too, a little wider.
“I’ll see you soon,” Fade murmured.
“I’ll be here,” Deadlock replied, watching her go.
And for the first time in weeks, it felt like maybe things were shifting in the right direction. Not perfectly. Not easily. But forward.
Notes:
"Your girlfriend is a freak!" Little does Neon know that her bestie is the real freak/tease in this relationship lmao
Translations:
Forbannet bølle - [Norwegian] Damn bully
Chica - [Spanish] Girl
Chapter 4: Chapter 3
Notes:
New day, new chapter. Time to welcome our baby Deadlock home.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The girls landed in Oslo under a soft mid-morning sun, the light thin and pale as it filtered through wisps of cloud. The air was crisp, cool enough to raise goosebumps on Fade’s arms, but not yet biting. Just enough to remind her that she wasn’t home—not in Istanbul, not at the protocol.
It had been three years since Deadlock last set foot in this city. Three years since the vault. Since the end of one life and the beginning of something she hadn’t yet learned to name.
Fade walked beside her in silence, her gaze sweeping across the unfamiliar skyline. Oslo wasn’t a place she ever imagined herself in, but now that she was here, she found herself trying to drink in every detail. The sloped rooftops. The clean, modern architecture clashing gently with the historical stonework. The smell of cinnamon and browned butter spilling from the bakeries they passed. The low rumble of trams and chatter from sidewalk cafes. She was trying to memorize it all, like if she blinked too long, it might vanish.
Deadlock stayed quiet too, her hands shoved in her coat pockets, her expression unreadable. The sights were familiar, yes. But familiarity wasn’t the same as comfort. She didn’t come back to this city often—not because she couldn’t, but because she hadn’t wanted to. Not alone. Not with all the ghosts that lived here.
But now, with Fade at her side, Oslo didn’t feel as sharp around the edges. The sting of memory was still there, just dulled. Like an old scar on a cold morning.
They walked for several blocks before stopping outside a quiet, modern apartment building tucked into a quieter part of the city. Fade slowed to a stop beside her, brows furrowed slightly in curiosity. “What is this?”
Deadlock didn’t answer right away. Just stepped forward, leading her through the entrance, up the elevator, and down the hall to a door at the very end. The corridor was silent except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the soft creak of their luggage wheels against the floor.
She dropped her duffle bag and rifled through her pockets until she pulled out a small, worn key. Fade tilted her head.
“Whose place is this?” she asked, her voice low but gentle.
“Mine,” Deadlock replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Fade blinked. She opened her mouth to ask something else, but stopped when the door finally creaked open.
The apartment looked frozen in time.
Everything was intact, untouched. The furniture was simple and lived-in: a dark couch, a modest TV stand, a small kitchen with brushed metal accents. The blanket on the arm of the couch was perfectly folded, though Deadlock had always left it in a heap. The countertops gleamed. The trash can was empty. The air smelled faintly of dust and old pine cleaner.
But the silence told another story.
No one had lived here for years.
Fade stepped inside slowly, setting their bags by the door. She could tell someone—likely protocol maintenance—had been by to clean. But they hadn’t lingered. The layer of dust coating the shelves and windowsills was telling. It was like the apartment had been preserved, not maintained. A shrine to the life Deadlock once lived.
The Sentinel shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the hook beside the door. “I kept paying the bills when I joined the protocol,” she said casually, like it was no big deal. “At first, I thought I’d be able to come back. That maybe Sage would patch me up, and I’d just go back to normal.”
Fade turned to look at her, eyes soft with understanding.
“But then I realized… I found a different kind of normal.” Deadlock knelt in front of the TV, plugging in the cords, one by one. “A new kind of home.”
The Initiator didn’t speak—didn’t need to. She just watched, her heart giving a quiet, steady ache. She knew what it meant to hold on too long. To keep a space waiting, hoping you’d need it again. She’d done the same thing with her apartment in Istanbul, only letting it go after a year in the protocol, when it became clear that going back wasn’t possible.
Eventually, she moved. Took off her jacket and boots and wandered into the kitchen. She ran her fingers over the marble counter, sweeping dust into her palm, brushing it off into the sink.
Deadlock moved through the apartment without thought, reconnecting the small pieces of a life she hadn’t touched in years—plugging in the coffee maker, adjusting the thermostat, checking the fridge despite knowing it was empty. All small, mundane things. And yet, each of them tugged something loose in Fade’s chest.
There was something dangerously tender about watching the blonde do domestic things—simple, thoughtless movements that felt intimate in a way no mission ever could. For just a moment, it didn’t feel like they were soldiers. Didn’t feel like they were haunted by old wounds and missing people.
For just a moment, it felt like they were two people in love. Building a quiet little world of their own.
Fade leaned against the counter and exhaled, trying to slow her heartbeat. Maybe they weren’t good at this—weren’t built for stillness and soft mornings. But they were learning.
Together.
The minutes blurred. Time became soft and unhurried, like a morning fog that neither of them wanted to shake off.
They spent the better part of an hour unpacking and settling in, making the space feel less like it belonged to a ghost and more like it belonged to them. Fade lined their jackets on the coat rack with care. Deadlock changed the bedsheets and re-fluffed the couch cushions, her movements efficient but almost reverent—like she was waking the apartment from a long sleep.
In the bedroom, while folding some of their clothes into the closet, Fade came across something pushed far into the back. An old hoodie—navy blue, soft with age, and cracked slightly at the lettering. OSLO CITY HIGH ROTC was emblazoned across the front in bold block print.
She traced the letters slowly, thoughtfully. Then turned, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips.
“You were in ROTC?”
Deadlock, now sitting at the edge of the bed with her sleeves pushed up, looked over at the hoodie. Her gaze softened. “Yeah, I was. Best in marksmanship. Top cadet—two years in a row.”
Fade peeled off her own shirt without thinking, letting it drop to the floor, and tugged the hoodie over her head. It hung slightly loose but felt warm, lived-in. Familiar. Seeing her wear it sent a quiet ache through Deadlock’s chest.
The Turk crossed the room and straddled her lap, resting her hands gently against the Norwegian’s shoulders. “What else did you do in high school?”
Deadlock hesitated for half a second before a smile found its way to her lips. “I was pretty good at handball. Fast reflexes. A little too aggressive. Got red-carded three times in one season.”
Fade huffed a laugh, her eyes dancing. “Color me shocked.”
Deadlock rolled her eyes, but her grin only widened. “Also won regionals. Twice. And the STEM championship senior year. Built a drone from scratch—thermal tracking, camera, all of it. Beat out the rich kids who bought theirs premade.”
Fade blinked. “Wait… you built a drone?”
The blonde nodded, a little shy now. “I still have the parts around here somewhere. Remind me to show you.”
“Damn…” Fade smirked, looping her arms around the woman’s neck, her voice teasing and warm. “I’m dating a nerd.”
“You’re dating a valedictorian, thank you very much.”
The quiet pride in her tone made Fade’s heart flutter. Her fingers carded lazily through thick blonde waves as she murmured, “Mm… I guess KJ has some competition for smartest woman in the protocol.”
Deadlock scoffed, thumbs tracing gentle arcs along her girlfriend’s waist. “Please. Say that out loud, and Killjoy will have my head mounted above her workstation.”
That earned a genuine laugh from Fade—soft and low, the kind that pulled all the air from the room. She rested her forehead lightly against Deadlock’s, and they just breathed together for a moment. No war. No shadows. Just two women, letting the quiet speak for them.
And for once, Deadlock talked. She rambled, even—about the trophies collecting dust in her childhood bedroom. The two times she was named Athlete of the Year. The academic excellence awards in mathematics and engineering. Even a citywide essay contest she once won, which landed her a photo in the local newspaper next to a headline she’d long forgotten.
Fade listened like every word mattered. She only broke eye contact to glance at her partner’s lips—not just because she wanted to kiss her, though she did, but because the smile Deadlock wore was one of the rarest things she’d ever seen. Proud. A little shy. Completely unguarded.
The Sentinel never really bragged. Maybe no one had ever asked. Maybe she just didn’t think anyone would care.
But now… someone did care.
And Fade’s quiet, unshakeable pride in her was written in every look, every soft murmur, every brush of her thumb against Deadlock’s cheek.
Because this—these small, radiant parts of her past—weren’t broken. They were hers.
And for the first time in a long time, they made her heart feel full.
The spell between them broke only when both their stomachs let out a low, simultaneous growl, followed by a beat of silence, then a shared laugh.
Deadlock reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up: 12:57 PM.
“Shit. It’s almost one?” she murmured, swiping her thumb across the screen before locking it again. “We haven’t eaten since we left.”
Fade blinked, surprised. It really had felt like no time had passed at all.
“There’s a cafe around the corner,” Deadlock offered, her voice low and warm. “Really good coffee. Locals swear by it.”
Fade nodded, loosening her arms from around her partner’s neck. “Yeah, let’s go.”
But as she began to shift off her lap, Deadlock’s hands held firm at her waist—just for a moment longer. Fade tilted her head in quiet question, but the Sentinel only leaned in, pressing a slow, purposeful kiss to the sharp line of her jaw. Then, without hesitation, she found her lips.
The Turk melted into it with a soft hum, one hand fisting the collar of her girlfriend’s shirt, the other curling instinctively at the back of her neck. The kiss deepened—lazy and indulgent, full of heat that didn’t demand but lingered, smoldered.
By the time they pulled apart, their cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide, and Fade was suddenly reconsidering her stance on going out at all.
“I’m starting to think we should just order in,” she whispered, voice rough at the edges, lips still brushing Deadlock’s.
The Sentinel exhaled a shaky laugh, her forehead resting against Fade’s for just a second longer before she finally let go.
“We should go,” Fade said again, slower this time, uncurling her fist and sliding from her lap with practiced reluctance. “Before we start something we can’t finish.”
Deadlock leaned back on her hands, watching her for a beat longer before standing with a deep breath to reset her focus.
Fade grabbed her shoulder bag—old and worn, the edges fraying just slightly from years of use—and Deadlock slid her wallet and keys into her pocket. There was something comforting in the casual coordination of it. Like they’d done this before. Like they’d always lived this way. And when the apartment door locked behind them with a soft click, their fingers automatically found each other’s—intertwined in that easy, quiet way that spoke not of habit, but of home.
As soon as they stepped through the old oak door of the café, they were wrapped in the warm, inviting scent of freshly ground coffee, baking bread, and caramelized sugar. The space was small, nestled between a flower shop and a used book store, clearly family-run and well-loved. The wooden floors were worn from years of traffic, and framed photos of the owners’ kids hung on the back wall behind the counter. A delicate mix of chatter, clinking mugs, and soft jazz filled the space like background static for something peaceful and real.
Fade narrowed her eyes at the hand-written chalkboard menu above the counter. The cursive was charming but slightly hard to read, and the Norwegian tripped her up more than she cared to admit. She could navigate four languages with ease—English, Turkish, Spanish, and French—but trying to cram in a fifth had her code-switching mid-sentence like a corrupted AI.
“You want me to translate?” Deadlock asked, catching the subtle crease in her brow and the way her lips moved like she was whispering the words aloud.
Fade waved her off with a flick of her hand. “I’ve got it,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction. “I’ll just get whatever you’re getting.”
Deadlock’s lips quirked into a knowing smile, but she didn’t argue. She stepped up to the counter and murmured something low and fluid in her native tongue, the ease of it curling like velvet off her tongue. Fade tried not to stare, but failed. There was something so at home about her here—relaxed posture, soft voice, eyes alight with a memory only Oslo could stir.
Once the order was placed, Deadlock returned with a tray: two mugs of dark, aromatic coffee and two toasted paninis, still steaming slightly. Fade had already claimed a booth by the bay window, sunlight pouring in around her like it was trying to touch her before anything else could.
“Did you come here often?” she asked, cradling her mug in both hands as she took a slow sip. The bitter roast hit her palate in waves—sharp first, then warm.
“Not as much as I wanted,” Deadlock admitted, settling into the seat across from her. “Sometimes before work, if I had time. Grabbed coffee and a bagel, sat here just long enough to remember I was still a person.”
Fade smiled gently. “I know that feeling.”
She let the silence stretch for a beat before offering her own memory, her voice quieter. “There was a café in Istanbul I used to go to. Same kind of vibe. Tiny, kind of rough, but it made me feel safe. I’d go after a job, sit by the window with tea, pretend I wasn’t completely alone for a while.”
The admission tugged at her chest. Saying it aloud made it real again—how deeply that loneliness used to settle in her bones. But it didn’t sit as heavily now, not when Deadlock was across from her, nudging her boot gently under the table in silent solidarity.
Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them—tender, grounding.
We're no longer alone.
They ate slowly, unhurried, letting the midday light and the quiet buzz of the café wrap around them like a worn blanket. Deadlock ordered a second round of coffee and another sandwich for herself. Fade, enticed by the pastry display, returned with a delicate-looking dessert—a flaky, golden tart drizzled with fruit syrup and filled with something custard-like that she didn’t even try to translate.
Her first bite earned a muffled moan and content sigh. “Oh my god,” she said, eyes fluttering shut. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Deadlock smirked. “Let me try.”
Fade’s eyes flew open. She immediately slapped the soldier’s hand away, guarding the tart like a dragon with a hoard.
“Get your own,” she hissed, retreating with another exaggerated bite.
Deadlock chuckled. “Hazal, come on. Just one bite.”
She leaned across the table, reaching again, but Fade lifted the final bite dramatically and ate it with a smirk. Slowly. Intentionally. A sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
Deadlock didn’t speak. She just leaned in further, one hand lifting to gently cradle Fade's jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek. Before the Turk could question it, the Sentinel kissed her—soft, but sure, catching the sweet taste left behind.
Fade blinked, stunned, her mouth slightly agape as Deadlock pulled back with a smirk.
“Tastes pretty good,” the blonde murmured, settling back into her seat. “Might have to ask Jett to make something similar when we get back.”
The Initiator flushed and immediately hid behind her hands, muttering something unintelligible in Turkish while Deadlock laughed quietly.
Smooth. Too smooth. Fade should’ve expected it, but somehow, even after all this time, her girlfriend still managed to catch her off guard.
And she loved her for it.
Fade leaned her head gently against Deadlock’s shoulder as they wandered down the quiet Oslo sidewalk. The late afternoon sun filtered between the narrow buildings, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Their arms were linked, steps unhurried, with no destination in mind. Just two women, walking—not as soldiers or killers or constructs of grief and duty, but as people. As partners.
For once, they didn’t feel like ghosts drifting through the world. They felt real.
They turned a corner, and Deadlock’s steps gradually slowed. Her eyes found something ahead—familiar. Slowly, her metal fingers reached out and brushed the worn stone of a narrow alleyway, as if touching it would summon the memory more vividly.
Fade unlaced their arms, reaching for her hand instead, grounding her with warm skin against cold metal. Her thumb brushed slowly over the back of Deadlock’s knuckles.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
Deadlock stood silent for a moment. Then a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah,” she said, her voice soft. “I just realized where we are. I used to hide here as a kid whenever I got in a fight.”
Fade tilted her head, brow rising. “You? Hiding?”
“I wasn’t hiding from the fight,” Deadlock clarified with a light scoff. “I was hiding from the cops after.” She shot Fade a sideways glance, a little amused. “I never started it. But I made sure I finished it.”
Fade’s lips twitched into a smile. She squeezed her hand—gentle, but grounding—and let Deadlock lead her away again.
As they strolled, the stories came more freely. Deadlock wasn’t even aware she was rambling. She pointed out everything from the barber shop where she got her first undercut at sixteen—“Mom was furious, Dad just laughed”—to the tiny burger joint with the cracked sign she used to visit after handball practice. Her eyes lit up as she remembered her first job at a skater-style clothing store downtown, where she’d sneak free pins and patches and tried to look intimidating in oversized flannels and combat boots.
Fade listened to it all without interrupting once. Her heart was practically vibrating with affection, but she didn’t say a word. She just held onto the moments—memorized every inflection in Deadlock’s voice, the way she waved her hand a little when animated, how her grin was crooked and full of nostalgia.
She watched the woman she loved come alive in the streets of her childhood.
She could’ve kissed her right there. Should’ve, maybe. But Fade didn’t need to. Her silence was love. Her attention was reverence. And Deadlock—though she wouldn’t admit it out loud—felt that kind of love settle deep in her bones. The kind that made her want to keep talking, keep remembering, keep sharing.
The kind that told her she was safe being known.
And Fade… she knew this wouldn’t last forever. That the city would eventually fade back into memory. That they’d return to the gray, weaponized halls of the protocol, where Deadlock would fall back into the role of the quiet, unshakeable soldier. But even so, knowing that this side of her was real, and that Deadlock had chosen her to witness it?
It was enough to make the ache in Fade’s chest feel more like warmth.
Because this wasn’t just memory. It was love, too. Love in motion, winding through old alleys and neon storefronts. Love spoken not through sweet words, but in shared laughter and passed-down stories.
Fade wouldn’t say any of that aloud. But she didn’t have to.
Deadlock already knew.
Eventually, they found themselves back on the main strip leading toward the apartment. The sun had dipped just enough to cast everything in a golden haze, the kind that made the world feel softer, quieter. They walked side by side, letting the silence settle between them like a blanket. There was no need to fill it—Oslo’s steady hum was enough.
Deadlock’s arm slipped around Fade’s waist as naturally as breathing. Her hand settled on the curve of her hip, fingers splayed gently through the fabric of her coat. She held her close with an ease that said I’m here. I always will be.
Fade didn’t know why the gesture made her heart stutter the way it did. It wasn’t new—Deadlock had held her like this more times than she could count—but something about today made it land deeper. Maybe it was the memories they’d shared. Maybe it was the way the city’s light touched her. Maybe it was the quiet steadiness of being known.
She leaned into the contact as they crossed the threshold of their building. Deadlock’s touch never wavered—not in the elevator, not in the hallway. Only when they stopped at the apartment door did she shift to reach for her keys.
The moment they stepped inside, the warmth and stillness of the space wrapped around them—and exhaustion hit Fade like a crashing wave. Her shoulders slumped. She blinked hard, trying to shake the fog from her mind. She didn’t want to ruin the glow of the day. Not now. Not when everything had been so perfect.
But she felt it stirring. That cold pressure in her chest. That whisper of Nightmare, ever patient, ever waiting.
She rubbed her temple, trying to bury the dread. Trying to look normal. But Deadlock noticed. She always noticed.
Without a word, the Sentinel knelt to line up their boots by the door. Then she quietly followed Fade into the bedroom, where the Turk hovered like the air had grown too heavy to move through.
Deadlock stepped behind her and slid her arms around her waist again, this time drawing her in fully. She pressed a slow, grounding kiss to the back of her neck—lips warm, breath soft. Fade closed her eyes, and a faint shiver passed through her.
“Come on,” Deadlock murmured, voice like velvet. “Let’s take a nap, yeah?”
Fade rested her hands atop Deadlock’s. The warmth was anchoring. Her heartbeat calmed under the weight of it.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
Deadlock didn’t respond. Not with words. She simply stepped back, opened the dresser drawer, and pulled out two worn shirts. She tossed them on the bed and turned back toward her partner.
Fade stood frozen, staring at the mattress like it was something unfamiliar. Something dangerous.
“Hazal,” Deadlock said gently, reaching out to tilt her chin up with one careful finger. Their eyes met—storm steel and bi-colored dusk.
“Lay down,” she said, softer now. “Get some rest. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
The quiet promise settled in Fade’s chest, warm and solid. She still glanced at the bed with hesitation, still felt that familiar whisper in the back of her mind. But Deadlock’s touch, her presence, her unwavering steadiness—it made it easier to nod. To believe.
Together, they undressed without urgency. No slow teasing, no smoldering glances. Just a quiet ritual of shedding layers, slipping into softness. Fade’s borrowed shirt was far too big—she swam in it, the sleeves dangling just past her fingertips. Deadlock’s mouth twitched into a smile when she saw it, but said nothing. She only reached for her.
They climbed under the covers. The soldier opened her arms, and the bounty hunter didn’t hesitate this time.
She folded into her with a deep exhale—legs tangling, hand resting on her chest, face nuzzled into the crook of her neck. It felt safe here. Safer than she remembered beds ever feeling.
Deadlock curled her arm around her waist and cradled the back of her head, thumb stroking lazily through her dark hair. Her other hand rested over Fade’s heart, feeling it gradually slow beneath her palm.
Minutes passed. Then more. Fade’s breath evened out. Her body softened, muscles unclenching one by one.
And for once, nothing came. No visions. No whispers. No clawing hands from the dark.
Only the steady rhythm of a heartbeat pressed close to hers. Only the quiet strength of the woman holding her, refusing to let go.
Deadlock stayed awake a little longer, just to listen. Just to feel her relax. A smile touched her lips—not because she’d won some battle, but because Fade didn’t have to fight tonight.
And that, to her, was victory enough.
By the time Deadlock stirred, the city outside had gone quiet, bathed in soft indigo shadows. Moonlight filtered lazily through the slats of the curtains, casting fractured beams across the sheets. The apartment was still, warm, humming with a silence that felt sacred.
She shifted with a low groan, pressing her face into the pillow before blindly reaching for the covers to shield herself from the light. Her body was heavy with sleep, skin flushed with leftover warmth from their earlier closeness. She would’ve stayed buried there a while longer—if not for the feeling of fingers gently peeling the blanket away from her face.
She frowned but didn’t fight it.
Then she felt it.
A brush of fingertips along her temple, careful and reverent. The touch coaxed her eyes open, blinking slowly through the haze of sleep.
Fade was there. Already awake. Already watching her.
Her dark hair was a mess of waves over her shoulder, her cheek kissed by moonlight, and her expression… fond. The kind of quiet, private fondness people didn’t often get to see. One arm propped her head up, the other reached across to gently tuck a strand of blonde hair behind Deadlock’s ear.
“You’re staring,” Deadlock rasped, voice still thick with sleep, as she reached to lazily drape an arm across Fade’s waist.
“Just enjoying the view,” Fade murmured, thumb stroking softly over her cheekbone like she wanted to memorize the shape of her.
Deadlock hummed—low and content. Her eyes were barely open, but her gaze drifted to Fade’s mouth and stayed there. The way her lips curved. The way they parted just slightly with each breath.
Fade caught the look and let a subtle smirk pull at her lips. She leaned down slowly and kissed her.
The kiss started feather-light, but there was heat tucked underneath. An ache. Fade’s hand slid into her partner’s hair, threading through it, coaxing her closer as their mouths moved in slow, languid rhythm.
Deadlock rolled onto her back, pulling Fade with her in one easy motion. Their lips never broke. One of her hands splayed wide across the small of Fade’s back, the other gripped the curve of her hip. The moan that escaped between them was soft and low, drowned in the weight of the kiss.
Fade shifted atop her, hand moving to cup Deadlock’s bicep, the other trailing down—slow and deliberate—to rest gently around her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Just feeling. Her thighs bracketed Deadlock’s hips, and she rolled once, slowly, teasingly.
Deadlock hissed against her lips, her grip tightening instinctively. “Fuck.”
She slid her mouth from Fade’s lips to her jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the bone, down the line of her throat, her tongue dragging lightly where her teeth nipped. She left a few faint marks behind—claiming, tender. Nothing aggressive. Just a promise.
Fade shivered beneath her mouth, breath catching. Her hand slipped beneath the blonde’s shirt, fingers ghosting along her stomach. The muscles beneath tensed reflexively, and Deadlock exhaled hard.
Their eyes met, electric in the low light.
There was no rush. No frantic grabbing. It was slow, indulgent. A dance of touch and warmth and low murmurs only the other could hear.
Deadlock’s hand slid down, thumb brushing the hem of Fade’s panties—waiting. Asking. Her fingers traced the line of skin just beneath the elastic, not quite dipping lower.
Fade’s hips twitched. Her breath hitched.
And then—
The sharp buzz of a phone shattered the moment.
The obnoxious ringtone sliced through the thick, sensual quiet like a blade, echoing off the walls.
Both of them froze.
Fade groaned and dropped her forehead to Deadlock’s shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Deadlock cursed softly under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut like it might make the noise disappear. Her hand slipped back up to Fade’s lower back, grounding her, reluctant to let her go.
Fade didn’t move right away. She just stayed, listening to the sound of their combined breathing. Her fingers still rested against the smooth muscle of Deadlock’s abdomen.
“…If that’s Brim,” she muttered darkly, “I’m gonna burn his damn mustache off.”
Deadlock let out a breathless laugh, lips pressed to the crown of Fade’s head, then let her hands rest loosely on Fade’s thighs, her touch more grounding than possessive—steady and warm, even if both of them were still a little dazed from sleep and not entirely thrilled about being interrupted. Fade leaned sideways, bracing herself with one hand on the mattress as she reached for her phone on the nightstand, answering the call without checking the screen.
“Selam,” she said, voice low and as even as she could make it. There was still a breathlessness in it, a faint rasp from being woken, touched, kissed.
“Hazal, he fell asleep,” came Neon’s urgent whisper through the receiver.
Fade blinked, slowly sitting up a little straighter, her gaze drifting back down to the still-flushed woman beneath her. “Tala… what are you talking about?”
“Gek—Mateo!” Neon whisper-shouted, her voice tight with panic. “We were watching Transformers in my room and he fell asleep in my fucking bed!”
Fade arched a brow, trying to suppress a tired smirk. “Okay… and I don’t see the issue?”
“I’m tired, ate! But I can’t lay down with him!”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s weird!” Neon hissed, voice shrill with anxiety. A beat later, Fade heard the muffled smack of her palm hitting her own mouth. She was pacing now—Fade could hear it in the soft pat of her socks on the floor, the hum of her radiance faintly building. Her voice came again, lower but no less frantic. “Besides, what if I shock him? What if he thinks I’m a pervert or something?!”
Fade sighed quietly, running a hand down her face. She glanced at Deadlock, who gave her a silent, questioning look but didn’t interrupt. She just stayed there, a calm presence, her hands still warm on Fade’s legs, anchoring her in place.
“Tala,” Fade said gently, voice shifting into the same soothing cadence she used when de-escalating interrogation subjects—or Kadir, when he was overwhelmed as a teenager. “Breathe.”
She waited until she heard Neon inhale—a sharp, shaky breath—and then another, slower one.
“If he fell asleep, it means he trusts you,” Fade continued, voice soft, steady. “He’s comfortable around you. That’s a good thing.”
“But I could shock him,” Neon muttered, anxiety tightening her voice again. “Or—or twitch in my sleep and elbow him or something. What if he thinks I’m doing it on purpose?”
Fade’s lips twitched. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Then wake him up.”
“But he’s been up all day…” she argued, voice smaller now, unsure.
“Then lay down. Let him sleep. You don’t have to cuddle him. Just be next to him.”
There was a long pause.
In her mind’s eye, Fade could picture her—standing near the edge of the bed, arms crossed, hair glowing faintly, her radiance crackling in anxious pulses, eyes darting to the boy sleeping peacefully in her bed. Like a squirrel deciding whether to jump or bolt.
Fade threaded her fingers through Deadlock’s, grounding herself as much as she was trying to ground Tala. Her chest ached unexpectedly—because she'd had this conversation before. With Kadir, years ago, the first time he came home shaken from a school dance and asked her how he was supposed to know what was too much. The same uncertainty, the same sweetness, the same fear of hurting someone.
The rustling on the other end of the line pulled her back to the present. A soft creak of mattress springs. The sound of Neon settling in.
Fade waited.
Then, finally, the duelist whispered, “…Night, Hazal.”
Fade smiled, her chest tight with affection.
“Goodnight, şimşek,” she murmured, her voice as soft and steady as a lullaby.
She ended the call and set the phone on the nightstand. Then, without speaking, she turned and buried her face into the crook of Deadlock’s neck, exhaling slowly.
“You okay?” the Sentinel asked quietly, brushing her thumb along the back of Fade’s hand.
Fade just nodded. “Yeah.”
Deadlock didn’t press further. She just held her a little closer, let the silence wrap around them again like a blanket.
And Fade, for once, let herself rest in it.
They lay there for a while in a cocoon of warmth and shadows—limbs tangled, breaths synced, fingers tracing idle shapes against skin still flushed from earlier. The quiet between them wasn’t silence, not really. It was the hum of steady heartbeats. The soft rustle of sheets when one of them shifted. The ghost of Fade’s breath as she nuzzled closer, nose brushing the curve of Deadlock’s throat.
Deadlock dipped her head and pressed a kiss to the crown of Fade’s hair, her lips lingering for a second longer than necessary. Then, slowly, she reached for her phone on the nightstand, the motion careful, reluctant to break their closeness.
Fade didn’t move much—just adjusted slightly, enough to ghost a kiss beneath Deadlock’s ear. The soldier stiffened for a half-second, her breath hitching audibly. Fade smiled against her skin, then pressed another kiss to her jawline, the softest scrape of teeth following behind.
“Enjoying yourself?” Deadlock asked, feigning calm even though her body betrayed her—jaw tight, stomach coiled, that low ache between her thighs still simmering.
“Mhm,” Fade hummed innocently, then left a deep purple mark just under Deadlock’s jaw, her lips lingering there like a promise.
The Sentinel swallowed hard, pretending to focus on her phone as she tapped through apps. “Here,” she said, offering the screen with practiced ease. “You can pick what we eat.”
Fade rolled onto her back, her smirk lazy, languid. “You already know what I want,” she murmured, voice low and velvet smooth, all heat and no shame.
“From a menu, kjære,” Deadlock replied, eyebrow twitching upward. But her voice was fraying at the edges—just slightly.
Fade pouted in mock offense, but took the phone anyway. Deadlock shifted onto her side and simply… watched.
Watched as Fade’s brows pinched slightly in concentration. Watched the way the tip of her tongue poked between her lips while she scrolled. Watched how her hair fanned out around her like spilled ink, how the oversized crewneck swallowed her frame but somehow made her look even softer. Even more unreal.
The bruises along her throat—proof of love, of trust, of heat—were blooming darker now, almost violet. Deadlock had half a mind to kiss each one again, to leave more, to map out a constellation of want and claim.
But mostly, she watched because Fade looked happy. Genuinely happy. Comfortable. Safe. That mattered more than anything else.
'How did I get so lucky?' the soldier wondered, almost startled by the quiet intensity of the thought.
After another minute of indecisive scrolling, Fade settled on a well-rated Greek place. She placed the order, then let the phone drop onto her stomach with a soft sigh.
“You’re staring, aşkım,” she murmured without looking.
Deadlock smiled. “Just enjoying the view,” she echoed, leaning down to kiss her bare shoulder.
“Sap,” Fade muttered, though her voice was all fondness. No edge, no walls. Just warmth.
Deadlock just shook her head and rested a hand lightly on the other woman’s stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. “How long until the food gets here?”
Fade picked up the phone again and checked the app. “Fifteen minutes.”
Deadlock nodded once, then reached up to cradle her cheek, guiding her gaze back with a single finger beneath her chin. Bi-colored eyes met hers—curious, still a little hazy from sleep and affection.
“That’s plenty of time,” Deadlock murmured.
And then she kissed her.
Not with the aching restraint from earlier, not with the hesitant teasing they’d been playing with since Neon’s call—this kiss was molten. Slow and deep, yes, but lit with something electric. Fade let out a soft sound, a hum that melted into a moan as she slid her hand into Deadlock’s hair, curling her fingers tight.
She pulled the soldier over her, pressing their bodies flush. Heat bloomed instantly. Fade tilted her chin up and deepened the kiss, sighing into it like it tasted sweeter than anything on the café menu. Deadlock’s hands found her waist—steady, sure—and then slipped beneath the shirt to stroke the bare skin of her hips.
Fade rolled her hips upward, slow and deliberate. Just enough pressure to tease. Just enough friction to make Deadlock hiss softly against her lips.
“You really don’t play fair,” the blonde whispered, voice already hoarse.
“You love it,” Fade whispered back, her teeth grazing her lover’s lower lip.
And she did.
Deadlock slid a hand up, fingertips brushing the curve of a breast before dragging back down to the waistband of Fade’s panties, thumb circling once, slow and careful.
The Initiator bit her lip, arched her back, and guided Deadlock’s hand lower—
—and then the door buzzer went off.
They both froze.
Deadlock groaned softly and dropped her head to Fade’s shoulder, laughter muffled by the thick cotton.
Fade stared at the ceiling in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”
Deadlock’s voice was muffled. “We’re cursed.”
Fade let out a breathless chuckle. “You or me?”
“I’ll get it,” Deadlock said, reluctantly peeling herself away and adjusting her shirt with a sharp sigh. “But I’m coming back for you.”
Fade lay back, hair wild, lips swollen, bruises peeking out from under cotton.
“I’m counting on it,” she said, voice thick with promise.
Notes:
Translations:
Selam - [Turkish] Hello
Ate - [Tagalog] Sis
şimşek - [Turkish] Lightning
Kjære - [Norwegian] Dear
Aşkım - [Turkish] My love
Chapter 5: Chapter 4
Notes:
light smut + cafe date? yes pls (when is it my turnnnnnn <3)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning broke softly, wrapped in the hush of a city not yet awake.
Fade stirred first. And for the first time in what felt like years, she woke without the heavy weight of exhaustion pressing down on her chest. No whispers clawing at the edges of her mind. No jolt of adrenaline. No creeping dread waiting to greet her with open arms.
Just stillness.
She blinked slowly against the pale morning light spilling in through the curtains, letting herself savor the unfamiliar clarity that came with real, uninterrupted rest. Her body felt different—uncoiled. Her thoughts weren’t a tangled mess for once. And she couldn’t remember the last time she felt this way. Maybe after Morocco, two years ago. The last time the voices went quiet. The first time she let herself fall asleep in Deadlock’s arms and dream without shadows clawing through the seams.
And like then, she woke to the comforting presence of the woman who anchored her.
Deadlock lay on her back beside her, golden hair splayed across the pillow like sunrays against snow. Her face turned away, her expression peaceful in sleep. One hand—her prosthetic—rested beneath her chin, fingers lightly curled. The other lay palm-up between them, close enough to touch. Like even in unconsciousness, some part of her always reached for Fade.
She studied her partner in the quiet, tracing the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the faint flutter of lashes. Then, slowly—carefully—Fade slipped from beneath the sheets and sat up, pulling her shirt from the floor and tugging it over her head.
The wood floor was cold against her bare feet, but she welcomed it.
She padded silently toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. The light flickered on above her, harsh and fluorescent—but she didn’t flinch.
She stepped toward the mirror and took in the reflection staring back.
Her hair was a mess, strands tangled and wild from sleep and the night before. Black makeup smudged around her eyes in a haze of liner and mascara, her lipstick kissed away and left in smears only Deadlock could trace. Her throat and collarbone were littered with bruises—deep purple blooming across tanned skin in the shape of her lover’s mouth.
She looked wrecked.
She looked… beautiful.
A small, surprised smile tugged at her lips. She didn’t fight it.
It wasn’t a smug smile, or even a confident one. It was quiet. Private. A moment of soft, startled joy she wasn’t used to. Her appearance wasn’t polished or controlled. But for the first time in a long while, she saw herself and didn’t feel the need to pick apart the image. This was a body that had known warmth last night. Love. Safety.
She dug through her cosmetics bag, fingers grazing familiar vials and compacts until she found the bottle of makeup remover. She soaked a few cotton pads and began gently wiping the smeared paint from her face—the motions slow and methodical. Each stroke cleared a little more shadow, revealed a little more of herself.
Once bare, she reached for the small tin of saline and began carefully removing her piercings, one by one. The snakebites from her lip, the silver hoop in her septum, the stud from her brow, the constellation of rings along her ears. She laid them neatly on a towel, then cleaned them with practiced hands.
It had been years since she’d done this. Since she allowed herself to be gentle with her body in this way. She always told herself there was no point—who was she trying to impress? But it wasn’t about impressing anyone today. It was just about caring.
Her reflection shifted.
Without the silver glint of metal, without the shadow of makeup or the signature war paint of her lipstick, she looked… different.
Younger, maybe. Still tired, but not haunted. Not hunted. Not hollow.
She tilted her head, studying the woman in the mirror like she was meeting her for the first time. Her face looked softer. The lines carved by sleepless nights and stress didn’t disappear—but they faded enough to make her look like the twenty-eight-year-old she was, not the thirty-something she often felt like.
She didn’t look like Fade, the Dream Seer.
She just looked like Hazal.
And for the first time in a long while… she was okay with that.
She pushed the cleaned jewelry to the far side of the counter—tiny silver and obsidian pieces catching the soft bathroom light—then turned on the shower. Steam began to curl lazily from the stall, fogging the edges of the mirror. A soft hum slipped past her lips as she twisted her hair into a loose, messy bun, stray strands falling around her face.
There was no urgency to her movements. No rush. Just the quiet rhythm of someone tending to herself in peace.
She gathered towels, brushed her teeth quickly but thoroughly, mouth tingling with mint. The hot water poured steadily behind her, filling the room with warmth. She let it anchor her, wrap around her shoulders like a familiar coat.
She didn’t notice the figure in the doorway until she turned to hang the towels.
Deadlock stood there, leaning against the frame in a sleep-drunk haze. Arms folded loosely over her chest, hair wild and tangled, steel blue eyes half-lidded but locked onto her like she was watching something sacred.
Fade blinked, a little startled, then smiled softly. “Morning.”
She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to Deadlock’s lips—slow, tender, almost shy.
“Morning,” Deadlock murmured back, her voice still thick with sleep. Her hand found Fade’s waist, fingers curling against the fabric of her shirt.
The Sentinel’s gaze lingered, brow furrowing ever so slightly. She tilted her head, trying to solve the quiet puzzle in front of her. Something was different—something about her face.
Fade let out a quiet laugh, her thumb brushing under Deadlock’s chin. “You’re trying to figure out what changed.”
Deadlock didn’t deny it, just blinked slowly like her brain was still booting up.
“I took my piercings out,” Fade explained gently, nodding toward the small pile of metal on the counter. “Just wanted to… see myself. I guess.”
Deadlock’s eyes flicked over to the counter, then back to her lover’s face—bare, clean, no black lipstick or winged liner or signature silver glints to hide behind.
And still, all she could think was she’s beautiful.
It hit her slowly at first, then all at once. This was Hazal. Not Fade. Not the bounty hunter with a reputation sharp enough to cut steel. This was the girl from Istanbul with quiet eyes and a soft mouth, shoulders a little tense from habit, but no longer weighed down by darkness.
And she was letting her see it.
Deadlock lifted a hand and cupped her face, brushing her thumb across a cheekbone. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You look… really good.”
Fade smiled again, smaller this time. “You mean I don’t look terrifying?”
“You never looked terrifying,” Deadlock said firmly. “But this… You look like someone who got some sleep. Like someone who’s letting herself breathe.”
Fade bit the inside of her cheek, emotion tightening her throat just for a moment. It shouldn’t have meant this much. But it did. Because for years, she used those piercings and paint like armor. And here she was, stripped down and vulnerable, still being seen—still being wanted.
She took a breath and looked toward the running shower, the steam curling around them like a secret.
“Wanna join me?” she asked, her palm resting lightly on Deadlock’s chest, fingers brushing over her sternum.
There was a brief beat of silence. Then Deadlock nodded, gaze soft and warm, and leaned in—pressing a kiss to her jaw, just below her ear.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
They undressed each other slowly, like they had all the time in the world.
No rush. No urgency. Just the steady exchange of heat between skin and breath, soft hums of contentment, and kisses that deepened with every layer they peeled away. Fade’s fingers lingered over the curve of Deadlock’s spine as she tugged her shirt off, while the Sentinel let her hands roam over the ridges of the bounty hunter’s hips, grounding herself in her warmth.
They stumbled into the shower, laughter dancing faintly on their lips as the steam wrapped around them. The water was hot, trailing over their skin like silk, waking their muscles from sleep and soaking through their hair.
Deadlock backed Fade against the wall with a gentle press of her hips, one hand braced beside her head, the other on her waist. She kissed her again—slower now, deeper—and when their lips parted, she slipped her thigh between Fade’s legs, coaxing a low moan from her throat.
Fade melted into her, arms slung loosely over the Sentinel’s shoulders, rolling her hips in a steady rhythm. She sought that perfect angle, chasing friction where she needed it most. When she found it, she gasped and dropped her forehead to Deadlock’s shoulder.
“Siktir,” she whispered, the word ragged with want.
“I’ve got you,” Deadlock murmured, her voice thick with affection. She turned her head to press a kiss to Fade’s temple, her hand rising to cup a breast, thumb brushing across the pebbled nipple. The contact drew a sharp breath from the Turk’s lips, her back arching instinctively.
The steam filled the spaces between their bodies, but nothing could blur the way they clung to each other—how Fade reached down and wrapped her fingers around Deadlock’s wrist, guiding her touch lower with silent permission.
Deadlock withdrew her thigh and slipped her hand between her partner’s legs, the heat of her palm making Fade shudder. She dragged her fingers through her slick folds, teasing her first—then eased one finger in, then a second.
Fade’s mouth parted in a quiet moan, her head tipping back against the tile. The stretch was perfect—familiar, grounding, electric. Deadlock leaned in, forehead nearly touching hers, watching her with half-lidded eyes.
She moved slowly at first—deep, measured thrusts that made the Turk whimper softly—but she didn’t stay slow for long. With every gasp, every twitch of Fade’s hips, she quickened her pace, curling her fingers just right, pressing against that place inside her that made her melt.
Fade tried to bite back the sounds but couldn’t. Her free hand fumbled against the tile for balance, the other clutching Deadlock’s bicep, nails digging into pale skin. “Fuck—Iselin—”
“That’s it,” Deadlock murmured, her voice all gravel and honey. She dropped a kiss to her jaw, then to her throat. “That’s my girl.”
She pressed her thumb to Fade’s clit and began to circle—firm, focused, relentless. The response was immediate: a strangled moan, a shudder that ran through the woman’s entire frame. Her thighs trembled, her stomach fluttering with the oncoming wave.
Deadlock nipped gently at the same mark she’d left the night before, then soothed it with a kiss. “Let go for me.”
Fade’s hands rose to cradle her face, grounding herself in the weight of her. Their lips met in a desperate, messy kiss—tongue and teeth and breathless hunger—and that was all it took.
She came hard, her body jerking, hips bucking into Deadlock’s hand as she moaned into her mouth. Her entire body tensed, legs threatening to give out, and she held on like she’d fall apart otherwise.
Deadlock didn’t stop—not until the trembling stilled, not until the gasps softened into quiet breaths. Only then did she ease her fingers out, slowly, carefully, and bring them to her mouth.
Fade watched, pupils blown wide, as Deadlock licked them clean. Something feral flickered behind her eyes—but also something reverent, like she was tasting the divine.
She kissed her again, softer now, a quiet thank you hidden in the press of her lips.
Their foreheads rested together afterward, noses brushing, breath mingling in the steamy air. Both of them flushed, hearts still pounding.
Fade let out a soft laugh against her mouth, her voice hoarse but light. “I guess we should actually shower, huh?”
Deadlock chuckled, arms still looped lazily around her waist. “Yeah… probably.” She kissed the tip of her nose and smoothed a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
Fade smiled and reached for her shampoo with trembling fingers, her back still pressed to the tile, pulse still fluttering in her throat.
The mid-morning air bit through Fade’s jacket, sharp and unrelenting. Even in July, the streets of Oslo pulsed with a chill that crawled under her skin and settled in her bones. It was a far cry from the smothering heat of Istanbul summers—the kind of heat that wrapped around your lungs and slowed the day down. Here, the cold was sobering. Awake. Constant.
Beside her, Deadlock walked with the calm of someone perfectly at home. A long-sleeve shirt clung to her frame beneath the gray skies, baggy jeans hanging low on her hips, and not a trace of discomfort in her expression. If anything, she looked at ease—relaxed in a way that made Fade’s stomach flutter.
But beneath the surface, beneath the stolen glances and warm hands, something darker curled its fingers around Fade’s mind.
Too much change.
You think this can last?
This happiness doesn’t belong to you.
You are not Hazal anymore.
The voices slithered and hissed just beneath her thoughts, rising with every smile she cracked, every step farther she took from the version of herself they fed on. They hated how good she felt this morning. How much she wanted to stay in that feeling. Nightmare didn't like being silenced. And now, it wanted to be heard.
Fade clenched her jaw and reached for Deadlock’s hand, grounding herself in the only thing that truly quieted the storm. She brought her partner’s hand to her lips and kissed the knuckles, ignoring the faint tremor in her own breath.
“How the hell are you not freezing?” she asked, her voice laced with teasing—an attempt to pull herself out of her own head.
Deadlock’s lips quirked into a smile, soft but amused. “It’s actually kind of warm today.”
Fade’s jaw dropped. “This is warm to you?!”
“Yep,” Deadlock replied with a wink. “Don’t worry. You’ll warm up in a minute.”
She gave Fade’s hand a reassuring squeeze before pushing open the door to the café, ushering them both inside.
The warmth hit instantly—subtle, inviting, and soaked in the scent of dark roast coffee, buttered pastry, and old paper. Fade shrugged off her jacket, already grateful for the shift in temperature, but more than that—grateful for the atmosphere.
This wasn’t just a café. It was a sanctuary.
Warm wood floors, rich chestnut and polished to a soft shine, stretched beneath mismatched tables and high-backed chairs. The lighting was dim and golden, coming from antique lamps and strings of Edison bulbs that cast a soft glow across the café’s art-lined walls. Classical music hummed low from unseen speakers, barely audible over the quiet shuffle of pages and murmured conversations. The smell was incredible—not just coffee, but baked bread, smoked spices, and vanilla lingering from a batch of cookies recently pulled from the oven.
Toward the back, a set of grand bookshelves—tall and inviting—loomed like stained-glass windows in a cathedral. Their spines were mosaics of languages, genres, and histories. The place wasn’t just for sipping coffee and checking emails. It was for dwelling. For reading. For feeling.
Fade’s eyes lit up, her entire posture softening as she took in the space.
And Deadlock, standing behind her, watched in quiet awe.
She said nothing—didn’t need to. The look on Fade’s face said everything. Joy. Relief. Excitement. Belonging.
Hazal took off like a spark down the aisle of shelves, her fingers trailing along worn spines. Deadlock, smiling to herself, stepped toward the counter and ordered for them—two black coffees, two strawberry danishes, and a pair of breakfast croissants, warm and buttery.
When she returned, tray in hand, she spotted Fade halfway up a sliding ladder, dark hair twisted into a loose bun, her long fingers plucking a slim book from the top shelf. She descended smoothly, quiet as a shadow, and held up her find: The Book of Disquiet.
Deadlock raised an eyebrow. “Light reading?”
Fade gave a crooked smile. “I like to feel things when I read. Sue me.”
The Sentinel chuckled and turned back to the shelves. One book in particular caught her eye—a battered, forest green spine with the familiar gilded lettering of Letters to a Young Poet. She tugged it from the shelf, smiling as she flipped through the pages. It wasn’t her copy—the one filled with ink-stained corners and tiny, neat notes in the margins—but it still felt like home in her hands.
Fade found a spot in the corner by one of the tall windows—bathed in soft gray light, away from the bustle of the front. The table was round, the chairs cushioned and lived-in. There was a small potted plant on the windowsill, a vase of dried lavender at the center of the table, and just enough light to read without needing anything else.
They settled into the warmth, books open, coffee steaming between them.
Fade took a slow sip, eyes skimming her first page, her soul slowly uncoiling. The voices weren’t gone. They never were. But they were quiet. Distant. She knew they’d return again tonight, or tomorrow, or the moment she let her guard slip—but right now, in this tucked-away corner of Oslo, with a book in her hand and her love across from her...
For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she had to run.
They sat in easy silence, curled into the quiet rhythm of the café.
Fade flipped through her book with practiced ease, one leg crossed over the other, her back resting against the windowpane. The sunlight caught in the silver tips of her hair, casting a faint halo around her. She looked otherworldly—but not in the haunting, sharp-edged way she sometimes feared. In this light, she looked soft. Human.
She took a sip of her coffee and hummed softly under her breath. Something content. Something unguarded. Then turned another page.
Deadlock watched her with quiet reverence.
The soldier had opened her book nearly ten minutes ago and hadn’t turned a single page. Not really. Her eyes skimmed the familiar words—Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart—but her focus kept drifting back to Fade. To Hazal.
She looked like she belonged here. Among the old pages, the dark walls, the scent of ground espresso and morning pastries. Not just because she fit the aesthetic—the dark academia vibe, the haunted but beautiful air—but because there was something about seeing her so absorbed in something that had nothing to do with Radiants or Protocols or nightmares. Just words. Words she could get lost in.
Deadlock took a slow bite of her croissant, savoring the warmth and the flake of butter, and pretended to read. In reality, she was counting the little things.
The way Fade’s fingers traced the edge of the page before turning it.
The light brush of her foot against Deadlock’s calf beneath the table.
The faint crinkle of her nose when she smiled at something she read.
Sometimes she’d roll her eyes and mutter something under her breath—always Turkish, always affectionate—but even when Deadlock couldn’t understand the words, she understood the emotion behind them.
There was a huff of laughter at one point, followed by a quiet, whispered “Bu herif çok salak.”
Deadlock smirked. “You talking about me?”
Fade glanced up, eyes flickering with playful light. “You’d know if I was.”
She took a sip of coffee to hide her smile, but the way her cheeks warmed didn’t escape the Sentinel’s attention. Deadlock let out a soft chuckle and shook her head, finally turning her attention back to her book—at least long enough to get through the next paragraph.
For a while, there was nothing but the low rustle of pages, the quiet clink of mugs, and the ambient sounds of the café around them. A nearby couple was softly debating the merits of classic versus contemporary poetry. Someone in the corner tapped away at a typewriter—yes, an actual typewriter—while another patron scribbled in a leather-bound notebook with visible intensity. The scent of cinnamon and espresso lingered in the air, grounded by the faintest hint of ink and old paper from the shelves.
Fade eventually reached the end of her chapter and placed her book down. She leaned back in her seat and stretched her arms above her head, shirt riding up just enough to show the edges of her ribs. Deadlock tried not to stare. But as always, she failed.
“Did you pick that book just to look broody and poetic?” she teased.
Fade arched a brow. “Maybe. But I am broody and poetic, so really, it’s just authenticity.”
Deadlock snorted into her coffee. “You’re lucky I’m into that.”
“Oh, I know.” Fade grinned, letting her foot trail a little higher up Deadlock’s leg this time. Just a tease. Just a test.
The blonde shot her a narrowed glance. “You’re playing with fire, aşkım.”
Fade only shrugged, feigning innocence as she reached for her strawberry danish and took a bite. “I’m always playing with fire.”
Deadlock leaned forward just slightly, her voice a low murmur between them. “And yet you never get burned.”
Fade’s breath caught—just for a second. Just long enough for her to feel it. That familiar pull. That heat simmering beneath the surface again. She lowered her gaze and took another sip of coffee, letting the moment settle between them like dust in golden light.
For a few more minutes, they simply… existed.
No protocol.
No missions.
No voices or vengeance or war.
Just two women, in love, in a cozy café filled with books and coffee and soft-spoken artists.
Deadlock could get used to this. The quiet. The softness. The stolen glances and tender smiles. She didn’t need it to be forever. But she’d savor every second while she had it.
Fade, still holding her coffee, tilted her head slightly and studied her.
“What?” Deadlock asked.
"Nothing..." The bounty hunter smiled, small and real. “Just admiring the art.”
This time, it was the Sentinel’s turn to blush. Just slightly, but enough.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You’re going to turn me into a romantic.”
“You already are.”
They clinked their mugs together. A silent toast.
To books.
To warmth.
To the rare peace before the storm.
And for now, at least, the storm could wait.
Notes:
Translations:
Siktir - [Turkish] Fuck
Bu herif çok salak - [Turkish] This guy's such an idiot
Aşkım - [Turkish] My love
Chapter 6: Chapter 5
Notes:
idk why but in my head fade was the shopaholic sister that made her brother model for her before everything went to shit… (psst i do the same thing. i am fade, fade is me)
anywho shopping date :3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time they stepped back out into the street, the city had hit its midday stride. The gentle murmur of morning had given way to something louder—bus horns, snatches of passing conversation, the clatter of bike wheels and hurried footsteps. There was life in the air now, pulsing through the sidewalks and storefronts. Still, Fade didn’t seem fazed. If anything, she seemed energized by it.
Deadlock walked beside her, hand still intertwined with hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her skin. They moved at a relaxed pace, no set destination, just following the rhythm of the city.
Until Fade stopped dead in her tracks.
Deadlock blinked and turned to see what caught her attention.
It was a clothing boutique—mid-sized, minimalist storefront with eclectic displays in the window. Mannequins dressed in flowing fabrics, soft layers, experimental color palettes. The kind of place Deadlock normally wouldn’t even glance at twice.
But Fade stood rooted to the spot, lips tugging into a slow grin, eyes glittering with something unmistakable—mischief.
Deadlock groaned before the words even left her girlfriend’s mouth.
“Hazal—”
“Just five minutes,” Fade interrupted, already tugging on her hand. Her grin widened like a challenge. “Promise.”
Deadlock rolled her eyes but followed, knowing there was no use resisting. Not when Fade looked like that. Not when her smile curved with genuine joy instead of sarcasm or restraint. Not when she was bouncing on her heels like a kid being let loose in a toy store.
Inside, the shop was a curated mix of clean neutrals and bold statement pieces. Warm lighting. Jazz humming from the speakers. A few other customers moved between the racks, but the space wasn’t crowded. Fade immediately beelined toward the far wall, flipping through dresses and tops with practiced fingers. She was sharp and fast—eyes scanning tags, feeling fabrics, assessing silhouettes.
Deadlock stood back and watched.
It was such a rare sight. Fade was lit from the inside out. She moved with ease, with purpose, like she’d done this a hundred times before. Like she hadn’t spent the near-decade locked in a cycle of violence, grief, and Radiant-driven insomnia. Like she hadn’t been a ghost.
The Sentinel almost didn’t recognize her.
Not because she looked different—but because she was different here. There was a looseness in her shoulders. A softness in her expression. A freedom that only existed outside of duty, outside of trauma.
“Try this,” Fade said suddenly, holding up a button-up with an earthy print and cocking her head toward Deadlock.
The blonde raised a brow. “Me?”
“Obviously.” Fade’s grin widened. “You’d look good in it.”
“I don’t—”
“Just try it,” she insisted, pressing it into Deadlock’s hands. “I’ll owe you.”
Deadlock sighed, but her smile gave her away. “You already owe me.”
Still, she took the shirt and moved toward the fitting rooms, shaking her head. She’d always hated shopping—too many mirrors, too much indecision, the pressure to care about aesthetics she never had time for. But right now, watching the Turk laugh at something on a clearance rack, holding up a mesh top like it was a hidden treasure, made her rethink all of it.
She realized something as she slipped the shirt on in the changing room: if this was the version of Fade she could help protect—one who laughed, flirted, and played dress-up in public—then maybe the vacation had already done its job. Maybe this was what healing could look like.
And hell, if she had to try on a dozen overpriced shirts to see that light in Fade’s eyes again?
She’d try on fifty.
When she stepped back out, Fade gave a dramatic once-over, pursing her lips thoughtfully before nodding.
“Okay. Yeah. Definitely taking that one.”
Deadlock chuckled, brushing a hand through her hair. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it,” Fade teased, turning back toward the rack.
Deadlock didn’t respond—not out loud. But the smile she had said everything.
“Okay,” Fade said minutes later, arms piled high with an avalanche of clothes that nearly eclipsed her face. “Where’s the fitting room so we can try these on?”
Deadlock blinked, already wary. “We?” she echoed, her brow furrowing slightly.
Fade grinned over the stack. “Yes, we. Don’t make that face—you act like I’m dragging you into battle.” She spun on her heel before Deadlock could object, spotting the sign for the fitting rooms tucked near the back and making a beeline. The blonde sighed, already questioning every decision that led her to this exact moment, but followed without hesitation.
Inside the fitting area, Fade breezed through like a seasoned pro, claiming two stalls. She began distributing clothes into each one with terrifying efficiency—Deadlock’s room filled with clean cuts, dark neutral tones, and rugged accents. Fitting. But there, hanging among the practical pieces, was something else.
A dress.
A black, knee-length, strappy slip dress.
Deadlock stared at it like it had personally offended her. She leaned out of the stall, holding it up with two fingers like it might combust. “This… is for me?”
Fade leaned against the opposite doorframe, completely unbothered, an impish sparkle in her eyes. “Mhm. For research purposes.”
Deadlock’s eyes narrowed. “And by research, you mean…?”
“My personal entertainment,” Fade said sweetly, laughing under her breath. “C’mon, just put it on. Humor me.”
Deadlock muttered something sharp in Norwegian under her breath—something that probably translated to this is how I die—but pulled the dress into the room anyway. She was used to gear that was made for tactical warfare and freezing climates. This? This was a slip of fabric barely worth its weight in thread.
But she changed anyway.
It clung to her frame in ways that felt more vulnerable than a gun to the head. Too much shoulder, too much leg, too not her. But when she opened the stall door and leaned lazily against the frame, arms crossed, Fade was already grinning like a devil in silk.
She stepped forward and cradled her partner’s face, fingers brushing over her cheek as she tilted her chin just slightly. “Smile, Ise. You look hot.”
“For a master interrogator, you’re a terrible liar,” Deadlock said flatly, but the twitch of her lips betrayed her. The blush creeping up her neck didn’t help either.
“Mm. That’s where you’re wrong. I only lie when I want to,” Fade murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before retreating with a smug little wink. “Now go change before I get ideas.”
When Deadlock emerged again, the difference was immediate—and unfair.
Gone was the stiff awkwardness, replaced by a quiet confidence. She wore a black drop-shoulder crewneck layered over a white longline tee, paired with dark jogger-style jeans with subtle stitched patchwork across the knees. A gray cap sat low on her head, messy blonde strands just barely tucked beneath it.
Fade’s jaw dropped slightly. She let out a low whistle, dragging her gaze from head to toe. “You look… wow.”
Deadlock arched a brow, lifting her arms and turning slightly in front of the full-length mirror near the stall. “Not bad, huh?”
“I don’t know whether to buy it for you or make you take it off right now,” Fade said with a sly grin.
Deadlock chuckled, but there was a touch of pride in the way she adjusted the hem of the shirt and ran her hand over the curve of her waist. “You have better taste than I thought.”
Fade disappeared briefly and returned with something dangling from her fingers—a silver chain, slim and cool, with a small axe pendant etched with fine Norse knotwork. Without a word, she stepped behind Deadlock, fastened it around her neck, and adjusted the chain so the charm sat just beneath her collarbone.
Then she stepped back, arms folded, head tilted. “Now it’s perfect.”
The Sentinel glanced at herself in the mirror once more, fingers brushing over the pendant. She wasn’t used to shopping. Wasn’t used to compliments or feeling casually beautiful outside the rigid context of combat.
But looking at herself through Fade’s eyes? That was something else entirely.
“…Maybe shopping isn’t so bad,” she murmured.
The Initiator smirked. “Told you.”
She tapped Deadlock’s hip lightly. “Alright. My turn.”
Fade emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later, moving with the slow, fluid confidence of someone used to being watched but rarely seen.
She wore an oversized charcoal sweater, the neckline wide enough to slouch off one shoulder, revealing the faint yellowing traces of bruises on her collarbone like the fading memory of a storm. Black high-waisted cargo pants hugged her hips snugly, silver zippers and cascading chains catching the soft light. On her neck, layered jewelry drew the eye—a simple onyx pendant on a thin silver chain, and another rosary-style strand made from real obsidian, the dark beads clicking softly as she moved.
Deadlock, now changed back into her own clothes with her selected pieces draped over one arm, looked up—and promptly forgot how to breathe.
“Damn…” she muttered under her breath, eyes trailing over her partner like she was seeing her for the first time.
Fade laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. “You like?” she teased, spinning lightly in front of the mirror, checking the fit of the pants.
“‘Like’ doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Deadlock replied, leaning one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed as she watched. There was something magnetic about her when she was like this—comfortable in her skin, stylish, glowing from within. The bruises, the obsidian, the dark palette—it all came together like brushstrokes on a canvas made of shadows and smoke.
Then she stretched her arms above her head to pull her hair from it’s twist, and Deadlock caught a glimpse of ink just beneath her left breast, peeking out from under the sweater’s hem.
It was small. Crimson red. A date—08.13—followed by words written in delicate Turkish script.
her zaman seninle.
The tattoo was quiet and tender, barely larger than a matchbox, but it hit the soldier like a freight train. Faded henna often decorated her hands, yes—but this was permanent. And outside of maybe Sage, Deadlock was likely the only one who had seen it.
She didn’t ask about it. She never had. But moments like this reminded her just how much she still didn’t know about Fade—and how much she wanted to.
But the Turk either didn’t notice the way her girlfriend was staring, or pretended not to. She simply smoothed her sweater back down, gave one last approving glance in the mirror, and slipped back into the changing room.
When she stepped out again, it was as if time itself slowed.
A black dress clung to her body like it had been made for her alone—sleeveless, calf-length, and traced with intricate black lace along the deep V neckline and thigh-high slit. The fabric hugged her waist like a secret and fell in soft, fluid lines down her legs, graceful without sacrificing the sharpness she exuded. Her combat boots had been swapped for platform heels with silver buckle detailing, giving her another inch of height and presence.
And then there was the jewelry—still layered, still silver—but worn with more deliberate elegance. She’d pulled her hair from its earlier twist, letting the wavy silver strands fall freely over her shoulders, brushing her exposed skin like static-charged silk.
She was unrecognizable. But not in the way the Norwegian expected.
Not like a stranger.
More like… Hazal. Not the hunter, not the blackmailer. Not the masked shadow with piercings and blood-stained gloves. But her—the woman she danced with in New York. The one who loved poetry and coffee shops and old books and had once cried against her chest because her brother never got to see her grow up.
“I’m assuming you like what you see?” Fade asked, one brow raised, the corner of her mouth tilted in a knowing smirk.
Deadlock ran a hand through her hair, eyes drinking her in like she’d never seen anything more beautiful. “If you wear that out,” she said quietly, voice low and gravelly, “we’re not leaving the apartment. Herregud…”
Fade grinned, lips parting with a breathy laugh. “Then I’m definitely buying it.”
She winked, and with one last glance over her shoulder, disappeared back into the changing room—leaving Deadlock outside with a racing pulse and the not-so-sudden realization that she'd follow Hazal into every store on earth if it meant getting to see her like this again.
A few minutes later, Fade stepped out of the fitting room in her usual clothes, arms full of everything she intended to buy—which, as it turned out, was most of the rack. Her expression was calm, but there was an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in her eyes. She paused near the counter, grabbed a few extra accessories—rings, earrings, a layered silver belt—and then casually reached for the hangers in Deadlock’s arms.
“What are you—”
“You put up with my antics,” Fade interrupted smoothly, her voice soft but firm. “The least I can do is buy your stuff.”
“I can pay for my—”
She turned and gave the Sentinel a look. Just one of those knowing, perfectly sculpted glances—the kind that said don’t push me unless you want to be thrown over my shoulder in front of everyone. Deadlock’s mouth clamped shut.
She exhaled a small chuckle and held her hands up in surrender. “Alright. I give.”
Fade leaned in just enough to brush her shoulder against Deadlock’s. “Smart girl.”
The soldier's smile lingered as they walked toward the front of the store. She wasn’t used to being taken care of—not like this, not in the quiet, casual way that Fade made look effortless. Something about it hit her harder than she expected.
As they neared the register, something in the display case caught her eye—a slim, blackened steel cuff bracelet. Matte-finished. Minimalist. But when she leaned closer, she saw the detail on the underside: a Nordic rune etched in fine, sharp lines. Algiz. The rune of protection and shelter.
It was the kind of thing someone like Fade would never buy for herself. But something about the weight of it in her hand, the cool metal and quiet power, made it feel like it was meant for her.
Deadlock turned slightly, eyeing her partner. Fade was at the counter now, card already out, cool and composed as always—but there was a lightness to her, a small flicker of joy she rarely let show in front of anyone else. Especially not in public. Especially not here.
Before she could second-guess herself, Deadlock walked to the second cashier and purchased the bracelet, tucking the small box into her coat pocket with practiced ease.
When they stepped back into the brisk afternoon air, Deadlock reached for Fade’s bags without asking and took them from her hand. Fade raised a brow, but let her. She was too content to fight.
Still, she nudged her elbow into her girlfriend’s side with a knowing smirk. “What else did you buy?”
Deadlock didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a surprise.”
Fade narrowed her eyes and tried her best pout. “Ise…”
The blonde just kissed her cheek and murmured close to her ear, “Patience, kjære.”
“You’re no fun,” Fade grumbled—but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.
Deadlock glanced over, heart pulling tight in her chest at the sight of her. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “I’m having the time of my life.”
They turned onto the next block, fingers laced together, the weight of the shopping bags a comforting ache on their arms. Deadlock let Fade choose their next stop, and unsurprisingly, she veered straight toward another café.
This one was different than the last—no dim lights or curated playlists or niche poetry books tucked in the corners. It was simple. Franchised. Mass-produced coziness. Bright overheads, laminated menus, the sound of milk steaming in short, sharp bursts. The kind of place you stopped in out of habit, not ambiance.
Deadlock didn’t complain. She just followed, loyal as ever, setting their bags down at an empty corner table before joining her girlfriend at the counter.
A vanilla latte for her. A plain black coffee for Fade—strong enough to strip paint, just the way she liked it.
They found their seats and settled into the familiar rhythm of quiet conversation and gentle teasing. Fade sat cross-legged in her chair, hands curled around her mug, eyes drifting lazily toward the window. Deadlock, meanwhile, was laser-focused on her phone, tongue poked slightly out in concentration. Another round of Candy Crush. Another level she swore was rigged.
“I swear they make it harder when you’re winning,” she muttered.
“Sounds like excuses to me,” Fade replied, voice full of mirth, a smug grin playing at her lips.
But then the air changed. Like pressure dropping before a storm.
The Initiator’s shoulders stiffened, her posture subtly altering—not tense, exactly, but poised. Like a predator catching scent. Her fingers clenched around the ceramic mug. Not hard enough to shatter it, but close.
Deadlock looked up, instinct prickling down her spine. That’s when she saw her.
Kaia.
She entered like she owned the place—spine straight, expression unreadable, gait smooth and unhurried. Her long black coat swayed around her knees, a telltale glint of silver at her wrist where her watch caught the light. Every movement was deliberate. Precise. She hadn’t changed.
Maybe she'd gotten sharper.
She walked straight to the counter, ordered her drink, and stood there, like a ghost in flesh, pretending she hadn’t noticed the two women tucked in the corner. But they knew better. That wasn’t a coincidence. Nothing about Kaia ever was.
Deadlock exhaled through her nose, setting her phone face-down. “Shit…”
Fade didn’t respond. Her eyes were locked on the handler, radiance simmering just beneath her skin. Nightmare stirred at the edges of her mind, whispering cruel truths.
You see? This is what you’re up against.
She knows her. You don’t.
She’ll always come back.
She’s always been better.
Fade blinked hard, focusing instead on the bitter warmth of her coffee, the anchor of the mug in her hands, the steady thrum of her pulse in her ears. She could feel her power pulling at the edges of her sanity—electric, snarling. Ready to unravel. She forced it down.
Kaia finally turned. Latte in hand. Smirk in place.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” she said, voice honey-smooth with an edge of iron. “Nice to see you, Silv.”
Deadlock sighed, folding her arms. “Kaia.”
“I’m wounded. That’s all the greeting I get?” the handler said with mock offense. “Come on, don’t be like that. Can’t I say hi to an old friend?”
“I don't think 'friend' is the right word.”
Kaia hummed noncommittally, then turned her attention to Fade. Her eyes glinted with something unreadable—respect, maybe. Amusement. Calculated charm.
“You must be Hazal.”
The bounty hunter didn’t flinch, but her fingers curled tighter around her cup. “Fade to you,” she said coolly. “But yes.”
Kaia chuckled, tilting her head. “Right… Fade. I’ve heard quite a bit.”
Fade didn’t answer. Her eyes narrowed, that cold shadow creeping back into her expression like a storm cloud over sunlit glass. Gone was the easy warmth she’d carried all morning. In its place was something razor-sharp and ruthless.
“Glad to see you two are still going steady,” Kaia said, casually nodding toward Deadlock. “Has blondie been taking good care of you?”
The Sentinel shifted, ready to say something—but Fade reached across the table and touched her arm. Just for a moment. A silent don’t.
She turned back to Kaia. “She has. She’s a great partner.”
There was a flicker in Kaia’s expression—just the smallest crack. But she recovered fast, her smile never faltering. “Indeed she is.”
Her gaze slid back to Deadlock. “I like your little shadow,” she said. “Don’t fuck it up. The old Iselin would’ve snapped my neck five minutes ago, but this new you? You’re… calmer. Soft, even. It’s unsettling.”
The soldier's jaw tensed.
Kaia chuckled softly, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve. “Welcome home, Silv. I’ll see you around.”
She tipped her head in Fade’s direction, and the Initiator offered a practiced, venom-sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Kaia left, just as calm as she’d arrived.
The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Fade stared at the door for a long moment after it swung shut. Deadlock muttered something sharp under her breath in Norwegian, dragging a hand through her tousled hair. The gesture was familiar—frustrated, protective, aching to do something but unsure what that should be.
Fade didn’t say anything. She sat perfectly still, coffee growing cold between her hands. She barely heard the scrape of chairs or the hum of conversation around them anymore. The world dulled around the edges, like her mind had receded deep underwater. Her radiance still hummed just beneath her skin, pulsing at her fingertips. Her thoughts were a spiral of sharp claws and old wounds, and Nightmare’s voice still hadn’t stopped.
She’ll leave you. They always leave.
You think you’re better than her? She’s perfect. You’re a wreck.
She’ll go back. She’ll always go back.
You’ll never be enough.
You don’t deserve this. Not her. Not this peace. Not a home.
Fade pressed her elbows to the table and dropped her head into her hands, squeezing her eyes shut. Her fingers dug into her temples as if pressure alone could silence it.
'Shut up… For fuck's sake, just shut up...'
But it never did. It never shut up.
It was just like before—two years ago, when Deadlock had slipped away to meet Kaia. Just for intel, she said. Just for Kadir. Just for you.
But then she came back haunted and explained who Kaia was. Said what she had with the Sri Lankan back then meant nothing.
Fade believed her. At least, she tried to. And Deadlock had proven her loyalty in more ways than she could count since then. Yet every time Kaia’s name came up, every time she saw her photo in someone's database, the ground cracked just a little deeper under her feet. And today—it had to be today. Of all days.
Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s you.
The voice was crueler than usual. Not Nightmare, but her own. A poisonous little echo tucked into the folds of her psyche.
Her grip on reality only softened when she felt the brush of something cool and solid slide against her hand. Metal.
Deadlock had reached across the table again—her touch deliberate, steady, the silver watch on her wrist catching the light as their hands found each other. The same way they always did, as naturally as breathing.
She wasn’t pulling her close. She wasn’t forcing eye contact or demanding a smile. She just… held on. A soft squeeze. A grounding anchor.
Fade opened her eyes slowly. Met with the same look she’d fallen in love with in the first place.
Soft. Steady. Devoted.
“Hey,” Deadlock said gently, voice just loud enough for only her to hear. “You okay?”
Fade didn’t trust her voice, so she nodded—just once. Not convincing, not really. But the blonde didn’t press. There was a flicker in her expression, though—something pained. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. Maybe just helplessness. It sat in her eyes like a bruise.
Then, slowly, Deadlock stood. She reached for their bags and tilted her head toward the door.
“Come on,” she murmured. “Let’s go home.”
The phrase sank into Fade like warmth in her bones. It stirred something in her chest she couldn’t name—tender, bittersweet, sacred.
Home.
She used to have one. Once. With Kadir. But after his disappearance, the concept of home felt like something fictional. A word from a book she'd stopped believing in.
Until now.
She stood slowly, pressed a kiss to her partner’s cheek, and wiped away the faint smudge of lipstick left behind.
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. But it was there. A flicker. A sign that something inside her hadn’t given up yet.
“Let’s go home,” she echoed, her voice quiet but sure.
And together, they stepped back into the cold. Hand in hand. One steadying the other.
Notes:
did i start back grinding candy crush? yes. is that why i envision the girls playing it? also yes.
but anywho kaia's back hehehe. dw, we'll see her again soon enoughthanks for reading!!
stay safe, stay healthy, stay warm <3
~DTranslations:
Her zaman seninle - [Turkish] Always with you
Herregud - [Norwegian] Holy shit
Kjære - [Norwegian] My love
Chapter 7: Chapter 6
Notes:
ok so this chapter isn’t 100% sunshine and rainbows… sorry ily <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Fade didn’t speak as they walked through the crowded Oslo streets. Her steps were measured, mechanical, as if each one required conscious effort. She didn’t laugh at the way a kid on a scooter nearly wiped out in front of them. Didn’t tease Deadlock for being a little too focused on the GPS. She just kept walking—eyes distant, jaw tight—her hand clinging to her partner’s like it was the only thread tethering her to the moment.
In the grocery store, her silence was surgical. Efficient. She murmured quick confirmations, offered a quiet “yeah” or “this one,” just enough to keep the rhythm going. But the thumb that ghosted across Deadlock’s mechanical knuckles never stopped. Like the cool metal and its familiar grooves were grounding her. Like they reminded her that something—someone—was real.
Deadlock didn’t push. She never did. She’d learned long ago that pushing only made the walls go higher, thicker. She knew what Kaia’s reappearance could do. Knew how deeply that woman still lived in Fade’s scars—even if she wasn’t a threat, even if Fade herself knew it. Jealousy was never about logic. And Fade was a maze of contradictions: sharp and soft, cruel and kind, stone-faced and heartbreakingly vulnerable.
So the Sentinel kept her voice calm. Kept her touch close. Kept holding on.
Still, the guilt gnawed at her. Kaia was her past, her mistake, and now Fade was caught in the crossfire of it. Again.
When they finally stepped into the apartment, the door clicked shut and the tension leaked from their shoulders all at once.
They moved in silence, putting away groceries, hanging up the clothes they’d bought. The motions were domestic—comfortable, even. But Fade moved like a ghost, her movements precise but hollow. There were whispers behind her eyes, ones Deadlock couldn’t hear but had learned to recognize.
And still, she made no complaints. No comments. She just stayed.
After the last of the pantry items were tucked away, Deadlock reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held it. Then gently guided her to the couch.
Fade sat, but she withdrew her hand, folding both into her lap. Her nails tapped restlessly against her thigh. She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.
“Hazal,” Deadlock said gently, looking the other woman in the eye. “Talk to me. What are you thinking about?”
“I’m trying not to think at all,” she murmured, voice flat. “But Nightmare…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. Deadlock already knew what she meant. The entity was cruelest when Fade was weakest—and right now, she was cracking.
Her fingers started scratching at her arm. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave angry red lines, raw and trembling.
Deadlock saw it immediately. She didn’t say a word—just reached over and placed her prosthetic hand over the spot. The metal was cool, the pressure steady. Fade stopped. Just stared at the steel fingers against her skin, letting them weigh her down in the best way.
“What I had with Kaia,” Deadlock said softly, “ended years ago.”
“I know,” Fade whispered, almost too quiet to hear.
“Then don’t let Nightmare twist that into something it’s not.” Her voice was gentle but firm, the tone of someone who wasn’t trying to convince but remind. “You’ve seen the way I look at you. You know what I feel.”
Fade stayed quiet, but her hands trembled in her lap.
“She wasn’t better. She wasn’t easier. And she damn sure wasn’t mine the way you are.” Deadlock shifted closer, her hand still resting on Fade’s arm. “I love you, Hazal. Madly. Completely. If it took going through hell in every lifetime to get back to you, I’d do it. Every time.”
LIAR.
The word tore through her skull like a bullet. One whisper, but it struck her like a scream.
Fade flinched, whole body recoiling. Her hands flew up to her face, fingers tangling in her hair, her breathing ragged. She muttered rapidly in Turkish—so fast and strained Deadlock could barely catch a single word.
But she didn’t interrupt. Just watched her with a kind of heartbreak that cut deeper than anger ever could. Her chest ached at the sight—the black glow beginning to pulse in Fade’s veins, her whole frame trembling with restraint. The radiance was threatening to surge.
“Baby,” Deadlock whispered, brushing her hand along her spine. “Look at me.”
It took a moment. But finally, Fade lifted her head, and the second their eyes met, something eased. Her pulse slowed. Her glow dimmed. The fire behind her eyes was still there, but it wasn’t raging anymore. It was waiting. Searching.
Deadlock smiled. Not wide. Just soft. Warm. Grounding. She leaned in and pressed a slow, tender kiss to her lips.
The Turk tensed at first, but then her body remembered. Her hands moved to cup Deadlock’s jaw, her thumb brushing the curve of her cheekbone. She kissed her back, slower than usual, with none of her usual sharp edges. Just the quiet ache of someone trying.
When they finally pulled away, Deadlock pulled her into a hug—solid, full-body, no daylight between them. She didn’t rush it. Just let her hold on for as long as she needed.
Fade buried her face in her neck and breathed her in. The scent of warm skin and pine and laundry detergent. The comfort of a heartbeat against her ear. The quiet knowing that for once—just once—someone was going to stay.
They stayed like that for a long while—tangled up in each other, all limbs and quiet warmth, letting the rest of the world fall away. At some point, they’d shifted positions. Deadlock lay flat on her back, strong arms cradling the woman above her, while Fade rested on top of her like a weighted blanket of silk and shadow. The Sentinel hummed a low, almost lullaby-like tune under her breath as her fingers combed through her partner's hair, slow and steady.
Fade had her eyes closed, breathing in the steady rhythm of her girlfriend’s heartbeat. Each thump grounded her, a soft metronome that quieted the screeching in her mind. Her spiral earlier still weighed heavily on her chest. Guilt curled low in her stomach because she knew better. She knew Deadlock loved her. Knew Kaia wasn’t a threat, not really. And still, she’d let the doubt win, even for a second.
She wanted these two weeks to be different. Better. To be about the two of them, and the quiet rituals—the cozy mornings, midday kisses, inside jokes and shared playlists. The mundane magic that made love feel real.
Her lips brushed against Deadlock’s chest as she murmured, voice low and warm, “Seni seviyorum.”
Deadlock’s heartbeat faltered beneath her cheek.
A slow smile crept across Fade’s lips. She never got tired of how easy it was to fluster her.
“I love you too,” Deadlock whispered, voice a little breathless, a little reverent. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the crown of Fade’s head, like a promise made flesh.
After a moment, the blonde tucked a dark strand behind her lover’s ear, fingertips lingering. “You hungry?” she asked. “I can cook something.”
Fade lifted her head just enough to meet her eyes, brow raised. “Oh, I’d love to see that.”
With a dramatic groan, she slid off the couch and stretched—arms overhead, back arching slightly, her shirt riding up just enough to expose the curve of her waist. A flash of soft, tanned skin. The faint shadow of abs. A faded bruise on her ribs from sparring. She peeked over her shoulder just in time to catch Deadlock’s eyes exactly where she expected them.
“Eyes up here, güzelim,” she teased, snapping her fingers with a smirk.
Deadlock didn’t even try to deny it. She rolled her eyes but smiled like she’d just been caught in the sun. “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered with faux obedience, but she was already rising from the couch, unable to stop herself from stepping forward.
She reached out and hooked her fingers into the belt loops of Fade’s jeans, drawing her close until barely a breath fit between them. Fade didn’t resist—she never did. She let herself be pulled in, looped her arms around Deadlock’s neck, her nails grazing lightly against the shorn edges of her undercut. A shiver ghosted down the Sentinel’s spine.
They stood there, suspended in that fragile space between breath and want. Foreheads pressed together. Eyes half-lidded. Hearts thudding in sync.
Deadlock tilted her chin forward, their lips brushing—warm, familiar, right there. But just before they connected fully, Fade slid out of her grip with a quiet, devilish laugh.
“What?” Deadlock blinked, thrown. “Hazal…”
Fade shot her a saccharine smile, all mock innocence and mischief. “What?” she echoed, her voice sweet as honey and sharp as a blade. She turned on her heel, striding into the kitchen with deliberate sway in her hips.
Deadlock followed, helplessly in love and utterly cursed by it, shaking her head with a fond smile. “You’re evil.”
Fade didn’t answer. But she could still feel the guilt under her ribcage, tucked behind the smirk and the swagger. She didn’t deserve this woman, this calm, this love—but she was going to soak in every second of it anyway.
If teasing her girlfriend was the only way to keep things light—keep herself from spiraling again—then she’d keep playing the part.
At least for now.
She hopped onto the kitchen island, her socked feet swinging gently as she watched Deadlock move with unhurried precision. The Sentinel didn’t rush—there was no urgency in her steps, no tension in her shoulders. She moved around the kitchen like she belonged there, like this was second nature.
Fade tilted her head, quietly studying the way her partner pulled ingredients from the fridge and lined them up in neat rows. Carrots, celery, potatoes, leeks, a thick cut of beef from the butcher down the street. She grabbed spices next—thyme, pepper, bay leaf—and set them aside with care before ducking into the lower cabinets to grab a pot. The clang of metal against metal echoed faintly in the apartment.
“What are you making?” Fade asked, the scent of fresh coffee still clinging to her.
“Beef stew,” Deadlock said, glancing at her over her shoulder. “Something simple.”
“Simple, huh?” Fade grinned, crossing one leg over the other. “Looks like you’re going all out.”
The Norwegian just shrugged, lips tugging into a soft smile as she washed and peeled the vegetables. “Figured we both could use something warm.”
The minutes stretched between them in quiet harmony.
The soft scratch of the peeler against potato skin, the rhythmic knock of her knife against the cutting board, and the muted melody of Norwegian folk music from the living room speaker blended into a gentle symphony of domestic comfort. Fade sipped her second cup of coffee, content to drift around the space—poking through cabinets, reading spice labels aloud with dramatic flair, and occasionally brushing past Deadlock just to bump their shoulders together.
When the stew started to simmer, the scent filled the apartment with a thick, nostalgic warmth—savory and rich, laced with browned meat, garlic, and the subtle bite of fresh herbs. Fade stood near the stove, eyes closed, letting the smell settle deep in her chest like something sacred. A home-cooked meal. A rarity for both of them.
After placing her empty mug in the sink, she moved behind Deadlock and wrapped her arms around her waist, letting her chin rest between her shoulder blades. The blonde didn’t stop stirring the pot—she simply leaned back into the touch, her breathing soft and steady.
“Thank you,” Fade murmured.
Deadlock glanced down at her, brows lifting. “For what?”
“Everything.” A soft kiss landed on her shoulder. Fade gave her a light squeeze, then stepped back before she could get too emotional.
The Sentinel watched her leave the room. A few moments later, she returned with her familiar carton of cigarettes.
Without a word, she unlocked the living room window and stepped out onto the fire escape. The city stretched out before her in hues of dull gold and pale blue, the sounds of traffic muffled by height and distance. A minute passed before the window creaked again—Deadlock joining her in silence.
Fade lit her cigarette with the tiny silver lighter she kept tucked in her coat pocket. She took a drag and exhaled toward the sky. When she turned her head, her brows lifted in mild surprise.
“You smoke now?” she asked, flicking ash from her cigarette with lazy amusement. “I thought you hated it.”
“I do.” Deadlock took the lighter and lit her own cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp line of her jaw. “But after today… after seeing her again…”
“You needed to take the edge off.” Fade nodded knowingly, watching the first curl of smoke leave Deadlock’s mouth.
The Sentinel took another drag. The smoke didn’t hit like it used to—it bit, scorched slightly, but it calmed her all the same.
“I used to smoke a lot,” she admitted. “Years ago. More than you, actually.”
Fade let out a scoff, feigning offense. “More than me? The army must’ve done a number on you.”
Deadlock cracked a smile, nudging her shoulder. “You have no idea.”
They laughed, low and tired, and Fade let herself relax against the railing. The wind tugged at the loose strands of her hair. In the brief lull between cigarettes, Deadlock began to talk—not about the war, not about what she'd lost—but about the odd pockets of beauty she found while deployed. The food in Morocco. The music in Ukraine. The kind woman in Sweden who gave her directions during a storm and insisted she take a coat.
“I want to see Istanbul,” she said after a pause. “Not on a mission. Not through satellite maps or debriefs. Just… see it. With you.”
Fade’s cigarette paused halfway to her lips. She blinked slowly, caught off guard.
Despite Nightmare whispering at the back of her skull—She’s only saying that to placate you. What else is she hiding?—the truth was, she believed her. Maybe that was the scariest part.
Still, the Turk smiled and took another drag. “Then I’ll take you. You’ll hate the summers. But the view of the Bosphorus at night? Worth every degree.”
They lingered, the sky slowly melting toward dusk, the city lights beginning to blink awake. Deadlock only smoked one, setting her half-finished cigarette in the ashtray. Fade burned through three, her nerves frayed and fraying, but she didn’t mind—not when the smoke clouded Nightmare’s voice, even for a moment.
Not when the person beside her was the reason she still had something to believe in.
Deadlock’s kitchen timer chimed softly, pulling her from the cool evening air of the fire‑escape. She climbed back through the window with a practiced swing of her leg, rolled her shoulders, and headed to the stove to give the stew one last stir.
Steam rose in rich, beef‑scented billows; onions and thyme thickened the air, warm and nostalgic. She reached up to the cabinet for bowls, sliding a stack of dishes aside—then froze. Something caught the light at the very back: a glass neck, dust‑film sparkling under the fixture.
The hell…?
She pushed a plate aside and pulled out the object.
Vodka. Still full, still sealed, label in crisp Cyrillic.
For a heartbeat, every muscle in her body locked.
The bottle felt heavier than cast iron—heavier than a sniper rifle—because it carried the weight of every blackout, every brawl, every morning she’d woken up on a barracks floor with blood on her knuckles and bile in her throat. Her fingers tightened until the tendons in her hand ached. She could almost taste it—sharp, metallic, sweet at the finish.
Not again. Never again.
The window creaked. Deadlock shoved the bottle back, plates clattering in her haste. She planted both hands on the counter and breathed once, twice, forcing her pulse to slow before turning.
Fade climbed inside, lighter flicking idly between her fingers, a relaxed smile on her lips.
“That smells amazing,” she said, brushing a shoulder against Deadlock’s as she moved to wash her hands.
The soldier managed a nod, but her organic hand still trembled—just enough to send a single ink‑black Radiant wisp curling off her knuckle. She hoped Fade wouldn’t notice—
But the Turk caught it out of the corner of her eye. One fragile tendril of shadow, gone as quickly as it formed. Her brow knitted, worry flaring—but Deadlock had already turned toward the speaker, pretending to fuss with the volume.
They filled two bowls, the stew thick and golden, and carried them to the couch. Fade folded herself cross‑legged, bowl warming her palms. Deadlock sat close, passing the remote with a steadier hand than she felt.
Fade studied her profile—the set jaw, the too‑casual flick of hair behind an ear—and the doubt in her own chest coiled tighter. Did I push too hard out there? Nightmare whispered that she had. That there were corners of her girlfriend’s past still barricaded, and Fade would never earn the key.
She didn’t voice it. Instead, she flicked through channels until bright laughter filled the room—Friends, some airport‑TV comfort noise. Deadlock let out a slow breath, shoulders easing by millimeters as canned applause crackled from the speakers.
The stew’s aroma settled over them like a blanket, but Fade tasted worry on every bite. She nudged her knee against Deadlock’s and was rewarded with a soft, grateful hum—small proof that even with old ghosts waiting in the cupboards, they could still sit shoulder to shoulder and share something warm.
The apartment was silent except for the soft click of lamp‑light and the steady pulse of simmering stew hanging in the air. Steam still clung to the windows, carrying the scent of thyme and pepper and slow‑cooked beef—comfort itself, steeped into the walls.
Fade drifted off in the crook of Deadlock’s arm before the credits of the second Friends episode rolled. Her head was heavy against the Sentinel’s shoulder, one hand fisted in the hem of Deadlock’s shirt as though she feared being swept away if she let go. Deadlock listened to her breathing even out, felt the tension in those slender fingers gradually slacken.
Two nights in a row, Fade managed real sleep. A tiny miracle.
Deadlock pressed a kiss to the crown of silver hair and eased herself free, whisper‑soft apologies that Fade never heard. She scooped her lover up and carried her to the bedroom, a low, sweet hum echoing from her throat as she laid her on the bed. Fade mumbled something in Turkish, something too quiet and sleep-slurred to catch, but it made Deadlock smile all the same. She pulled up the covers, making sure her girlfriend was properly tucked in before kissing her forehead and brushing a dark strand behind her ear.
A part of her wanted to stay there. Wanted to just watch the woman’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Feel her warmth wrapped around her.
But another, darker part—one she thought she buried a long time ago—was still thinking of that bottle. Still thinking of cracking it open and taking just one shot. One sip. And right now, that part of her had a stronger willpower than the one that was keeping her tethered to Fade.
She returned to the kitchen on near‑silent feet. The cupboard door creaked when she opened it—the sound sharp in the hush—and her pulse spiked. Fingers closed around the bottle’s cold neck; it felt heavier than her service rifle, heavier than all her medals combined. She stared at the label: Cyrillic letters she’d memorized in darker years. The seal was still perfect. Untouched. Waiting.
Burnt‑sugar fumes seemed to bloom through the glass, vivid enough to make her mouth water. Memories followed in jagged flashes—shouting matches she barely remembered, blood on her knuckles, waking on concrete with no idea how she’d got there.
Her stump started throbbing where flesh used to be.
She set the bottle down, palms flat on either side, head bowed like a penitent. Her breath fogged the glass.
You deserve it… just one shot…
You won’t stop at one. You never did.
Hazal's asleep. She’ll never know.
If she ever smells it on you, it’ll break her.
But that one sip didn’t hurt back in New York…
No, it didn’t hurt in New York.
When she downed an entire glass of champagne in one easy gulp, completely ignoring the burn. It barely took the edge off. But it still brought back the craving.
It made her itch for another glass, or two, or five, so she could take the edge off and feel a proper buzz.
The only reason she got through that damn auction without reaching for something stronger was because she had Fade by her side, keeping her grounded, keeping her sharp. But even then, when she got home and got past the nightmare effects of Omega Fade, she started her sobriety over from day one. It only felt right, considering she was able to resist the temptation for two years.
Hell, she was able to resist after getting her arm bitten off. But pretending to be married to a pretty little shadow for a night was what tipped her over the edge? Pathetic.
“Fuck it,” she whispered into the stillness.
Deadlock peeled the seal. The cap twisted with a traitorous little snap. Alcohol vapor hit her nostrils—bright, medicinal, nostalgic. She closed her eyes, tremors racking the hand that wasn’t steel.
She placed it down on the island, then braced her palms on the counter, staring at the bottle like it had personally offended her.
One part of her brain was begging her to sip on it. The other screamed at her to pour it out. Her chest was tight, her heart was racing. For a long moment, she just stood there, having a silent standoff with the one thing she craved but knew she couldn’t have.
She picked it up again and pivoted, then unscrewed the sink tap and tipped the bottle. Clear liquid gurgled out in a rushing stream. It splashed the basin, releasing a harsh, bittersweet reek that wrapped around her like a taunt.
Her entire body screamed to stop. She tightened her grip until tendons ached. Just one swallow before it’s gone—
She kept pouring. Kept breathing. Kept remembering Fade’s laughter over coffee, her sleepy Turkish murmurs, the way she’d whispered Seni seviyorum and made Deadlock’s heart stutter like a misfired round.
You deserve it… You worked so hard… You deserve something for yourself—
She didn’t deserve this. Not the burn, not the slurred speech or unfocused vision. Not the blackouts. Not the aggression. Not the depression and the anxiety and the need to just drown.
That part of her died four years ago. And she refused to be that woman again.
The last drop fell with a small splash.
Deadlock capped the empty bottle with shaking fingers and shoved it deep into the trash. For a long minute, she stood over the bin, shoulders trembling, self‑disgust warring with brittle relief.
It was one of the hardest things she ever did. But if she drank again and hurt Fade—hurt the woman she loved more than life itself—she wouldn’t survive it.
She wouldn’t allow herself to survive it.
Finally, she turned off the kitchen light and padded back to the bedroom. Fade shifted when the mattress dipped, instinctively curling around the new warmth behind her. Deadlock tucked herself into that space, nuzzling the soft skin just below her lover’s ear. Fade’s arms looped tighter, a content sigh escaping her as sleep held fast.
Deadlock lay awake a while longer, breathing in the steady rhythm she’d nearly shattered. Tomorrow would dawn on another Oslo morning—coffee, laughter, maybe new fears—but it would dawn without vodka on her breath and without the first step back into oblivion.
She pressed a final kiss to Fade’s neck.
“Alt for deg,” she whispered into the dark.
All for you.
Notes:
Okay that chapter was barely 10% sunshine and rainbows. Dw, your regularly scheduled gay happiness will return.
Stay safe, stay healthy, stay warm
~DTranslations:
Seni seviyorum - [Turkish] I love you
Güzelim - [Turkish] My beauty
Chapter 8: Chapter 7
Notes:
Your regularly scheduled gay happiness has returned! Enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next three days passed in a blissful blur.
More café dates—hands grazing over mugs, fingers brushing over tabletops, stolen glances over steam-kissed cups. More slow, golden mornings wrapped in each other’s warmth. More domestic evenings—laughter over simmering pots, shared showers that turned into steam-fogged love, and long nights tangled in limbs and whispers.
They’d gone shopping again the day before—separately this time—to pick out anniversary gifts, both pretending not to be curious about what the other had chosen.
When they’d returned from their little adventure, they’d both hovered too long near each other’s bags, masks of nonchalance slipping.
“You can wait two more days, aşkım,” Fade had teased, swatting Deadlock’s hand away when she tried to peek inside one of the packages.
And now, in the cool hush of morning, soft light filtered through the blinds, casting golden slats across the tangled bedsheets.
Deadlock stirred, warmth blooming on her lips before she even opened her eyes. Fade was kissing her, slow and languid, like she had all the time in the world.
The soldier sighed into the kiss, her body relaxing on instinct as she reached up, brushing her cool prosthetic fingers over Fade’s jaw. Metal against skin. A contrast they’d grown used to.
Fade’s hand was firm on her hip, pulling her closer, bodies aligning in a familiar rhythm. Her other hand slipped under Deadlock’s sleep shirt, fingertips skating over scarred skin, tracing the lines of her ribs like they were sacred verses.
The kiss deepened.
Deadlock's breath hitched.
Then Fade broke away—not far, just enough to breathe, just enough to tease. Their lips hovered, ghosting against each other as warm breath mingled in the sliver of space between them. And then the Turk's mouth was at her jaw, her neck, painting kisses that bled into soft bites, marking her territory with each bruise.
Love. Claim. Devotion.
She mouthed over old scars and new skin, dragged her teeth down to Deadlock’s collarbone, then soothed the sting with her tongue. Each mark she left was a promise—and when they stepped outside later, the crisp Oslo air wouldn’t be enough to hide them. People would see. People would know.
The Norwegian was already spoken for.
Deadlock hissed softly as Fade dragged her teeth over a fresh mark, and the Initiator smiled into her skin.
Satisfied, Fade sat back slightly to admire her handiwork, her hand tucking a blonde strand behind Deadlock’s ear with reverence.
“Mm… good morning,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and hunger.
“Morning, kjære,” Deadlock rasped, her voice gravelly and low, lips curled in a dazed, lovestruck smile. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her chest rising in slow, steady pulls.
Fade leaned in again, kissing her slow and deep as she shifted, slotting herself between her lover’s thighs with practiced ease. One hennaed hand cradled the blonde's marked throat—thumb brushing over her pulse point—while the other gripped her hip.
Deadlock’s hips rolled, deliberate and slow, drawing a moan from Fade that she quickly swallowed with another kiss. The sound reverberated through her mouth, her throat, her core.
The moment was hot and thick—morning heat blooming between them, sheets pushed halfway down, the world outside suspended in amber.
Fade’s fingers ghosted over the waistband of her lover’s pajama pants, teasing the elastic, just about to slip underneath when—
The phone rang.
“I swear to God,” Deadlock groaned, head tipping back into the pillow, eyes shut like the sheer agony of the interruption might kill her.
The Initiator chuckled, stretching for the phone on the nightstand. She peeked at the contact and grinned.
“It’s Skye.”
“She can wait.”
“You and I both know ‘wait’ isn’t in her vocabulary,” Fade said with a smirk, passing her the device, though her fingers lingered. Her voice was teasing, but her eyes still burned.
The second Deadlock accepted the call, Fade’s prowling hands made it almost impossible for her to concentrate.
“Kirra, I swear—”
“Hypothetically, how bad would Fade torture me if I strangled Neon?” Skye hissed, cutting her off. Her Australian drawl was thick with annoyance.
Deadlock blinked, trying to shift from molten‑blooded desire to older‑sister crisis mode. “What did she do now?”
“Neon, Gekko, and Clove decided it’d be ‘hilaaaarious’ to spy on me and Ryo,” Skye snarled. “They took the footage, slapped some sappy piano under it, and turned it into a rom‑com trailer. Sent it to the entire fuckin’ protocol!”
Fade, propped on her knees between her girlfriend's thighs, stifled a wicked chuckle. Her thumb kept stroking the fading bruise on Deadlock’s throat; the heat of her body bled through the thin cotton. A possessive glimmer lit her eyes.
Deadlock’s brain misfired. She tried to focus on Skye’s rant, but Fade slid both hands up under her shirt and raked teasing nails down sculpted abs. Every muscle jumped under her touch.
“It even had sparkly captions!” Skye continued, oblivious. “Ryo’s ready to rift them all into next week. Took me an hour to talk him down!”
Deadlock attempted a sympathetic hum, but it came out more like a strangled sigh when Fade mouthed a kiss between her breasts.
‘So. Freaking. Evil,’ Deadlock thought, teeth sinking into her lower lip.
“Skye, just relax,” she managed, voice rough—too rough. “They’re bored. Fade and I aren’t there, so you and Ryo are… temporary targets.”
Fade grinned up at her, clearly pleased with the double meaning of target. She thumbed open Deadlock’s waistband, fingertips brushing the skin just below. The Sentinel’s pulse hammered in her throat.
“Where’s Fade anyway?” Skye asked. “I don’t hear her yelling at ghosts n’ shit.”
“Oh, I’m here,” Fade purred—far too calm for what she was doing. “And for the record, if you strangle Neon, I’ll happily put two rounds in your kneecaps.”
A bright, exasperated laugh burst through the speaker. “Yeah, yeah. Good to know.” There was a rustle, the squeak of a hinge, and Yoru’s unmistakable baritone muttering something flustered in Japanese.
Fade sealed her mouth over Deadlock’s to swallow her answering laugh—a deep, hungry kiss. The phone wobbled in the Sentinel’s hand—then Skye’s line went dead, a single beep cutting through the heat‑hazed room.
The Norwegian exhaled a shaky breath. “Never been happier to lose reception.”
Fade reached over, powered the call log to oblivion, then flicked her own phone off for good measure. Devices thunked onto the nightstand. Her gaze slid back to Deadlock—dark, molten, utterly intent—as her palm glided up the blonde’s thigh.
“Now,” she said, hooking two fingers in the waistband and tugging—slow, deliberate—“where were we?”
By the time they stepped out of the apartment, the afternoon sun had climbed high, casting a warm glow over the cobbled streets and storefronts of downtown Oslo. The air was crisp, but pleasant—a far cry from the chilled morning haze—and there was a gentle breeze threading through the city, tugging lightly at their clothes.
They both wore pieces from their last shopping trip. Deadlock had opted for one of the layered outfits Fade picked out—an oversized flannel thrown over a slim-fit tee, paired with dark cargo pants and her usual boots. Simple, comfortable, but every layer carried a memory—Fade’s teasing commentary in the dressing room, the soft way she’d rolled the sleeves up for her, the quiet pride in her eyes when Deadlock stepped out in it.
Fade, on the other hand, had gone with one of her new dresses. A navy satin slip, elegant but effortless, hugging her form and stopping mid-calf. There was delicate lace detailing along the neckline, soft and sheer, framing her collarbones like inked petals. Her makeup was understated today—just a subtle flick of liner and a tinted gloss that deepened the color of her lips. Most of her piercings were out, save for her septum and the silver industrial bar on her upper ear.
When she stepped out of the bathroom earlier, framed in sunlight, Deadlock had nearly ruined their plans altogether.
Still aching from how Fade had completely unraveled her that morning, the sight of her all over again—glossed lips, calm eyes, that fucking dress—nearly tipped her right back over the edge.
She’d stalked over, intent on stripping it off, but the bounty hunter had laughed, soft and low, and placed a kiss on her chin.
"Not unless you plan on buying me a new one after," she’d teased, pulling just out of reach. “Let’s go, sweetheart. You promised to behave.”
Now they strolled hand in hand, weaving through the city with no destination in mind. The bustle of Oslo surrounded them—voices chattering in Norwegian, the scent of roasted almonds wafting from a nearby cart, a street performer playing the violin by the metro entrance.
As they passed a tattoo parlor with blacked-out windows and bold script painted across the glass, Fade nodded toward it.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to go to one of those,” she said casually, her tone light.
Deadlock’s brows lifted in surprise. “You’ve never been?”
The Turk shook her head. “Not to a place like that. Got mine done by an underground artist in Istanbul—guy owed me a favor. I went there for bounty intel, walked out with a folder and fresh ink.”
The soldier hummed thoughtfully, slowing her steps for a moment as her gaze flicked down, as if she could see through the fabric of Fade’s dress to the ink etched along her side. She still hadn’t asked what the tattoo meant. There’d been moments—curious, quiet moments—where she wanted to. But it never felt like the right time. Now she found herself wondering more than that.
“What would you get next?” she asked.
Fade glanced over, a smile curling her lips. “What, you thinking of getting one?”
Deadlock chuckled, deflecting. “Just curious.”
“Mmm.” Fade tilted her head, eyes half-lidded in the light. “I don’t know. Maybe something on my hands. Or another piece on my ribs. Something that burns a little.”
“Why your hands?” Deadlock asked, genuinely intrigued.
“Because they’re the first thing that touch someone,” Fade said, voice velvet-smooth. “And the last thing they see when you let go.”
That quiet answer stuck with the soldier as they walked. The kind of sentence that sounded simple, but echoed long after it left the air.
They ended up back at their favorite cafe from their first day—tucked just off a side street, still cozy and half-empty. Fade claimed their usual corner table while Deadlock ordered two coffees, one with oat milk and a shot of hazelnut, the other jet-black with no sugar.
She carried the cups over and set them down gently.
“Anything specific you want to do today?” Deadlock asked, taking a sip from her latte.
Fade tilted her head, swishing her coffee around in the cup like she was tasting the idea. “I saw a boutique near that tattoo parlor. Looked nice. Thought we could check it out.”
The blonde smirked. “You and your retail therapy…”
“Hey, it works,” the Initiator said with a shrug, her smile a little too innocent to trust. “You’re the one who’s gonna end up carrying my bags.”
“Again.”
Fade leaned in, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You love it.”
Deadlock rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth gave her away. She stood and offered her hand again.
“Come on then,” she said. “Let’s go.”
As soon as they stepped inside the boutique, Fade passed her half-empty coffee cup to Deadlock without looking—already zeroed in on a clothing rack near the back. She moved with practiced ease, flipping through vintage coats like she was searching for a missing puzzle piece.
Deadlock chuckled under her breath and took a sip from the drink, the warmth grounding her as she wandered toward a shelf lined with old baseball caps. She lifted a weathered Oslo Pretenders hat from the stack and slid it on, adjusting the brim in the mirror. It didn’t suit her, not really—but she smiled anyway, if only because she could hear Fade’s voice in her head calling her a "jock."
But just as she turned to put the cap back, something caught the light.
A glass jewelry case sat nearby, mostly filled with tangled chains, pearl earrings, and timeworn wristwatches. Deadlock bent closer, scanning the display with vague interest—until she saw it.
A ring.
Not flashy. Not staged front and center. Just sitting quietly in a velvet tray like it had been waiting for someone to see it.
She stepped closer.
Aged platinum band, soft with time. Marquise-cut deep blue sapphire in the center—dark and rich, like twilight. Two round, smoke-grey spinels flanked it. A delicate halo wrapped the main stone like a whisper. When she turned it in the light, she saw the tiny engraving etched into the band: crescent moons, elegant and barely there.
Her heart skipped. Her stomach twisted.
It wasn’t just beautiful—it was hers.
Not hers to wear. Hers to give. Hers to keep safe until the moment was right.
It reminded her of Fade’s radiance—not the violent storm of it, but what came after. The smoke. The quiet. The stillness that settled into your bones. It was strange and dark and soft in all the ways Fade had never been allowed to be, and Deadlock knew—knew—this was meant for her.
She didn’t hesitate. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Fade was still busy—she was, trying on a leather jacket that swallowed her frame—and then made a beeline for the register. The clerk boxed it up without fuss. Deadlock slipped the box into the inner pocket of her jacket and buttoned it closed like she was tucking away a secret.
By the time she joined her girlfriend again, Fade had discarded the oversized coat and was inspecting herself in the mirror with a dark flannel half-shrugged onto her arms.
Deadlock stepped behind her and wrapped her hands around her waist, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “This looks good on you,” she murmured against her skin.
Fade arched a brow in the mirror. “You think everything looks good on me.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Fade turned, looping her arms around the soldier’s neck, her fingers curling into the soft waves at the nape. “I might buy it,” she mused, eyes half-lidded. “Did you find anything?”
Deadlock shrugged, doing her best to look casual. “A couple of hats. Nothing too crazy.”
Fade leaned back slightly, still watching her. “Mhm. And here I thought I was the liar in this relationship.”
The blonde scoffed, hand to her chest in mock offense. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got that look in your eye,” Fade said, smirking. “The same one you had when you tried to sneak an extra box of chocolate past me last week.”
Deadlock smiled, then leaned in and kissed her forehead, her voice low and fond. “You’ll just have to wait, așkım.”
Fade groaned dramatically but her smile betrayed her. She shrugged off the flannel and hung it back on the rack, then allowed herself to be led toward the exit, their hands intertwined like they were built to fit. She didn’t press again. Not because she wasn’t curious—but because she trusted that whatever secret Deadlock was keeping… it would be worth the wait.
They were walking through the park just outside the city—quiet and tucked away, the path winding along a narrow stream. Deadlock had her hands in her coat pockets, shoulders drawn tight despite the mild weather. Fade walked beside her, swinging their joined hands lazily between them.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it never really was—but there was a kind of tension in the air, like something unsaid had been bubbling under the surface for a while.
Deadlock glanced over, catching the way the sunlight hit the henna on Fade’s fingers, the way her hair caught in the breeze. She took a slow breath.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, voice casual—but too casual. The kind of tone she used when trying to keep her nerves from showing.
Fade tilted her head, narrowing her eyes slightly. “About?”
A pause.
Deadlock looked forward again, then stopped walking. She pulled Fade to a slow halt beside her and looked down at their hands.
“There’s… a place I haven’t gone back to in a long time.”
Fade blinked, her teasing smile fading into something softer. “Okay…”
“My parents live just outside of Asker,” she said. “A small town. Not much going on. Quiet. It’s where I grew up.” Another beat. “They haven’t seen me in over three years. I was listed as KIA after the vault. They thought I was dead.”
Fade’s breath caught. Her grip tightened just a little.
“I wrote to them after I joined the Protocol. Sent letters. No details. Just that I was alive and safe,” Deadlock said, voice quieter now. “But I haven’t seen them. Not in person. Not since everything happened.”
Fade didn’t say anything. She just waited. Patient. Present.
Deadlock exhaled slowly, finally meeting her eyes. “I want to see them. I need to. But I don’t want to go alone.”
That hit her like a punch to the chest—soft but heavy. Fade blinked quickly, trying not to let her expression betray the thousand things she was suddenly feeling.
“You want me to come with you?”
Deadlock nodded. “Only if you want to. I know it’s a lot. It’s not like grabbing coffee or going shopping. It’s… it’s a big step.”
Fade studied her face—carefully, tenderly. Then, with a small smile, she said, “It is.”
Deadlock started to pull away, misinterpreting her tone, but Fade caught her wrist.
“It’s a big step,” she repeated. “But it’s not one I’m scared to take.”
A pause. Then, “You’re worth that step.”
Deadlock didn’t say anything for a moment. She just reached out, brushing her fingers over Fade’s cheek, letting herself breathe.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Fade teased, trying to lighten the weight in her chest. “They might hate me.”
“Not possible,” Deadlock said, finally smiling—small, crooked, real. “It’s impossible not to love you.”
Notes:
Thanks for reading, ily all <3
Translations:
Kjære - [Norwegian] My love
Chapter 9: Chapter 8
Chapter Text
After grabbing a late lunch and catching a quick train out of the city, the girls arrived in Asker—a quiet, tree-lined town with cobblestone streets and old homes that stood with a kind of quiet pride. But despite the idyllic setting, both women were wound tighter than a coiled spring.
Deadlock hadn’t been back in three years. Three long years where she was gone—not just unreachable, but listed as KIA in every official document Ståljeger had forged or touched. As far as her family knew, she died during a mission gone wrong, buried beneath rubble and classified red tape.
So how do you come back from that?
How do you knock on your mother’s door and say I’m alive, when she’s already mourned you?
How do you look your brother in the eye, knowing he probably hated the world for letting you go?
Her chest ached with it. Her head buzzed. She couldn’t even focus on the street numbers, her vision blurring just enough to keep her eyes fixed on the ground.
And Fade? She wasn’t exactly doing better. She hadn’t stopped shaking since they left the station—her knee bouncing on the train so fast it made the floor beneath them vibrate. The heel of her platform boots tapped a relentless rhythm against the metal, earning a few glances from nearby passengers she didn’t even register.
She’d never done this before. Never met someone’s family. Not like this. Not officially. Most of the people she’d been with in Istanbul were jobs or moments—fleeting and transactional, gone before they could call it anything real. No one ever meant enough to stay, let alone introduce her to the people who made them.
But now?
Now she was walking through a sleepy, sun-dappled neighborhood with the love of her life, scanning white-painted mailboxes and overgrown hydrangea bushes, holding her hand so tightly she could feel the pulse in her wrist.
Deadlock hadn’t said a word in minutes. So Fade glanced over—and saw it immediately. The faraway look in her eyes. The tension in her jaw. The sheer weight she was carrying.
She gave her a gentle nudge with her shoulder, trying to ease it.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
Deadlock blinked, like she was returning to her body, and nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m okay.”
Fade slowed them to a stop. She stepped in front of her and placed both hands on her shoulders, her brows drawn together with quiet concern.
“Are you sure?” she pressed. “We can go home. Try again another day. You don’t owe anyone anything today—not even them.”
The blonde didn’t answer right away. She tried to offer a smile—small, crooked, and worn—but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Fade noticed the inky tendrils curling off her radiance, wisps of shadow bleeding off her like smoke under pressure. She gently brushed them away and reached up to cradle her face between her palms, thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones.
“It’s up to you, güzel,” she whispered, the word full of softness. “I’m with you no matter what.”
And for a second, Deadlock couldn’t breathe.
She didn’t deserve this. Not this love, not this calm in the storm, not this woman who saw all of her—the bloodstains, the buried grief, the pieces she still hadn’t put back together—and stayed.
But she took a slow breath, grounded by the warmth of Fade’s touch. Her hands reached up to take one of her wrists, and she pressed a kiss to the center of her palm like it might bless her with strength.
“I’m okay,” she said, voice low but steady. “I promise.”
Then she dropped her hand and gently laced their fingers again.
“Let’s go.”
When they arrived at the house, they just stood at the edge of the driveway, frozen.
The lawn was neatly trimmed. Hydrangeas bloomed in soft pinks and blues near the porch, and two weathered veteran flags flapped gently from poles affixed to the roof—one Norwegian, one bearing the insignia of Ståljeger.
The sight nearly knocked the breath from Deadlock’s lungs. Her mouth went dry. Her eyes stung.
Two flags. Two deaths.
Two people Momma had to bury.
She swallowed thickly and clenched her jaw, forcing her feet up the stone walkway. Each bootstep felt impossibly loud in the quiet. Fade walked beside her, their hands brushing but not quite touching. When they reached the door, Deadlock hesitated—hand hovering just above the bell.
Fade wordlessly reached over, lacing their fingers together, grounding her.
Deadlock rang the bell. Once. Twice. Then stepped back, gripping her girlfriend’s hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.
A tall, lean man appeared in the frame. His face was familiar in that haunting way old family photos were—his jawline sharper now, his skin rougher, tired in a way Deadlock hadn’t remembered. But his eyes, an unguarded shade of ocean blue, were unmistakable.
It was like looking into a mirror of what her own grief might’ve looked like if their roles had been reversed.
“Iselin?” he asked, voice catching, uncertain. The name trembled on his tongue.
“Hey, Rikky,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite her best effort to keep it even.
There was silence.
Thick and taut and heavy.
Neither of them moved. They just stood there—eyes locked, chests heaving, both trying to convince themselves that this moment wasn’t a hallucination or a cruel joke.
Then he broke. The disbelief cracked, and emotion rushed in to fill the space.
Derek surged forward and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to him. His breath hitched. His voice broke. His tears soaked through the shoulder of her coat.
“You’re really here,” he rasped. “You’re alive. You’re—fuck, Iselin, you’re really here.”
Deadlock stiffened, paralyzed by the weight of it all. She hadn’t been touched like this by family in years. Not since before the vault. Not since before she died.
But then she melted into it, arms circling his back, eyes shutting as she buried her face into his shoulder.
“I’m really here,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Fade stood a few steps back, eyes lowered out of respect—but she couldn’t look away. Her throat tightened at the sight of them. She knew grief intimately. Knew what it was like to mourn someone who still haunted your dreams. But for once, someone was getting their second chance. And Fade felt nothing but awe and quiet joy for them.
Eventually, the two siblings pulled apart, wiping at their eyes like teenagers trying not to cry after a scraped knee. Deadlock gave Derek a light punch in the arm with her mechanical hand—a familiar gesture, one steeped in years of teasing and shared language.
Then she reached behind her and found Hazal’s hand again. She turned to her partner and said, “Hazal, this is my older brother, Derek.”
Fade gave a soft wave, her voice catching a little in her throat. “It’s… really good to meet you.”
Derek’s red-rimmed eyes crinkled as he gave her a warm, slightly overwhelmed smile. “You too. Thank you… for bringing her back to us.”
Fade’s breath hitched, but she smiled and gave a small nod.
Derek stepped back and opened the door wider, his voice thick but steady now. “Come in. Momma’s been in the kitchen all morning. She’ll want to see you.”
Deadlock took a breath like she was about to walk into a battlefield. Then she stepped over the threshold, still holding Fade’s hand.
They shrugged off their coats and hung them neatly on the rack by the door. Derek locked it behind them, then turned with deliberate slowness, raking his eyes over Fade in a full, silent assessment.
The Turk lifted a brow at the scrutiny, but didn’t shrink back.
“Here we go,” Deadlock muttered under her breath, already rubbing her temples.
Fade tilted her head. “What?”
The blonde pointed at her brother without looking up. “He’s sizing you up. Give him a minute, he thinks he’s subtle.”
Derek raised both hands like he’d been falsely accused. “What? I’m just making sure you’re not dating another chaos demon in eyeliner.”
“Keep talking and I’ll actually end you,” Deadlock warned, deadpan.
Fade couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips. “Should I be worried about your dating history?”
“Not unless you have a time machine and a desire to suffer,” Deadlock muttered, arms crossed as she leaned against the opposite wall with a sigh.
Fade turned her attention back to Derek, who had now squared his shoulders and crossed his arms, standing a little taller. He looked like he was preparing for an interrogation—and in a way, he was.
But Fade didn’t flinch. She folded her arms across her chest and met his gaze head-on, her mismatched eyes unreadable. She didn’t puff herself up or try to out-tough him. She just stood there with quiet certainty, grounded and still.
Derek nodded once, slowly. “How long have you been dating my sister?”
“Two years tomorrow,” she answered calmly, voice clear.
He raised a brow. “Where’d you meet?”
Fade gave him the faintest smirk. “I can’t say.”
“And why’s that?”
“Classified.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That so?”
Fade just gave a small shrug. “Afraid so.”
He glanced at Deadlock, who hadn’t moved—just stood there watching, arms still crossed, a quiet smirk on her lips that she made no effort to hide.
He looked back at Fade, expression softening just slightly. “Do you love her?”
“More than breathing,” she said without hesitation, without blinking.
That gave him pause.
He held her gaze for a long moment—longer than most people could stand without squirming—but Fade never looked away. Her posture never changed. She didn’t need to prove her love. It was in everything she said, and everything she didn’t.
Derek finally let his arms fall to his sides, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I like her,” he said over his shoulder to Deadlock. “She’s tough.”
Deadlock scoffed. “Tough is an understatement.”
Fade smirked a little. “I’ll take it.”
Before Derek could offer a reply, the sound of soft footsteps approached from deeper in the house—then a voice, hesitant and cautious.
“Derek? Who was at the door?”
Deadlock’s breath caught in her throat.
Before Derek could answer, a soft shuffling echoed from the hallway. An older woman stepped into view, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She had wavy, chocolate brown hair twisted into a haphazard bun, and warm amber eyes that softened instantly—then widened in disbelief.
She was small compared to the other two—maybe 5’6 on a good day—but carried herself with the unmistakable posture of someone who'd known discipline, who’d known strength. She stopped short in the doorway as her gaze landed on Deadlock.
“Ise…?” she breathed, the nickname crumbling off her tongue like a prayer.
Her steps forward were hesitant, almost afraid—like if she blinked, the vision would disappear. She reached out, fingers trembling, hovering inches from her daughter’s cheek.
Deadlock gently closed the distance. She caught her mother’s hand in her own and guided it the rest of the way. The contact sent a tear sliding down her cheek before she could stop it.
“Hi, momma,” she whispered, voice cracked and low.
Lena’s lips trembled. She turned toward Derek for silent confirmation.
He nodded.
And then she moved all at once—framing Deadlock’s face with both hands, brushing away tears with her thumbs. “You came home…” Her voice broke into a soft, stunned laugh before she peppered the blonde’s face in kisses—on her cheeks, her forehead, her nose—leaving faint pink lipstick behind like tiny love notes.
Then she wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close, clinging like she might never let go.
This time, Deadlock didn’t stiffen. She didn’t hesitate. She just held her mother, arms strong and certain around her smaller frame, eyes squeezed shut against the wave of emotion threatening to spill over again.
Derek stood beside Fade, nudging her elbow gently. His voice was low, but still laced with the same teasing older-brother tone.
“Can you tell who the favorite is yet?”
Fade gave him a soft eye roll, but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t blame her,” she murmured. “Iselin’s my favorite person too.”
He gave her a sideways look, mildly impressed.
When mother and daughter finally pulled apart, Lena let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her own eyes. But as her gaze drifted over Deadlock’s shoulder and down her arm, she froze again.
Her eyes locked on the prosthetic.
Her lips parted, pain flashing across her face as her fingers reached for it, tentative but reverent. She turned Deadlock’s mechanical hand over carefully in hers, pushing the sleeve up to see it in full. Her thumb brushed over the joints, as if trying to feel what her daughter had lost—trying to make sense of what war had taken.
“Oh, Ise…”
“It’s okay, momma.” Deadlock gave her a small but reassuring smile. “I’m okay, I promise.” She gently withdrew her hand, nodding toward Fade. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Lena turned, and Fade straightened instinctively. Her heart was thudding, but she kept her expression calm, gently open. She didn’t expect to be touched, but Lena reached out and placed a warm hand on her shoulder. The pressure was light but steady—comforting.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Hazal,” she answered, softer than she meant to. It felt strange, saying her real name aloud. Stranger still to offer it so easily. She was used to Deadlock saying it, maybe Neon or Skye too. But speaking it for herself—for a mother, for a family—felt vulnerable.
It felt… right.
“And you’ve been taking care of my daughter, yes?” Lena asked. The question was gentle, but it held weight. The kind of weight only a mother could wield.
“Yes, ma’am. Always.”
Lena studied her for a moment. Then, with a nod, she stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
Fade stiffened at first—an old reflex—but then melted into the embrace. Her arms wrapped gently around the older woman’s frame, and her eyes burned. It wasn’t anxiety anymore. It was something else—something warm and aching in its gentleness.
Belonging. Real and quiet and sharp in its sweetness.
Lena’s voice came muffled from her shoulder. “Then welcome to the family, Hazal. You can call me Lena.”
Fade’s throat constricted. She didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded, hugging her tighter before they slowly pulled apart.
Deadlock watched from a few feet away, arms folded loosely, eyes soft. Pride swelled in her chest—not just because her family had accepted Fade, but because Fade had let herself be seen. Let herself be loved.
She knew how nervous her girlfriend had been. Knew how hard it was to open that door. And now she stood in the middle of the family's living room, holding her own.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Lena said with a bright but watery smile. She patted Fade’s cheek with a mother’s fondness, then turned toward her children. “Come help me in the kitchen before I start crying again.”
The three of them followed Lena into the kitchen without a word. The house was warm, the smell of herbs and simmering broth thick in the air. It should’ve felt comforting, but the air was taut with unspoken tension—questions simmering just beneath the surface, too heavy to name outright.
Deadlock pulled out a chair for Fade and waited for her to sit before lowering herself beside her. Derek leaned in to kiss their mother’s cheek before hopping up to perch on the edge of the table, casual as ever—trying to keep things light, even as his eyes flicked to his sister with guarded hope.
He gave her a light punch to the shoulder.
“So,” he said, smirking a little when she swatted his arm in retaliation, “catch us up. How’s this mystery life been treating you?”
Deadlock exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to Fade. Her expression was calm, but her fingers curled slightly against her thigh—a quiet ask: what can I say?
Fade only shrugged gently and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Whatever you’re ready for, her look said.
Deadlock turned back toward her brother. “It’s been… good,” she said, feigning ease that didn’t quite reach her voice. “Met some new people. Saw some new places.”
Lena, still standing at the stove, glanced over her shoulder. “Are you staying here? In Norway?”
“For a few more days,” Deadlock said. “Then we have to go back.”
“Back where?”
Deadlock didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked again to Fade—brief, tight. She’d been expecting this, but that didn’t make it easier.
Fade’s voice came in, smooth and calm. “Back to the base.”
She reached beneath the table and gently threaded her fingers through Deadlock’s—a quiet anchor, solid and steady. I’m here.
“The company we work for has us and our team stationed on a private island. That’s where our headquarters are.”
“Company?” Derek’s brows lifted, folding his arms across his chest. “Like Kingdom?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
Deadlock sat forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her tone shifted, low and serious. “Derek,” she said, “if I could tell you everything, I would. You know I would. But I can’t. Not yet.”
Her brother frowned, going quiet. The shift in him was subtle but real—he wasn’t angry, not really. He was hurt. His shoulders sagged a little as he looked at her. “Then at least tell me this,” he said. “Why didn’t you come back? Why did you join them instead of coming home?”
Deadlock’s jaw clenched. Her fingers squeezed around Fade’s hand.
“Because they saved me,” she said finally, voice tight. “After the vault… I was barely alive. They found me. Took me to their base, treated my injuries, built me an arm.”
She flexed her prosthetic on instinct. “And then they gave me a choice. I could stay, or go back to a world where I was a ghost. And if I stayed, I could help keep other people from going through what I did.”
“They told us you were dead,” Derek said, his voice low and raw. “There was a funeral. A fucking service.”
“Ståljeger told you that,” Deadlock said, sharper than intended. She took a breath, forcing herself to soften. “All they found was my arm. They assumed that damn bear got the rest of me. There wasn’t a body.”
Silence settled between them, thick and strained.
Fade looked up and gently slid her free hand across the table, palm up. After a long pause, Derek took it—his grip hesitant at first, then firmer. She held it with quiet reverence.
“Don’t be angry with her,” she said softly. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I lost my little brother. They told me he was dead, too. I lived every day with that hole in my chest.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Your sister didn’t come back because she was choosing something bigger than herself. Something that might keep you safe. And I know it doesn’t feel like it, but that’s love, too.”
Lena moved away from the stove, wiping her hands on a towel. She stood behind her daughter and gently pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.
“She’s like her father—Martin—in that way,” she said quietly. “Always putting others first. Even when it cost him everything.”
Deadlock closed her eyes. That name—that memory—was still a raw nerve. Her father had been her compass. Her example. The reason she enlisted. She wore his dog tags beside her own every single day, even now, beneath her coat. He never got to see her off the day she left for basic. He’d died the year before. But she still lived every day trying to make him proud.
Lena’s hands curled gently around her shoulders again. “We love you, Iselin,” she said, voice rough with emotion. “Thank you for coming home… even if it’s just for today.”
Deadlock didn’t trust herself to speak. Her throat was tight, her eyes hot. So she just nodded and leaned over, pressing a kiss to the back of her mother’s hand, holding it like something fragile and irreplaceable.
Fade said nothing, but her fingers never left Deadlock’s.
Derek turned toward Fade, finally releasing her hand with a soft sigh. “So, Hazal,” he said, tilting his head with a lopsided grin, “were you a military brat like Ise?”
Deadlock groaned and flipped him off. Fade let out a breathy chuckle, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “No, I wasn’t,” she said. “My family lived a quiet life—just two teachers raising two overactive kids.”
That one sentence made Deadlock freeze for a moment. Her gaze lifted instinctively to her partner. She’d never heard Fade speak about her family—never even caught the faintest detail beyond the fact that they were gone. It was a line she never crossed. A subject the Initiator had always shut down with a small shrug or a distant look.
But now, here she was. Casual. Soft. Like the memory didn’t feel like a knife for once.
“Do you get to see them often?” Lena asked gently, her voice the kind of warmth that could melt frost.
Fade’s small smile faded into something more solemn. She leaned back in her chair, her thumb absently rubbing over one of the faded henna lines on her palm. Her throat bobbed with a swallow. “No… they died when I was thirteen.”
The room went still.
“My brother and I used to visit their graves every Sunday, though. Just the two of us.” She looked down briefly, eyes shining, but not yet teary. “It was our thing—our ‘family meeting,’ he’d call it.”
The memory hurt, but there was something tender about it. Something sacred. She could still feel the damp cemetery grass under their knees, still hear the distant calls of the muezzin echoing from the hills. The old man who ran the corner shop near the cemetery always kept extra pastries for them—said they looked too thin, too quiet for kids their age.
“I’m so sorry,” Lena whispered, stepping forward without hesitation. She wrapped her arms around Fade in a brief but grounding hug, the kind a mother gave when she didn’t have words but wanted to fill the silence with love.
Fade stilled at first, startled by the contact, but then relaxed into it—just for a moment. Her hands trembled slightly when she let them rest on Lena’s back.
“You’re even tougher than I gave you credit for,” Derek added, his voice lower now, more sincere. “If I lost Iselin and both my parents, I’d be… gone. Like, truly.”
“I thought the same thing,” Fade admitted. “And it hurt. A lot. Still does, most days.” Her eyes slid over to Deadlock. A quiet smile softened her face. “But Ise helped me through it.”
The words struck something deep. Deadlock blinked slowly, unsure whether to kiss her or just stare. That small declaration was more than affection—it was trust, the kind Fade didn’t give freely. Her walls were steel, reinforced by years of grief, guilt, and self-preservation. And yet here she was, slowly opening the gate.
In that moment, something shifted.
It wasn’t just Deadlock’s partner sitting at the table anymore—it was family. And Derek, for all his sarcasm and protectiveness, saw it too. His posture softened. The weight he’d been holding—the need to evaluate, to test—melted into something warmer, more open.
As the minutes stretched into hours, Fade kept talking.
She told them about her childhood in Istanbul—the crowded markets, the jasmine-scented breeze off the Bosphorus, her brother’s obsession with stray cats. She described their favorite rooftop they’d sneak up to at night just to watch the stars and complain about the world. Her voice never rose above a hush, but it never faltered either.
When Lena asked about the henna, Fade held out her hands without hesitation. She explained the meaning of each line, each swirl, each tiny dot. One was for protection. Another for clarity. A third, tucked near the edge of her palm, for grief—an older design that never quite faded.
Deadlock said almost nothing. She didn’t need to. She sat back in her chair, sipping her tea, her gaze locked on the woman beside her.
She’d never seen her like this. Not even in the safety of their apartment. Not in the quiet of the night when they held each other under the covers. This was a version of Hazal that belonged only to memory—and now, for the first time, to her family.
And quietly, in the back of her mind, Deadlock’s thoughts drifted to the velvet box hidden in her coat.
To the aged platinum band. To the marquise-cut sapphire. To the tiny crescent moons carved into the metal.
She hadn’t known why she bought it. Not at first. It had just felt right, instinctive—like a match struck in the dark.
But now… now she knew.
Because she wanted this. Wanted more of it. Not just the nights wrapped in sheets or the battlefield silences. She wanted the sound of Fade’s laugh echoing through warm kitchens. She wanted more family dinners, more sleepy train rides, more Sundays and rainstorms and late morning coffee runs.
She wanted a forever carved from the fragments they’d both spent their whole lives surviving.
And she wanted it with her.
Notes:
we love daughter-in-law fade <33
hope yall enjoyed.
stay safe, stay healthy, stay warm <3
~DTranslations:
Güzel - [Turkish] Beautiful
Chapter 10: Chapter 9
Notes:
Time for some anniversary action babes.
Happy reading <33
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning, Fade woke with the sunrise, the pale light spilling through the curtains like silk across the hardwood floors. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked the sleep from her eyes, a quiet yawn escaping as she rolled onto her side.
Beside her, Deadlock was still fast asleep—her features soft and slack, blonde hair tangled across the pillow, the blanket half-tugged off her shoulder.
Fade smiled to herself and reached out, gently brushing a few strands from her lover’s face. She lingered there, her thumb sweeping lightly across her cheekbone. Then, leaning forward, she pressed a featherlight kiss to her forehead.
“Mutlu yıl dönümümüz,” she whispered, barely more than breath.
She stayed like that a moment longer, just listening to her partner breathe, heart aching with quiet gratitude. Then she eased out of bed, careful not to wake her, the mattress barely shifting beneath her.
She padded barefoot into the living room, her steps silent as shadow. The apartment was still and cool with early morning calm, and she stretched her arms with a soft groan, letting her shoulders crack, joints popping like relief after tension.
A few days ago, she’d tucked Deadlock’s anniversary gifts into the small storage closet behind the stack of spare blankets. Not because she didn’t trust her not to peek… but because she wanted to keep them safe. Like memories.
Now, one by one, she retrieved them and set them out on the coffee table, arranging them with deliberate care. Each piece had its own weight. Its own story.
A thick, forest green scarf—soft and warm, handwoven by a local artisan, just like the ones she used to see on Oslo’s winter streets.
A heavy leather-bound journal, blank but for the gold lettering on the front. Iselin Røkke, pressed into the cover with quiet permanence.
A compact tactical knife, sleek and sharp, engraved with Yanındayım. I’m with you. A promise—and a replacement for the one Omega Breach had snapped mid-mission weeks ago.
And then… the sweater.
It was pale pink, cropped just enough to show a sliver of skin, and worlds away from Deadlock's usual wardrobe. Delicate. Sentimental. A relic from a night that haunted them both.
The night the blonde had pulled Fade from a nightmare—unarmed, unflinching—while her Radiance surged out of control. The night Fade’s power had turned on the only person she couldn’t bear to hurt.
It had torn the sweater apart. Scorched her. Left scars on both of them—one visible, one buried deep in the bounty hunter's chest.
She’d repaired it in silence over the last four months. Stitch by stitch. Careful threading along the seams. And when it was whole again, she added a single white nazar to the sleeve—a hand-embroidered evil eye to ward off misfortune. To protect.
Fade traced the symbol now, fingertips skating over the thread. Her heart thudded slow and heavy.
'You held me through it anyway,' she thought, the memory sharp behind her eyes. 'Even while I burned you.'
The jagged scars on her arms were mostly faded now. Still pink, still jagged, but not angry anymore. She didn’t try to hide them—not from Deadlock. Not when her lover had kissed them like they were sacred.
With care, she folded the sweater and nestled it into the gift bag, laying the other items inside beside it. Then she tucked the bag under the coffee table—out of view, but close enough to grab when the moment was right.
A slow breath. A glance toward the bedroom.
Then she shrugged off the hoodie she’d stolen from Deadlock the night before, revealing the soft tank top she wore underneath. She tossed it onto the couch with practiced ease, pulled her dark hair into a high knot, and moved toward the kitchen.
Their morning wasn’t over—not yet. She still had one more surprise to make.
One that would remind Iselin, without a single word, that Fade had always known how to take care of the people she loved.
She padded into the kitchen, the soft click of her anklet barely audible against the tile. The morning light spilled golden across the countertops as Fade opened the fridge and scanned its contents. She pulled out what she needed—eggs, tomatoes, green peppers, onions, and a small jar of crumbled white cheese—then began chopping the vegetables with practiced ease.
The knife moved swiftly through each item, her motions precise, rhythmic. Years of cooking out of necessity had shaped her into someone who could do it blindfolded—but this was different. Today wasn’t about survival. It was about love. Celebration.
She cracked the eggs, whisked them with a sprinkle of sumac, black pepper, and red pepper flakes, and tossed the veggies into a cast-iron skillet already heating low on the stove. The scent began to fill the kitchen almost immediately—warm, savory, familiar. Her version of menemen—Turkish scrambled eggs done slowly, with care.
Still barefoot, still in her tank and pajama pants, she turned back to the fridge and pulled out a few more things: flour, yogurt, eggs, baking powder. A beat later, she was mixing batter in a glass bowl, intent on finally trying the fluffy, custard-style pancakes she always read about in cookbooks but never had the time or peace of mind to make.
Behind her, the bedroom door creaked open.
Deadlock appeared a few seconds later, quiet as ever. Her hair was sleep-mussed and sticking up in places, and since Fade took her hoodie, she was left in only her undershirt and sweats. She rubbed one eye as she stepped into the doorway, then stopped.
And stared.
The Turk didn’t notice her at first. She was humming softly, almost tunelessly, one hip cocked as she stirred. Her hands moved with confidence, flipping the eggs with a wooden spatula, then pouring batter onto a buttered griddle in neat little circles. Her face was soft, bathed in sunlight and steam. She looked… peaceful. At ease. Like this was where she belonged.
The Norwegian stood frozen in the doorway, chest tight.
It wasn’t just that Fade was cooking—it was how she was doing it. Comfortable in the space. Unhurried. Focused. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Because it mattered. Because Deadlock mattered.
For someone who had spent most of her adult life surviving on military rations, protein bars, and caffeine, the image hit her harder than she expected.
Her gaze dropped to the counter and caught sight of a mug already poured—two sugars, one splash of half & half. Just how she liked it. Fade hadn’t even asked.
Eventually, she moved, stepping behind her girlfriend and placing her hands on her waist, fingers curling against the thin fabric of her tank.
“Hi,” she murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
Fade smiled at the contact, head tilting toward her. She pressed a kiss to Deadlock’s cheek, letting it linger for a second longer than necessary.
“Hi,” she replied, voice quiet but warm.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Deadlock said, her arms slipping around Fade’s middle as she looked over her shoulder. The scent of peppers and warm bread filled the space. Everything looked golden, crisp, perfect.
“Someone had to keep us fed back home,” Fade said, a soft chuckle rising in her throat. “Kadir could barely microwave soup. I figured it out.”
She ladled the last of the batter onto the griddle, listening to the sizzle, then reached to the side and picked up the mug.
Without needing to ask, she handed it back.
“Here,” she said, gently. “Sit down, drink your coffee. I’ve got this.”
Deadlock blinked down at the mug, stunned by the thoughtfulness of it all. The mug was warm in her palms, grounding. She hesitated.
“Do you want help—?”
“Sit, Ise,” Fade said, firmer this time, though still smiling. She kissed her quickly, then turned back to the stove. “Let me take care of you for once.”
The words landed deep. Deeper than Fade probably realized.
Deadlock stared at her for a beat longer—watched her flip the pancakes with smooth confidence, hips swaying slightly as she moved—and felt something unfamiliar settle in her ribs.
Not just love. Not just admiration.
Safety.
She kissed her again, just behind the ear, then walked over and took a seat at the island, sipping the coffee like it might undo her altogether.
This, she thought, as she watched her girl put together a breakfast neither of them would forget—this is what it means to be loved.
Once everything was finished and plated, Fade laid it all out with surprising care, arranging the dishes on the island like she was setting a table for two in a hidden little café. The menemen still sizzled in the cast iron skillet, steam curling from its surface. A bowl of mixed fruit—berries, kiwi, orange slices—gleamed under a light drizzle of honey. The pancakes were stacked with precision, dusted with powdered sugar and garnished with a few ruby-red pomegranate seeds. She even toasted slices of sourdough until golden and crisp, setting them aside with a small dish of olive oil and sea salt.
Deadlock stared at the spread like she’d never seen food before. Her eyes were wide with something that hovered between disbelief and quiet awe, chest aching with the weight of being so thoroughly thought of.
She didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t have to.
Fade grabbed her own mug of coffee—black, the way she always took it—and stepped behind her partner, wrapping one arm lazily across her shoulder. She rested her chin on the crown of the Sentinel’s head for a moment, as if savoring the moment before speaking.
“Hopefully the pancakes turned out okay,” she murmured with a casual shrug. “It’s my first time making them, so you’re the unlucky test subject.”
Deadlock tilted her head to look up at her, eyes still soft with something unspoken. “I’m sure they taste great, Hazal. You didn’t have to make all of this.”
Fade took a long sip from her mug. “I wanted to start our day off right,” she said simply. Then, with a crooked smile and a quick kiss to her partner’s temple, “Now eat, so I can give you your gifts.”
The excitement in her voice made Deadlock laugh—warm and low, like a crackling fire. She reached for a plate, loading it up with a little of everything, and hummed with the first bite of the eggs.
Fade sat beside her, legs brushing, and began eating her own breakfast. The two of them fell into a gentle rhythm—sharing bites, trading comments about the flavor or texture, the occasional pleased murmur.
They talked between sips of coffee and bites of bread, slowly making plans for the day. They’d start at one of Deadlock’s favorite parks—quiet, a little tucked away from the rest of the city. She used to go there as a teenager when she needed space to breathe, to get away from drills, responsibilities, or grief she didn’t yet know how to name. It felt right to return there now, years later, with someone who understood.
Dinner would be at a restaurant Fade had picked—a place she’d researched quietly the night before, wanting something special but not over-the-top. A place that served food meant to be savored slowly, over low candlelight and conversation.
“Don’t even think about paying,” Deadlock said firmly, finishing the last bite of her pancake.
Fade glanced at her with an amused raise of her brow. “Ise, I wouldn’t have picked the place if I couldn’t afford it.”
“I know,” the blonde replied, wiping her mouth with a napkin before reaching for Fade’s hands. “But you already made this,” she gestured to the half-empty dishes on the table, “and I’m still trying to recover emotionally, so the least I can do is cover dinner.”
Fade narrowed her eyes. “But—”
Deadlock gave her that look. The one that brokered no argument. One brow lifted, lips slightly pursed. A look honed over a decade of special forces experience and perfected in every high-stakes operation.
Fade stared at her a beat longer, then sighed dramatically and threw her hands up. “Fine. You win.”
Deadlock smirked, satisfied, and leaned over to kiss her cheek before standing. She lingered a moment to sip her coffee, then disappeared into the bedroom.
Fade chuckled quietly and gathered the dishes, stacking them in the sink with practiced ease. She was humming softly again, wiping down the counter, when she heard the soft creak of the door opening behind her.
She turned—and there was Deadlock, standing in the doorway with a silver gift bag tucked behind her back, a slight flush rising to her cheeks.
Fade smiled when she saw it and nodded toward the coffee table. “Your bag is over there.”
She joined her girlfriend on the couch after rinsing the last of the dishes, drying her hands on a towel she tossed aside as she sat. She was still barefoot, hair fallen from its messy twist. Her cheeks were pink with warmth, or maybe just the nerves.
Deadlock handed her the silver gift bag with an almost sheepish look—half proud, half bracing for impact. Her first anniversary gift exchange. Her first real relationship. No one told her how terrifying it would be to want something to matter this much.
“Open yours first,” she murmured.
Fade didn’t hesitate. She reached inside, unwrapping tissue with delicate precision, like each fold was some small secret waiting to be uncovered. The first thing she pulled out was a small velvet box. Her brows lifted in quiet curiosity, then her eyes went wide when she opened it.
Inside was the bracelet Deadlock had bought the day of their first shopping date. Blackened steel, matte finish, the faint glint of a Norse protection rune carved into its center. The soldier had spotted it on her way to the register and just knew that Fade would love it.
Her thumb traced the engraving like she was reading a memory. “This is beautiful, Ise,” she whispered. She clasped it around her wrist with practiced ease, then leaned in to press a slow, grateful kiss to her partner’s cheek. It lingered there for a moment—a silent thanks.
The Sentinel’s shoulders eased slightly. One gift down. She let her hand rest on Fade’s thigh, thumb brushing the fabric of her lounge pants. She was trying to play it cool, but the tension in her spine was still obvious—until the next gift came out.
Fade reached in again and unwrapped a pair of sleek, matte black sunglasses. The designer ones. She recognized them immediately—she had tried them on half-jokingly in one of the nicer department stores, then flinched when she saw the price tag and put them back on the shelf. Of course Deadlock remembered. Of course she went back for them.
She turned the sunglasses in her hands, then slid them on with a grin, pushing them up into her hair. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, her voice warm and almost shy. But her eyes said thank you in a way words couldn’t.
Next was a new sketchpad, thick and bound in dark leather, with a fresh set of artist-grade colored pencils tucked into the wrapping. The kind she never bought for herself. Her current pad was years old—worn at the corners, pages curling, the spine nearly split. She hadn’t replaced it because… well, she never really replaced anything. Not when it still worked. Not when money could be spent on something practical.
But this? This made her stomach twist in that soft, aching way—the kind that meant she was loved. Seen.
“I’ve been meaning to get a new one,” she said, quietly, more to herself than anyone else. She ran her fingers over the first blank page like it was holy.
And finally, at the bottom of the bag, two books. The Turkish edition of The Little Prince, and a familiar worn copy of The Book of Disquiet—the one she’d been reading at the café they needed to go back to. She hadn’t finished it. Deadlock had noticed.
Fade stared down at them for a long moment. Her throat tightened, but she managed a soft, “Thank you, aşkım.”
She kissed her then—not quick or rushed, but slow and certain, like she was memorizing the shape of her. Then she pulled her into a hug, tucking her under her chin like something precious.
Deadlock let herself breathe. Really breathe. She hadn’t known what she was doing when she bought everything—just that these were things Fade had looked at, lingered on, talked about in passing. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. But she’d remembered every detail.
And judging by the look in her partner’s eyes, she’d chosen right.
“You’re more than welcome,” Deadlock murmured. “You deserve more, but you probably would’ve stabbed me if I bought anything else.”
“You’re damn right.” Fade leaned back against the armrest of the couch, knees curled to her chest. She pushed the sunglasses higher into her hair, a lopsided grin on her face. “Your turn.”
Deadlock reached for her bag slowly, like whatever was inside required reverence. She pulled out the first item—a heavy journal wrapped in textured leather, her name pressed cleanly into the corner in soft gold foil. She ran her fingers over the engraving, lips parting in surprise.
The cover was smooth, but the weight of it was solid in her hands. Permanent. Real. For a moment, she just held it there in her lap, thumbing along the edges like she was afraid it might vanish. She didn’t talk much about writing—only did it late at night when the nightmares were too loud and her thoughts wouldn’t settle—but Fade had noticed anyway. Of course she had.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, soft and a little uneven. She blinked a few times to ward off the sudden sting in her eyes, then gently set the journal down before her emotions got the better of her.
Next came the scarf. She lifted it from the bag and gave it a single, thoughtful look before looping it around her neck without a second thought. It was heavier than the ones she kept at the protocol—denser, softer, warm in a way she hadn’t realized she missed. The kind of warmth that wasn’t just physical.
She glanced at Fade out of the corner of her eye, the corners of her mouth twitching higher. “You’re really trying to make sure I survive winter this year, huh?”
“Just doing my civic duty,” Fade said, grinning into her mug.
Deadlock reached again and found the knife next. Black leather sheath. Balanced weight. The hilt fit snug in her palm—comfortable, familiar. She unsheathed the blade halfway, catching the gleam of steel and the neat Turkish script engraved along the spine.
Yanındayım.
I am with you.
Her chest ached.
Of all the gifts, this one felt the most like her—a tool, sharp and dependable. But also a promise. Something quiet and unwavering. She didn’t need the translation, didn’t ask for it. She understood, and that was enough.
She looked at Fade then, her gaze a little more raw than before. “I’ll carry it every day,” she said simply.
Finally, she pulled out the last gift—careful this time, slower.
The sweater.
Her fingers froze the moment she touched it, breath catching low in her throat. She knew this fabric. Knew it by memory. Light pink, cropped at the waist, soft enough to sleep in. It was one of the last things she’d bought for herself before joining Ståljeger—before the vault and the protocol. She wore it the night Fade's radiance surged out of control, when she pulled the bounty hunter close and promised to never let go.
Back then, it had been ruined—ripped, burned, bloodstained.
Now it looked untouched.
No—better.
The seams were clean, stronger than before. Her fingers traced the white evil eye embroidered on the sleeve. A quiet, intimate touch. Protection. A symbol.
Something personal.
A piece of Hazal.
Deadlock’s throat worked around the lump forming in it.
“You fixed it,” she murmured, voice nearly breaking on the second word.
Fade nodded, slower this time. Her tone dropped low, almost like she wasn’t sure she should say it at all. “I wasn’t going to let Nightmare ruin you like it ruins me,” she said softly. “Besides, it looks good on you. It’d be a shame to throw it away.”
A quiet huff escaped Deadlock—not quite a laugh, more like the release of breath she’d been holding since the night that sweater was torn. She reached over and rested her hand on Fade’s knee, grounding herself in the reality of this moment. Of them.
“Thank you, Hazal,” she said, leaning in.
She kissed her partner again—gentle, sure—and pressed another to her forehead like a blessing.
Then, after a beat, her voice warmed with teasing curiosity. “I assume you learned how to sew because of your brother too?”
Fade smirked, tilting her head back slightly. “Both of us were skinny growing up, so I’d have to tailor our clothes so they wouldn’t look huge on us. Had to be somewhat presentable, you know?”
Deadlock grinned and reached for her coffee again, fingers still grazing the edge of the repaired sweater. Every gift in the bag had been practical, just like her, but each one was also deeply personal, each one a thread in the life they were building together.
And somehow, Fade always knew exactly what to give.
After cleaning up the tissue paper, crumpled gift wrap, and stray ribbons, they wandered back into the bedroom under the guise of getting dressed. The light outside had turned gold, filtering through the windows in lazy streaks, warming the wood floors and catching on the glint of steel around Fade’s wrist.
She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers lightly tracing the engraved rune on her new bracelet. There was a softness in her expression—equal parts wonder and contentment. But then her gaze drifted upward, just for a second.
Just long enough to catch Deadlock tugging her shirt over her head.
And just like that, her thoughts short-circuited.
She’d seen her shirtless countless times before—on missions, after training, early in the morning when they were too tired to be modest—but something about now hit different. Maybe it was the way the early light kissed the long, clean lines of her body. Maybe it was the fact that they were happy, safe, wrapped in quiet domesticity instead of blood and adrenaline.
Or maybe it was just that Deadlock looked really good in a sports bra and sweatpants.
Whatever it was, Fade felt the heat crawl up the back of her neck.
Deadlock caught her staring in the mirror and smirked to herself, then bent over to toss the shirt in the laundry hamper. “You okay over there?” she asked, not even bothering to hide the amusement in her voice.
The Initiator blinked slowly, nodding like her brain was running on a delay. “Yep. Fine,” she said, voice a little too high.
Her partner turned around and walked toward her without a word, one knee sinking into the mattress between her legs. She leaned in, metal hand tipping Fade’s chin upward with just enough pressure to draw her attention.
“Eyes up here, kjære,” she teased, a crooked grin tugging at her lips.
Fade swallowed hard, lips parting. “Your eyes are beautiful,” she said, recovering with a flash of charm. Her hands slid around Deadlock’s waist, thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles into her skin. “But I was enjoying the view.”
The Sentinel hummed low in her throat, dipping her head to capture her lips in a kiss that tasted like coffee and slow-burning heat. It started soft, measured. But then Fade laid back, pulling Deadlock on top of her. Her arms wound around her girlfriend's neck, and the kiss deepened. Grew hungrier.
When they finally parted, breathless and grinning, Deadlock brushed a few dark strands from Fade’s flushed face and murmured, “You know… I’d argue that my view’s better.”
Fade tried to be smug—really, she did—but her breath hitched as the blonde's fingers traced the bare skin beneath her tank top. “Agree to disagree,” she whispered, her voice rough around the edges. Her fingers curled around the woman’s spine, traveling upward, featherlight. When she reached the band of her sports bra, her hand lingered, a question without words.
Deadlock didn’t flinch—didn’t even blink. She pressed a kiss to Fade’s jaw, then her cheek, then hovered just above her lips.
“Agree to disagree,” she echoed, voice low and wicked.
Her hand slid down, fingers curling into the waistband of the Turk's pajama pants as she kissed her again—slow and sure and intent. And neither of them made it out of the bedroom for quite a while.
Notes:
Lowkey I'm gonna find a recipe for those pancakes and try them
Translations:
Mutlu yıl dönümümüz - [Turkish] Happy anniversary
Yanındayım - [Turkish] I'm with you
Aşkım - [Turkish] My love
Chapter 11: Chapter 10
Notes:
double upload today bc i simply lack self control <33
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The late-morning breeze carried a sharp chill, the kind that cut through even Fade’s jacket and nipped at her skin. She didn’t mind. She looped her arm through Deadlock’s as they followed the quiet stone path, the sound of soft birdsong drifting over the trees. It felt like one of those rare mornings where the world had slowed down just for them—no missions, no alarms, no need to keep looking over their shoulders. Just the two of them.
They found a secluded spot near the pond, a place sheltered by an old tree whose sprawling branches still held onto the last hints of autumn. Deadlock dropped their bag with a quiet grunt, pulling out the blanket they’d packed. She shook it out and spread it across the grass, smoothing the edges before gesturing for Fade to sit. The Turk settled with her back against the tree, her new sketchbook balanced on her knees, while her partner rummaged through the bag again.
Fade raised a brow when Deadlock pulled out a small plastic bag filled with bread. She didn’t say anything, though—just watched with faint amusement as the blonde knelt by the water’s edge, humming under her breath as she placed a careful line of crumbs along the bank.
“Never pictured you as someone who feeds the wildlife,” Fade teased, not lifting her eyes from the clean page in front of her.
Deadlock glanced back, smiling faintly. “Normally I’m not. But I used to feed the ducks here when I was a kid. It was… quiet here. When I needed it to be.”
Fade hummed softly in acknowledgment, her focus returning to the paper as she dragged the pencil in light, precise strokes. Beside her, the Sentinel finally returned and sat down, pulling a crisp copy of The Left Hand of Darkness from the bag along with her phone and earbuds. She popped one earbud in and offered the other without a word. Fade took it, tucking the cord beneath her jacket, and let the familiar playlist wash over them—soft, haunting melodies cut with the occasional sharp edge of something heavier, the kind of soundtrack that always seemed to suit them.
The minutes blurred into hours, but neither of them minded. They just existed together, breathing the same cold air, leaning against the same tree, the quiet broken only by the distant chatter of passersby and the occasional quack of a duckling pecking at Deadlock’s breadcrumb trail. There were no interruptions here—no teammates knocking at their door, no mission briefings, no alarms to pull them back to reality. Just peace.
At some point, Deadlock had stretched out, her head finding Fade’s lap as if it were instinct. She’d dozed off almost immediately, her book open across her chest, one knee bent lazily. Normally, she’d never let herself fall asleep in public—too many risks, too many variables—but today was different. Today, with Fade’s steady presence above her, the world felt safe enough to let her guard down.
Fade, on the other hand, was wide awake. She held her pencil loosely, humming faintly along to the music as her other hand absently threaded through Deadlock’s hair. Her sketch was still rough around the edges, but the shapes were taking form on the page—a stylized wolf, its body curled protectively around a raven. The two figures bled into one another in a way that felt deliberate, as if neither existed without the other.
Loyalty and survival. Watcher and protector.
She traced the wolf’s outline once with her fingertip, studying it with a small, private smile before closing the sketchbook and sliding it back into the bag. With a soft exhale, she leaned down, brushed a few stray strands of blonde hair from her lover’s forehead, and pressed a lingering kiss there.
“Ise,” Fade murmured, her voice soft but weighted, almost swallowed by the hush of the pond.
The blonde stirred at the sound, lashes fluttering open as she blinked herself awake. “Yes, baby?” she mumbled, voice still gravelly, the low timbre curling warm in Fade’s chest.
The Initiator’s lips quirked at the corners despite herself. She’d hated pet names once—used to find them cloying, patronizing, even suffocating. But now, hearing the word spill from Deadlock’s lips, raspy and unguarded, she wanted to hear it again. Over and over. Maybe whispered against her throat, maybe in a rougher tone entirely.
“Let’s get something to eat,” she said finally, though food was the furthest thing from her mind.
Deadlock exhaled slowly, still heavy with sleep, and sat up with an unhurried stretch, her spine arching before she tucked her book away. Her fingers combed through her tousled waves, clearing them from her face. “Where… uh…” Her gaze flicked lazily over their surroundings, her voice dipping into a drowsy rasp. “Where do you want to go?”
Fade only shrugged, methodically packing the blanket and leftover bread as she rose to her feet. “We can walk around. Find something new.” She extended her hand, palm up. Deadlock’s calloused fingers slid into hers, grounding, warm.
The Sentinel leaned back against the tree as she stood, bracing herself, her shoulders relaxing as she let her head tip back for a beat. Fade watched her openly, her eyes tracing the line of her throat, the curve of her jaw, the way the morning sun seemed to catch in her lashes.
She stepped in close before she realized she was doing it, cupping Deadlock’s face in both hands, tilting her head up just slightly, and pressed two lingering, unhurried kisses to her lips. Her thumbs stroked along the edge of the blonde’s jaw before she drew back—only to reach down and zip up her jacket, her fingers brushing deliberately over the steady rise and fall of her sternum.
Deadlock’s breath hitched. It was subtle—barely there—but Fade felt it, the faint skip in her pulse beneath her fingertips.
A slow, sly smile tugged at the bounty hunter's lips as she let her finger trail down the length of the zipper, the blunt tip of her nail dragging over the metal until it skimmed the fabric at the hem. She didn’t pull away entirely, though—hovered close enough for the Sentinel to feel her breath, to let the tension hum louder between them.
Deadlock tilted her head just slightly, eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to catch the edge of her smirk. “You know what…” she murmured, her voice lowering, her hand sliding to Fade’s waist as she closed the space between them, their bodies flush. “We can eat at home.”
Fade arched a brow, her nails grazing over the back of Deadlock’s neck as her arms looped loosely around her shoulders. “I think we need to go grocery shopping again,” she countered, though her voice was already softer, her usual bite dimmed by how close they were.
“I’m not talking about food,” Deadlock whispered, her lips brushing against Fade’s as she leaned in.
The kiss started slow, almost teasing, but deepened quickly, heat sparking in the air between them like a struck match. Fade melted into it, a quiet hum escaping her throat, only to turn into something breathier when Deadlock’s grip tightened, her warm hand pressing into the small of her back, pulling her closer.
Fade’s fingers threaded into the soft undercut at the base of the Sentinel’s neck, nails scratching lightly against her scalp. Deadlock let out a quiet, throaty sound against her lips that made the Turk's knees nearly buckle. Every nerve ending in her body screamed to give in, to sink further into this, to forget the world and the afternoon sun and the passerby walking in the distance.
It took everything in her—every ounce of restraint she had—to break the kiss before they tipped past a point of no return. She drew back slowly, her forehead resting against Deadlock’s as they caught their breath, faces flushed and pupils blown wide. They could’ve been mistaken for two teenagers making out behind the bleachers, hearts racing, lungs aching.
Fade swallowed, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on her lips, and stepped back with deliberate slowness. She bent down to grab their bag, forcing a quiet, shy smile onto her face to mask the frustration curling tight in her chest. “Let’s go,” she murmured, the words low, deliberate. “Before I start agreeing with you.”
Deadlock smirked, brushing her fingers against Fade’s as she took the bag from her shoulder. “I still think it’s a pretty good idea,” she said, voice low enough to make Fade’s pulse stutter all over again.
After a lazy stretch of wandering—half looking for food, half just enjoying each other’s company—they turned the corner and found themselves in front of a bar. Its façade was unassuming: weathered brick with patches of moss creeping between the cracks, a scuffed oak door, and a flickering green neon sign advertising happy hour. A faint hum of music and muffled laughter leaked through the walls.
Fade tilted her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Places like these always have the best junk food,” she said, already stepping toward the door, her fingers brushing along her partner's wrist as if coaxing her forward.
Deadlock’s stomach knotted, a cold wave settling low in her chest. She knew this place—too well. She could picture the cracked barstools, the sticky floors, the faded photographs lining the walls. She remembered how the corners smelled of old beer and smoke, how the bathroom door always stuck, how her own laugh used to echo off these very walls at two in the morning when she was too drunk to feel the ache in her bones. And she remembered, vividly, the bodies she used to take home from here—temporary warmth to numb the void.
For a brief moment, she considered making an excuse—any excuse—to leave. But Fade’s hand brushed hers again, and she forced her breath to steady. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Come on.”
Inside, the air was heavy with the stench of tobacco and cheap liquor, the dim light making the room feel smaller than it was. Despite the early hour, the bar hummed with chatter, boots scuffing against the old wood floors. The weight of familiarity hit Deadlock like a blow, every detail a reminder of the person she used to be.
They slid into two stools at the bar, and the soldier was still forcing her jaw to unclench when a tall, broad-shouldered bartender noticed them. His face lit up.
“Sergeant!” he boomed, grinning wide as he strode over.
Deadlock’s gut clenched. She felt Fade’s eyes on her before she even looked up.
“It’s been a while, Røkke!” the man continued, bracing his hands on the counter. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, keeping her voice even. “Been busy.” Her arms rested on the counter, her gaze fixed anywhere but the bartender’s.
Fade’s brow ticked upward, curiosity flickering across her features. “You two friends?” she asked, tilting her head.
The man shook his head. “Serge was just one of our regulars. Best tipper we ever had.” He extended his hand. “Jacob.”
The Turk took his hand easily, grip warm and polite. “Fade.” She nudged Deadlock’s knee with her own—a small, grounding gesture—but when the blonde met her eyes, her smile was thin, brittle around the edges. The kind she used when she was balancing too many thoughts at once.
“So, what can I get you both?” Jacob asked, glancing between them. “First round’s on the house. Serge, I can make your usual—”
“No,” Deadlock cut in sharply, her voice firmer than she intended. She forced herself to soften. “No, thanks. I’ll just… have what she’s having.”
She bent to rummage through their bag, using the movement as cover to snag Fade’s carton of cigarettes and slip it into her own pocket. Discreet enough to fool Jacob, but not her girlfriend.
Fade’s fingers closed gently around her wrist when she stood, her mismatched eyes meeting Deadlock’s with quiet concern. “Are you okay?” she asked, voice low, the hum of the bar swallowing her words before anyone else could hear.
“I’m fine—”
“Iselin,” she pressed, softer but firmer now, her thumb brushing over the soldier’s pulse point. “What’s wrong?”
Deadlock’s smile was tight as she leaned in, pressing a long kiss to the woman's temple. “Nothing,” she murmured. “I’m fine, kjære.”
But the lie tasted bitter on her tongue, and she didn’t wait for the Turk to call her on it. She turned and slipped out of the bar, the cool air outside a sharp contrast to the cloying heat within.
Leaning against the brick wall, she pulled a cigarette from her pocket, cupping her trembling hand around the flame as she lit it. Her expression was unreadable, calm—mask firmly in place. To anyone passing by, she was just a woman enjoying a smoke.
Inside, though, she was unraveling.
This bar felt like a mausoleum for the worst parts of herself. Every inhale of the stale air had dragged her back to those nights. Drunk, desperate, clawing for something—anything—to make her feel alive. The women she’d picked up in shadowed corners, the fights she’d started just to bleed off the rage she couldn’t name, the haze of liquor that blurred her thoughts enough to quiet them.
And now, standing here, cigarette burning low between her fingers, it all came rushing back like a tide she couldn’t hold back.
The name—Sergeant—clung to her like smoke. Fade knew her history, knew her rank, but hearing it from someone like Jacob, someone who only knew her from those nights? It made her skin crawl.
Sergeant Røkke died in the vault. She had to believe that.
No—she chose to believe it. Because the alternative meant she was still that woman.
She dragged in a deep lungful of smoke, held it until her chest ached, then exhaled through her nose, tilting her head back to watch the smoke spiral into the gray sky.
“Sergeant Røkke is dead,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “The sergeant is dead… and she’s not coming back.”
Notes:
babygirl just cant escape her past huh?...
Translations:
Kjære - [Norwegian] My love
Chapter 12: Chapter 11
Chapter Text
By the time Deadlock pushed the heavy oak door back open, her lungs stung and her fingers reeked of tobacco. The cold burn of nicotine clung to her throat, grounding her just enough to get her moving again.
Fade sat at the counter, shoulders relaxed but face unreadable, a tray of loaded nachos half-finished in front of her. Her phone sat beside her, a puzzle game still running on the screen, its cheerful music oddly out of place in the dim, smoky air.
Without looking at her, the Turk reached across the counter and extended her hand, palm up. The gesture was silent but firm. Deadlock’s jaw tightened, and with a quiet sigh, she handed over the half-empty carton she’d pocketed earlier. Fade tucked it away without a word, but her eyes, sharp even when calm, flicked to the soldier’s trembling fingers before sliding back to her plate.
Deadlock lowered herself onto the stool beside her, organic fingers tapping rhythmically against her mechanical ones as if to quiet a hum only she could hear. She kept her gaze locked on the worn wood of the countertop, refusing to meet Fade’s eyes.
“Jacob seems nice,” Fade said after a long beat, nodding toward the bartender at the far end of the bar. The man was laughing with a tipsy redhead, leaning on the counter like he owned the place.
“He’s a good kid,” Deadlock murmured, snagging a nacho without much thought. Her appetite felt forced, mechanical—something to do with her hands so they wouldn’t shake.
She didn’t look up, not even when she felt the weight of her girlfriend’s attention settle on her like a second skin. Not after lying—twice now—when she knew Fade would’ve listened without judgment, without criticism. But some dark, protective corner of her still screamed that Fade didn’t need to see this part of her, the part that once lived for this bar and everything it promised. The drinking, the fights, the strangers she took home just to feel something. The bounty hunter had her own shadows; she didn’t need Deadlock’s too.
'You’re just afraid she won’t love you anymore,' a voice whispered, cruel and quiet in the back of her mind. 'Better to lie than to watch her leave.'
The thought made her shiver despite the warmth of the bar.
She barely noticed when Fade slid off her stool until the woman was behind her, arms draped loosely over her shoulders, warm breath fanning over the shell of her ear. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,” she murmured, voice soft but threaded with something sharp beneath it—hurt, restraint, maybe both. “But don’t lie about being okay. Especially not to me.”
Deadlock’s breath hitched, her shoulders tensing as she watched her partner’s hand brush something invisible away—inky tendrils, faint and curling, trying to slither free. The radiance was hungry, restless, echoing both women’s frustration like it could taste it. The glow that bled through Fade’s veins and fingertips was subtle but ominous, the faint violet hue pulsing in rhythm with her steady, controlled breaths.
Nightmare wanted to feed. It always did.
Deadlock swallowed hard, her eyes glued to her partner's glowing fingers as if sheer focus alone could keep things from escalating. The last thing they needed was the Initiator losing control in a bar full of civilians.
Fade exhaled slowly, the faintest tremor running through her hands before she pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of Deadlock’s head. The gesture was tender, grounding, but she lingered longer than usual, her breath steady and deliberate as if she were forcing herself to hold the line.
When she finally pulled away and reclaimed her seat, the air between them felt heavier. The warmth that had clung to them all afternoon—the playful touches, the soft teasing, the lingering kisses—had cooled to something quieter. More brittle.
Deadlock nudged the tray back toward her girlfriend, suddenly nauseous. “You can have the rest,” she said, her tone calm but hollow.
Fade studied her for a moment, one brow lifting, before she shrugged and pulled the plate closer, finishing the nachos without another word.
Minutes passed, the only sound between them the low hum of conversation around the bar and the faint scrape of Fade’s fork. Deadlock busied herself with her phone, flicking through a feed she wasn’t really reading.
When Jacob returned, he set down two cold bottles of water with a warm grin. “On the house,” he said, his eyes flicking between the two women. Fade offered him a polite nod of thanks.
“How much for the nachos?” she asked.
Jacob waved her off. “On the house too. Think of it as my welcome home gift. You and Serge’ll always have a seat here. Don’t be strangers, alright?”
Deadlock blinked, caught off guard by the genuine warmth in his tone. She glanced at Fade, who smiled faintly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, but the soldier’s chest felt tight all over again.
“Thanks, kid,” she murmured, her voice low as she fished a few credit chits from her pocket and left them on the counter.
Jacob opened his mouth to protest. “What part of ‘on the house’—”
Fade chuckled softly, adding her own tip beside Deadlock’s. “Just take it,” she said gently.
Jacob sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, but offered a quiet “thank you” as the two women rose from their seats and slipped out of the bar.
The evening air was cooler than before, cutting sharp through their jackets as they stepped out onto the quiet street. The muffled hum of chatter and music from the bar lingered behind them, but it felt distant now—like something that belonged to another life entirely.
Fade shoved her hands deep into her pockets, the cigarette carton pressing cold against her palm. The faint, telltale glow of Nightmare still pulsed under her skin, trailing faint violet veins along her hands and wrists like living cracks in glass. Every time she exhaled, a ghost of shadow bled out with her breath. She was trying—fighting—to keep it contained, but the thing inside her was relentless.
It could smell Deadlock’s fear. Her shame. The way her heart had stuttered when Jacob called her Sergeant, and the way her breathing still hadn’t quite evened out.
And it wanted to feed.
The pain of holding it back dug sharp under Fade’s ribs, clawing through her muscles like someone had hooked her bones with wire and pulled. Her jaw ached from the tension as she gritted her teeth, fighting every instinct Nightmare planted in her head.
Deadlock noticed. She always noticed.
They made it to the corner of the block before the soldier stopped, her hand catching Fade’s arm gently. “Hazal.”
Fade didn’t turn at first, her breath shallow as she kept her focus inward, forcing the tendrils of shadow to retreat, to coil back into whatever void they came from. It felt like trying to hold back a flood with her bare hands.
When she finally glanced over, her bi-colored eyes were glowing faintly—inky black bleeding into her irises, the glow crawling up her veins to her jawline.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, though her voice was strained, the lie obvious even as she tried to bite it out.
Deadlock’s organic hand cupped her cheek, grounding her, thumb brushing the heated skin just beneath her eye. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re like this.” Her voice was quiet, almost a plea.
Fade swallowed hard, finally meeting her gaze. The tension in her body eased just slightly at the touch, but Nightmare didn’t relent—it surged again, sensing the proximity of its two favorite wounds.
“You’re not okay either,” she murmured, her voice rough and low, but her fingers curled into the fabric of her girlfriend's sleeve like she needed to anchor herself. “That bar… what did it do to you?”
Deadlock’s mouth opened, then closed. She glanced away, her gaze snagging on the neon sign flickering in the bar window. The memories came unbidden—whiskey burning her throat, nameless faces in smoky corners, fists slamming into jaws just to feel the sting of impact. The chaos she used to drown herself in.
“I… used to go there a lot,” she said finally, voice low and measured. “When I needed to… disappear for a while. Forget things I didn’t want to remember.”
The Turk didn’t say anything, but her grip on the soldier's sleeve tightened. The glow beneath her skin pulsed harder, the faintest threads of shadow slipping free around her boots before fading back.
“It wasn’t good for me,” the Sentinel continued, jaw tightening. “But I’m not… I’m not that person anymore.”
Fade searched her face, every instinct screaming to dig deeper, to drag the truth out of the dark corners where Deadlock had buried it. But the pain tearing through her ribs spiked again as Nightmare fought to surge forward, sensing the blonde’s lingering self-loathing. She felt blood well hot in her nose and drip to her lip, quickly wiping it with her sleeve.
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax. To release the tension. “Alright,” she murmured finally, her voice softer now, despite the strain. “You don’t have to tell me more. I just… need you to promise me something.”
Deadlock tilted her head slightly, her hand still cupping the other woman's cheek. “What?”
“Promise me you’ll tell me when it feels like this again. Before I have to feel it for you,” she said, gesturing faintly to the faint glow still crawling along her arms. “Before Nightmare does.”
The Norwegian’s chest tightened. Guilt pricked sharply behind her ribs, twisting deeper with every second she held her girlfriend’s gaze. She knew exactly what it cost Fade to hold the radiance back. How it burned through her nerves like acid, demanding release.
“…I promise,” Deadlock said finally, voice barely above a whisper. And for once, she meant it.
Fade nodded, leaning forward to press her forehead against hers. Their breaths mingled, both shaky, but neither moved for a long moment. The glow under her skin slowly dulled, retreating as she closed her eyes and let the quiet stretch.
By the time they finally pulled apart, Fade’s glow had faded entirely, leaving only faint veins like shadows beneath her skin. The pain in her chest lingered, but it was tolerable now.
“Come on,” she murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from Deadlock’s face. “Let’s go home before I decide we’re skipping dinner entirely.”
Deadlock huffed a soft laugh, looping her arm through Fade’s as they started walking again. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy now—just quiet. The storm had passed, at least for tonight.
Chapter 13: Chapter 12
Notes:
Did I get distracted writing my ADOL spinoff? Yes. Will I get distracted again? Most likely.
Anywho, more Fadelock.
Love ya lots, mwah <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as they stepped into the apartment, both women exhaled in unison, the door clicking shut behind them like a final barrier between them and the weight of the evening.
Fade’s hands still trembled as she slid her coat from her shoulders and hung it on the hook. The black veins had receded, leaving her skin its usual pale hue, but the aftershocks were brutal. Every muscle in her body screamed from the strain, and her migraine pulsed behind her eyes with each beat of her heart. The coppery taste of dried blood lingered on her tongue, no matter how many times she swallowed.
Deadlock, meanwhile, hadn’t said a word since they left the bar. She leaned against the closed door now, her jaw tight, her steel-blue eyes dark with self-recrimination. The guilt pressed on her chest like iron, heavy and suffocating. She could see, as plain as day, how much pain her girlfriend was in—despite Fade’s practiced mask. And all she could think was that it was her fault. That if she hadn’t let her guard down, if she hadn’t frozen in that place like a coward, Nightmare wouldn’t have lashed out at all.
She drew in a slow, steadying breath, though it felt more like an apology she didn’t know how to voice, and said quietly, “We can stay in. Order takeout. Let you rest.”
Fade scoffed softly, shaking her head, the corner of her lips curling in a faint smile. “Not happening.”
“Hazal—”
“If I put myself on bed rest every time Nightmare pushed my buttons,” she interrupted gently, walking toward her, “nothing would ever get done.”
When she reached her, she cupped Deadlock’s face in her hands—cool, inked fingers cradling warm skin as she tilted her head to meet her gaze. Her touch was firm, grounding. “Do not blame yourself for its behavior. I will not let my radiance hurt you again.”
Deadlock searched her eyes, desperate to find something—anything—that told her the Turk didn’t mean it. That she wasn’t worth this kind of devotion, that Fade was just saying what she had to say to soothe her. But there was nothing but fierce, unwavering love staring back at her, burning steadily even through the ache behind those mismatched irises.
Her throat felt tight, the words she wanted to say caught somewhere between apology and self-loathing.
Fade’s expression softened. “Besides,” she murmured after a beat, “it would be a shame to let Nightmare ruin a beautiful night.”
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of Deadlock’s mouth—gentle, lingering—before wrapping her arms around her in a tight hug. Warmth enveloped them both, grounding them, as if for a few moments the ghosts of the evening couldn’t reach them.
When they finally broke apart, the Initiator’s lips curved into a small, knowing smirk. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get ready.”
Deadlock nodded, her expression softening, and let Fade guide her toward the bathroom. The steam was already starting to curl into the air as the Turk turned the shower handle, letting the water heat until it filled the space with a low, soothing hum.
Fade glanced over her shoulder, her mismatched eyes meeting the Sentinel’s for a moment before she reached for the hem of her shirt. She lifted it slowly, a silent question hanging between them.
Deadlock gave the faintest nod, and Fade peeled the fabric away, careful and unhurried, her fingers brushing against warm skin as she set the shirt aside. The soldier’s calloused hands mirrored the motion, tugging Fade’s sweater upward, fingertips grazing the soft ridges of her spine as she helped her out of it. Piece by piece, they undressed each other, every motion deliberate, their clothes pooling quietly on the cool tile floor.
Their touches lingered, warm and grounding, though there was nothing overtly sexual in the way they traced over shoulders, along arms, down sides. It wasn’t about desire—it was about reassurance, about closing the gap between hurt and healing. About reminding each other, wordlessly, that they were still here. Still tethered. Still theirs.
When they finally stepped into the shower, the hot spray hit their skin and drew a soft sigh from them both. The heat worked away the knots in their muscles, the tension left over from the bar, from Nightmare, from everything. Fade turned toward her lover, looping her arms loosely around Deadlock’s neck, drawing her close with a quiet gravity neither of them resisted.
Deadlock’s hands found her hips, steady and sure, and she slowly leaned down, brushing her lips against Fade’s in a kiss that was deep but unhurried. There was no urgency, no hunger—just warmth and ache and the quiet plea beneath it all. This was how the Sentinel apologized, not with words but with touch, letting her lips say what her voice never could. That she was sorry. That she hated putting them here. That she needed Fade more than she knew how to admit.
Fade leaned into her, answering the apology with acceptance. Her tongue skimmed Deadlock’s lower lip, coaxing it open until the kiss deepened, their tongues moving in a slow, careful rhythm. One of Fade’s hands rested against the firm curve of Deadlock’s bicep, the other spread across her back, fingertips tracing idle, soothing patterns. If she could, she would have swallowed all of her partner’s pain—taken every shard of her suffering and let Nightmare consume it instead.
When they finally parted, foreheads resting together, Fade pressed her lips to the warm skin of Deadlock’s throat, her breath a soft whisper against her pulse. “Jeg elsker deg, mitt lys,” she murmured, the words a gentle balm rather than a declaration.
The Sentinel’s chest tightened, her heart stuttering. “Jeg elsker deg også,” she replied, quiet but steady.
Fade kissed her again, softer this time, before pulling back enough for them to actually bathe. They worked in easy silence, washing each other’s hair and scrubbing away the remnants of the day with slow, methodical movements. Every so often, they stole another kiss—brief, grounding—before returning to the quiet task at hand.
When they finally stepped out, steam clinging to their skin, they toweled off side by side. Neither spoke, but the silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was warm. Forgiving.
They padded back to the bedroom in comfortable silence, the faint scent of soap and heat lingering in the air. The sound of drawers opening and the rustle of fabric filled the quiet, interrupted only by the occasional brush of fingers grazing wrists or hips in passing—each touch subtle, deliberate, lingering just a moment too long.
Fade hooked her thumbs through the waistband of her underwear, sliding it on slowly before crossing to the closet. The satin crimson blouse she plucked out caught the soft lamplight, glimmering like liquid wine, the smooth fabric sliding against her fingertips as she paired it with tailored charcoal slacks. She didn’t look back as she disappeared into the bathroom, but she knew Deadlock’s eyes were on her, following the curve of her hips as she walked away.
The Sentinel stayed behind, sitting on the edge of the bed with her towel draped loosely over her shoulders, still drying her hair in lazy, unhurried motions. The faint ripple of the terrycloth between her fingers was almost hypnotic, something to focus on while she tried to quiet the restless hum in her chest. Eventually, she rose and selected her outfit—a crisp white dress shirt and black slacks. She shrugged the shirt over her shoulders but left it unbuttoned, letting the cool air kiss the icy blue lace beneath as she stepped into the bathroom.
Fade was already there, towel wrapped around her shoulders as she leaned over the counter, blow-dryer in one hand, sleek ombré strands tumbling forward. Her eyes flicked up to the mirror when she saw movement behind her, and her gaze immediately snagged on Deadlock’s reflection.
The loose shirt, the rare lace, the subtle curve of collarbone leading down to pale skin—it was deliberate, Fade decided, even if the blonde would never admit it. Her smirk was small but telling, and Fade’s gaze lingered openly, tracing over the places her hands and lips wanted to be.
“Excuse me,” Deadlock teased, voice low and smooth as she reached past her for a hairbrush. The faint curve of her lips said she knew exactly where Fade’s attention had gone.
The Turk slid aside, her own lips twitching, leaning one hip against the counter as she watched. Deadlock’s movements were unhurried as she brushed through her thick waves—movements so methodical and slow they bordered on teasing in themselves. She never primped for anyone, not unless Fade or Neon had begged to use her as a living mannequin, yet tonight she bent down and pulled out a few products, working them carefully into her hair until the waves were soft and defined, falling in perfect frames around her sharp features.
Fade arched a brow as she finished drying the last section of her hair, tilting her head slightly as she took in the sight. There was something almost sensual in the rare indulgence of it, this quiet ritual of care. Something that made Fade’s chest tighten and heat curl low in her stomach.
She set the dryer down, unplugged it, and raked her fingers slowly through her hair, letting the strands fall smoothly against her back. Reaching for her makeup bag, she held it out, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Wanna help?”
Deadlock raised a brow as she accepted it, peering inside with mild skepticism. “I have no clue what any of this is,” she said, though her voice carried a trace of amusement beneath its dry tone.
Fade nudged a few items aside and hopped up onto the counter, her thighs parting just enough to guide the Sentinel to stand between them. She sifted through the bag, fingers brushing over eyeliner, mascara, and her signature matte black lipstick, setting each one in Deadlock’s hands with slow precision.
“Start with this,” she murmured, holding up the eyeliner. “Steady hand required.”
The blonde smirked faintly, twisting off the cap with her prosthetic fingers. “No promises,” she muttered, though her movements were deliberate, careful. Her organic hand cupped Fade’s jaw gently, tilting her face upward while the cool precision of metal traced a clean, flawless line along her eyelid. She worked slowly, her brow furrowed slightly, tongue peeking out as she concentrated, creating a perfect wing before moving to the other side.
Fade’s lips parted slightly, her breath steady but shallow, her eyes half-lidded as she let herself sink into the intimacy of it—the closeness, the faint scratch of metal near her skin, the quiet hum of Deadlock’s steady breathing.
Mascara came next, Deadlock’s strokes patient, her thumb brushing lightly against Fade’s cheekbone when she tilted her chin upward. Their eyes met briefly, a spark flickering in the exchange before Deadlock looked away, focused again on her task.
Finally came the lipstick—the least intimidating, though it carried its own weight. Deadlock leaned down first, brushing her lips softly against Fade’s in a kiss that was far longer than a simple “good luck” gesture, then pulled back just enough to apply the dark matte tint. The touch of the applicator was featherlight, but the burn it left behind felt anything but.
By the time she was finished, a faint flush dusted Fade’s neck, heat pooling in her chest that had nothing to do with the warm bathroom lights. Letting someone else do this, letting Deadlock touch her in this quiet, attentive way, felt more intimate than a dozen kisses.
Checking her reflection in the compact mirror, Fade smiled softly. “Damn… you’re better at this than me.”
She set the mirror aside, her eyes sliding deliberately down Deadlock’s open shirt to the icy blue lace beneath. It was one of those rare, delicate pieces—too beautiful to risk in combat, too expensive to replace. Her lips curled into something darker, more playful.
Deadlock noticed the look, her smirk slow and knowing as she began buttoning her shirt from the bottom. Her fingers moved with lazy precision, but when she reached the line just below her bra, Fade caught her wrist, halting the motion.
Fade leaned in, her lips brushing Deadlock’s collarbone as she kissed a slow path downward, stopping deliberately between her breasts. Her lips lingered—warm, soft, and intentional—before she pulled away, leaving behind a dark imprint of her lipstick that stood stark against pale skin and icy lace.
She finished buttoning the shirt herself, leaving just enough undone for the mark to peek through, her fingers ghosting down Deadlock’s sternum before slipping away.
Deadlock’s breath hitched, a quiet exhale breaking her usual composure as her steel-blue eyes flicked to Fade’s. “You really don’t play fair…” Her voice was lower now, rougher, the heat behind it betraying the calm facade she worked so hard to maintain.
Fade’s hands skimmed lazily along her waist, her smirk turning razor-sharp, laced with heat. “You love it,” she murmured, voice like smoke curling between them. “We should go before I do more than kiss you.”
Deadlock leaned in close, her hand slipping to the back of Fade’s neck as she brushed her lips near her ear. “Not that I’d complain…” Her lips grazed just beneath, warm and deliberate, though she forced herself to pull away before she left her own mark.
She stepped back, clearing her throat softly as she helped Fade off the counter. Together, they moved back to the bedroom, slipping into their shoes—Deadlock lacing up her high-tops with practiced ease while Fade’s stilettos clicked softly against the hardwood. The Turk grabbed her purse, fingers automatically finding Deadlock’s hand as they left the apartment—her lipstick still blooming in a bold, dark print against the edge of Deadlock’s collar.
The restaurant felt like something out of another life—warm, romantic, dripping with elegance from the polished marble floors to the soft hum of a string quartet playing in the corner. Golden light poured from chandeliers and lanterns, glinting off crystal glasses and polished cutlery, while the faint scent of roses drifted in from the open garden and fountain beyond the balcony doors. It was the kind of place Chamber probably whispered about when trying to impress someone—a place where indulgence felt effortless.
The hostess led them up the sweeping spiral staircase to the rooftop terrace, where the city skyline shimmered in the distance. They took their seats at a table tucked near the edge, framed by ivy-wrapped pillars and the low trickle of the nearby fountain. The air was cool but pleasant, the stars just beginning to prick the velvet sky.
Fade set her purse down, flipping open her menu, but her focus kept drifting—not to the glossy pages, but to the woman across from her. Deadlock sat with that deliberate ease she wore like armor: back straight but not stiff, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed, almost regal. The soft waves she’d carefully tamed earlier caught in the warm light, the gold chain of her necklace gleaming subtly against the crisp white of her shirt. Even her prosthetic hand, resting casually against the table, caught and reflected the glow, each motion smooth and deliberate.
She didn’t look like the Sergeant. Not the soldier weighed down by ghosts. Here, she looked untouchable—Iselin, calm and composed, every inch the kind of woman who could command a room without ever raising her voice.
Fade let herself watch, tracing every detail with an intensity that lingered just long enough for Deadlock to notice.
“You’re staring,” the blonde murmured, not glancing up from her menu. Her voice was smooth, steady, but there was a faint flicker of amusement beneath it.
“Can you blame me? The view is beautiful,” Fade replied, turning back to her menu.
Deadlock’s mouth quirked, a quiet scoff breaking the air as she flipped a page. “Sap.”
“Yours,” Fade countered softly, the corner of her mouth tugging upward.
Before the Sentinel could reply, the waiter approached, all polite smiles and perfect timing, collecting their menus and taking their orders. Their drinks arrived first—a deep, velvety red wine for Fade, a glass of water for Deadlock.
For a while, their conversation was easy and unhurried. Deadlock mused over Neon’s antics with Gekko and Skye, shaking her head as she twirled her fork through delicate strands of pasta. Fade listened, sipping her wine, the cool glass a pleasant contrast to the growing heat pooling low in her chest.
But as the conversation drifted, her foot slid forward beneath the table, brushing against Deadlock’s calf. The Sentinel’s inhale was subtle, a barely-there hitch, but Fade caught it. Her lips twitched around the rim of her glass as she dragged the edge of her shoe higher, tracing along the inside of Deadlock’s leg with deliberate slowness.
Deadlock’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Her steel-blue gaze flicked up, calm and unreadable despite the faint tension in her shoulders. She set her fork down and leaned back, uncrossing her legs and spreading them slightly. “You’re playing with fire, kjære,” she murmured, sipping from her water.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fade lilted, voice dipped in feigned innocence as her lashes lowered, her smile curling like smoke.
Deadlock exhaled through her nose—measured, steady—before leaning back in her chair and letting her hand drop beneath the table. Her cool metal fingers wrapped around Fade’s ankle, gently guiding her foot into her lap. Her touch was deceptively calm as her thumb stroked a slow line just beneath the hem of Fade’s pants. The faint scrape of polished steel against bare skin sent a shiver up the Turk’s spine, her breath stuttering just slightly as she hid behind her glass.
Unlike Fade, Deadlock’s expression didn’t waver—her face a mask of cool composure as she continued to eat, every movement controlled and measured. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at her lips as her thumb brushed slow, deliberate circles against Fade’s skin.
It was maddening, the way Deadlock refused to react. She didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t let the heat unravel her—not here. Not yet. Her restraint was infuriating, and Fade could feel her own pulse quicken with each second that ticked by.
She set her glass down, her tongue wetting her lower lip as she leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table. “You’re awfully calm for someone who looks ready to bolt the second we get home,” she murmured, her voice pitched low enough to be lost beneath the music and quiet chatter.
Deadlock’s gaze lifted, steady and level, meeting hers with that cool, practiced ease. “Patience, mitt lys,” she said smoothly, her voice a quiet, grounding anchor that somehow made the tension worse. “No sense in rushing when we have all night.”
Her prosthetic fingers traced one last lingering line along Fade’s calf before retreating, the absence of contact making the bounty hunter’s skin buzz.
Fade sat back, her lips curling into something dangerous as she took another sip of her wine. She didn’t mind the game. In fact, it only sharpened the edge of the night, wound the tension tighter, made the eventual unraveling all the sweeter.
The night stretched between them—soft music, the quiet clinking of cutlery, the glow of the city below. But beneath the polished calm of it all, the heat simmered—an unspoken current, coiled and waiting, biding its time until the world faded away and only the two of them remained.
Notes:
Translations:
Jeg elsker deg, mitt lys - [Norwegian] I love you, my light
Jeg elsker deg også - [Norwegian] I love you too
Kjære - [Norwegian] My love
Chapter 14: Chapter 13
Notes:
Here’s a long, sweet smut chapter to make up for my delay with this fic. I swear I’ll get back on track soon <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The night air was cooler than the rooftop, brushing softly against Fade’s flushed cheeks as they stepped out of the restaurant. The city buzzed faintly in the distance—muted traffic, the low hum of neon signs flickering awake for the late crowd.
The Initiator’s heels clicked softly against the cobblestones as she walked ahead, her hand laced loosely with her partner's. The wine left her pleasantly warm, every nerve humming with the slow-burn tension she’d been stoking all night. Her lips curved into a lazy, mischievous smirk as she glanced at the blonde beside her, her steps deliberately slow, swaying just enough to let her blouse shift and tease with every movement.
“You’ve been awfully composed,” she murmured, her voice soft, velvety, curling between them like smoke. Her thumb brushed along Deadlock’s hand, slow and deliberate. “Almost like you’re trying to make me impatient.”
Deadlock’s gaze slid to hers, steady and unhurried despite the way her jaw flexed ever so slightly. “Or maybe,” she said calmly, her voice pitched low, “I’m letting you dig yourself deeper. Makes the payoff better.”
Fade’s smirk deepened, her lashes lowering as she stepped just close enough for their shoulders to brush. “Payoff, huh? You mean when you finally break and—”
She didn’t get to finish.
Deadlock’s free hand caught her hip and spun her gently, backing her against the cool brick wall of the building. Before Fade could draw another breath, her mouth was captured—firm, deliberate, and hungry. Not rushed, not sloppy, but with the kind of control that made the Turk’s knees buckle and her head spin.
The Sentinel’s metal fingers splayed against her waist, cool and solid even through the fabric of her blouse, while her organic hand cradled her jaw, angling her just right. Fade’s soft gasp melted into a low hum as Deadlock deepened the kiss, their mouths moving in perfect sync, every slow pull of her lips a reminder that the calm veneer from dinner was only ever a leash.
When she finally pulled back, her breath warm against the Initiator's lips, her steel-blue gaze was sharp—heated but still controlled, like a flame banked just enough not to burn the whole city down.
“Patience, Hazal,” she murmured, her thumb brushing along her partner’s flushed cheek. “You’ll get what you’re asking for… but not here.”
Fade’s fingers tightened subtly on her arm, her lips parted as she struggled to bite back the quiet, needy sound in her throat. She tipped her head, brushing her mouth against Deadlock’s jaw in a fleeting, teasing kiss.
“Cruel woman,” she whispered, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.
The Norwegian’s mouth quirked in a faint, knowing smirk as she stepped back, lacing their fingers together once more. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you home before you cause a scene.”
Fade only hummed, a soft, sultry note as she let herself be led down the quiet street—her pulse still hammering, her thoughts already spinning ahead to the moment the front door would shut behind them.
The couple returned to their apartment just after midnight, the quiet hum of the city muffled by the heavy door as Deadlock eased it shut behind them.
Fade collapsed onto the cushions, sighing as though the weight of her stilettos alone had carried the night’s exhaustion. Deadlock chuckled softly—a low, warm sound—and crouched in front of her, her organic hand curling around Fade’s ankle. Without a word, she slid off the first heel, then the second, her movements patient and unhurried.
Fade tilted her head, watching her with a small, softened smile. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had shown her this kind of gentle attentiveness—over something so small, something so ordinary. There was something grounding about it, something that made her chest ache in the best way.
Deadlock carried the shoes to the door, lining them neatly beside their other pairs before bending to unlace her sneakers. She stepped out of them, shoulders rolling to shake off the night air.
When she straightened, Fade was already there—slipping off the couch like a shadow. Her fingers hooked into the belt loops of Deadlock’s slacks, tugging her back until the Sentinel’s shoulders brushed the closed door. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes as she pressed up, her lips finding Deadlock’s in a slow, lingering kiss.
Deadlock hummed into it, her hands finding familiar ground—one at her girlfriend’s waist, anchoring her, the other sliding up her cheek, fingers threading through the soft, dark strands of her hair. The faint sweetness of wine lingered on Fade’s tongue, sharp and warm all at once, and it sent a ghost of a chill down the Sentinel’s spine. The taste wasn’t vodka, wasn’t whiskey, but the faint buzz it hinted at stirred something deep in her chest. Something that had been sleeping, waiting.
Fade, meanwhile, was all too aware of her own buzz. Nearly a bottle of wine had warmed her blood, but not enough to make her stumble or slur—just enough to let the walls she so carefully built relax and let her play her game without Nightmare breathing down her neck. No whispers. No shadows clawing at the edges of her mind. Just her, her girlfriend, and the soft heat that pooled between every shared breath.
She tugged gently at Deadlock’s belt, pulling back from the kiss just enough to meet her eyes. The soldier’s nod was slow, deliberate, her gaze flicking down to watch Fade’s slender fingers undo the belt with ease.
Fade leaned in again, trailing kisses along the sharp line of Deadlock’s jaw before descending lower. Her lips brushed the hollow of her throat, then the warm skin at the base of her neck, before finally finding the dip of her collarbone. Each kiss lingered, deliberate and slow, her teeth occasionally grazing just enough to leave faint marks—red now, deepening to purple by morning. A silent promise that tonight would leave echoes long after it was over.
Deadlock’s breath hitched, her hands tightening just slightly at Fade’s hips. She didn’t rush her, didn’t break her calm composure yet, but her pulse betrayed her—steady but strong, thrumming beneath the skin where Fade’s mouth lingered.
Fade trailed lower, her nails grazing down Deadlock’s hips as she undid the last button of her slacks. The motion was unhurried, almost indulgent, before she sank gracefully to her knees. Her fingers hooked into the waistband and tugged, coaxing the fabric down over strong thighs until it pooled at the Sentinel’s feet.
Deadlock stepped free with a slow, deliberate motion. Her lip caught between her teeth as Fade’s lips ghosted over the inside of her thigh, leaving a single, searing kiss just above where her body ached for her most. The tease made her breath hitch despite herself, a low hum of heat sparking at the base of her spine.
Fade smiled faintly, the sound of that sharp inhale fueling her. She flicked her gaze upward, meeting Deadlock’s eyes for the briefest moment, before leaning in. The flat of her tongue slid slowly across slick folds, a languid taste that had her humming softly at the salty-sweetness on her tongue. The second lick was lighter—barely there, more suggestion than contact—but it made the blonde’s hips twitch all the same.
A curse escaped the blonde’s lips, low and rough. Her hand drifted downward, brushing Fade’s dark strands aside so she could see her clearly. There was no pressure, no guiding—just grounding herself, feeling the reality of her lover pressed between her legs.
Fade’s lips wrapped around her clit, sucking gently before easing one finger inside. The slow stretch made Deadlock’s core tighten instinctively, her head tipping back as her eyes fluttered shut. Her other hand found the door behind her, knuckles whitening as she braced.
A second finger followed, the intrusion met with a low groan as Fade set a punishingly slow rhythm—deliberate, deep, each thrust drawing her closer while denying the quick release her body begged for. Hazal was a master of pacing, of control, and this was her favorite game: unraveling Deadlock thread by thread, testing the steel composure the Sentinel had clung to all night.
Deadlock’s breath came heavier, her hips starting to rock with subtle desperation. Her voice broke on a low moan as Fade curled her fingers just right, grazing the spot that made her stomach tighten.
“Hazal—fuck—” she rasped, her voice husky, breath catching as that coil wound tighter and tighter.
Fade hummed against her, the vibrations shooting up her spine and stealing another gasp. She pulled back just enough to breathe, her lips glistening as her eyes flicked up to meet Deadlock’s. That mismatched gaze burned with fire and hunger, and the sight of it nearly unraveled the Sentinel then and there. She wanted to hold out, to deny Fade the satisfaction of seeing her come undone so quickly… but that look always stripped her defenses bare.
The wave hit with a half-whimper, half-moan. Deadlock braced her forearm against the door, her hips bucking as pleasure ripped through her. The aftershocks trembled through her legs, threatening to buckle her knees as Fade coaxed every last ripple with her mouth and fingers.
Fade didn’t pull away—not immediately. Her fingers slipped free, slow and deliberate, but her tongue lingered, drawing languid, teasing licks through the mess she’d made of her partner. Each pass was unhurried, savoring, making Deadlock’s breath stutter as she fought to keep upright.
When she finally stood, Fade’s smirk was satisfied but not smug. She wiped her hand on her slacks, her free one sliding up to her lover’s waist as she leaned in close. Their lips hovered, warm breath mingling.
“You were right,” she purred, her voice like velvet, soft but laced with heat. “The payoff is so much better this way.”
Deadlock let out a short, breathy laugh, still steadying herself against the door. “Who’s the cruel woman now?”
“Still you.” Fade’s tone was a teasing whisper as she finally closed the gap, their mouths meeting in a slow, molten kiss. The Sentinel moaned into it, her composure cracking further as the taste of her own arousal mingled with the lingering bite of wine on Fade’s tongue.
It was intoxicating—not just the kiss, but everything about this moment. The heat of Fade pressed against her, the faint trace of alcohol on her breath, the heavy warmth curling low in her gut. And beneath it, quieter but undeniable, that old itch stirred in the back of Deadlock’s mind—a craving, cold and sharp, for a different kind of burn. The one she hadn’t indulged tonight. The one she told herself she didn’t need anymore.
But she did need this—needed Hazal. And for now, that was enough to drown the rest out.
When they finally broke apart—chests rising and falling, cheeks flushed from heat and wine—Deadlock dipped her head close to Fade’s ear, her breath warm as she whispered, “My turn, canım.”
The Turk smiled against the shell of her ear, a soft hum slipping past her lips as she let herself be scooped up effortlessly. Her arms wound loosely around Deadlock’s neck as the Sentinel carried her through the apartment. Fade could feel the strength in every step, the calm control radiating off her partner even as the air between them throbbed with unspoken want.
The soldier laid her gently on the bed, her cool metal fingers ghosting along the buttons of Fade’s crimson blouse. Their gazes locked, heat simmering low and steady as Deadlock undid each button with deliberate slowness, fingertips grazing skin as she went. The quiet between them was heavy, but not awkward—every breath, every brush of fingers, every pause felt purposeful, charged.
Fade mirrored the motion, undoing the top buttons of Deadlock’s crisp white shirt. Her mismatched gaze broke away from the woman’s eyes only when the fabric parted to reveal that icy blue lace. She lingered there a beat longer than necessary, her lips curling into a faint, appreciative smirk.
Deadlock caught the look and returned it with one of her own, her hands sliding down to work Fade’s slacks open. The touch was deliberate, grazing along hipbones before tugging the fabric loose. The Turk shivered despite the warmth in the room, a quiet exhale spilling past her lips as her core tightened in anticipation.
Fade wriggled free of the pants, letting them fall away, and barely had time to inhale before Deadlock’s lips found her throat. Slow, lingering kisses traced along the elegant line of her neck, dipping to the hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss left behind faint, blooming warmth, not quite marks yet but promising.
The Sentinel’s hands planted firm on the mattress, bracing on either side of Fade’s body. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off her skin, but not quite touching beyond those kisses. She took her time, savoring, tasting—not in any rush to dive straight into the kind of desperation that usually followed. Tonight wasn’t just about getting off; it was about them. Exploring, savoring, lingering.
And, if she was honest, it was also about control. About quieting the faint, sharp itch in her chest—the way every taste of Fade’s wine-tinged lips sent a pulse of want through her, not just for this, but for something else. Something she shouldn’t want, but did.
Fade’s hand came up to cradle the back of her lover’s head, her nails grazing the base of her skull. But Deadlock caught her wrists gently, lowering them to the bed and pinning them above her head with her cool prosthetic hand. The metal fingers were firm but not unkind, a contrast to the warmth of her body pressed so close.
“Patience, kjære,” she murmured, her voice low, curling like smoke as her organic hand settled on Fade’s hip. “You’ll get what you want.”
Before the bounty hunter could fire back some teasing remark, Deadlock’s lips crashed into hers, stealing the words before they could leave her mouth. The kiss was deep, almost languid, until that featherlight touch dipped lower, fingertips brushing over the thin, damp fabric between her thighs. The Turk’s breath hitched, a soft moan spilling past her lips as her hips arched instinctively into the contact.
Deadlock pressed two fingers against her clit through the fabric—no pressure at first, no movement, just enough to make her feel every inch of the contact. She waited, savoring the sharp inhale and tremble of Fade’s legs, before she began to move. Slow, deliberate circles, barely enough to satisfy but impossible to ignore.
Fade’s hips rolled into the rhythm, her mismatched gaze locking with steel blue as her breath deepened. Heat pooled low in her gut with each drag of metal fingertips, every gentle rotation pushing her closer to the edge without quite letting her tip over.
It was maddening. Every nerve felt alive, her thighs trembling as the teasing pulled her taut. She bit down on her lip, eyes fluttering shut, before whispering breathlessly, “Ise…”
“Yes, baby?” Deadlock’s voice was soft, indulgent, curling with the kind of wickedness that came from knowing exactly how close she had her. Her fingers pressed a little harder, the circles slower but firmer now, just enough to pull another gasp from the Turk’s lips.
Fade’s jaw went slack. “Fuck, you’re evil…” Her thighs twitched around the soldier’s hand as she tried, and failed, to hold back a low, needy moan.
And just as the heat in her core threatened to break, the pressure vanished. Deadlock slid her fingers away, earning a soft whine from her lover, before murmuring against her ear, “You love it.”
She shifted her grip, releasing Fade’s wrists only to hook her thumb into the waistband of those slick-soaked panties. She tugged them to the side—not off, not yet—and slid one finger inside, slow and deliberate.
Fade’s breath stuttered. Another finger followed, stretching her just enough to make her hips jerk. She slapped her hand over her mouth, a low, unsteady groan escaping into her palm.
“No,” Deadlock said gently, peeling her hand away and intertwining their fingers—metal lacing with warm flesh as she set a slow, relentless pace. Her thrusts were deep, unhurried, each one pulling a quiet gasp from the Initiator’s lips. “Let me hear you.”
Hazal’s chest tightened, her heart stuttering at the words. Even now, after years of this—after years of learning how to trust touch again—being heard, being seen in moments like this still left her raw. Vulnerable.
She wanted to keep her composure, to match Deadlock’s steady calm, but when those fingers curled just right—brushing her most sensitive spot with every thrust, palm grazing her clit just enough—she shattered. A string of curses spilled from her lips, breathless and slurred, a tangled mix of Turkish and Norwegian as her body seized with release. Her back arched, her thighs trembling as her orgasm ripped through her, clamping tight around Deadlock’s wrist.
“That’s it,” the blonde murmured, voice low, coaxing her through the aftershocks with steady thrusts, “pen jente.”
Fade could barely register the words, only the soft, grounding tone. Her body gave a soft jolt when Deadlock finally slid her fingers free, the warmth between her legs replaced by a cool absence as the soldier brought those fingers to her lips, sucking them clean with quiet satisfaction.
Fade’s gaze snapped to hers, the weight of it heavy, electric. Deadlock met it steadily, shifting to hover over her, her hand sliding to cradle the Turk’s jaw as she leaned in.
The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed. It didn’t demand. But it consumed. It left no air, no thought, only the molten heat between them.
Without breaking the kiss, the Norwegian shifted her weight and rolled onto her back, taking Fade with her in one fluid motion. The Turk let out a shaky exhale against her lips, her body still trembling, muscles quivering from the aftershocks that hadn’t yet let her go. Her mind was hazy, swimming, but she clung to the kiss like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.
She broke away first—barely—her lips ghosting over Deadlock’s, noses brushing, breath mingling in hot, shallow bursts. The Sentinel’s hands slid down to her waist, thumbs grazing the damp band of her ruined underwear. With gentle insistence, she helped Fade peel them off, tossing the soaked fabric aside before settling her palms on the smooth expanse of the Turk’s thighs. Her grip wasn’t demanding—just grounding, steady, like she needed that touch as much as air.
Fade leaned down again, capturing her mouth in another kiss. It was slower this time, but no less deep—molten and unhurried, like tasting something rare and sweet you don’t want to waste. Her hand slid up, curling lightly at the base of her girlfriend’s throat, feeling the steady pound of her pulse beneath her fingertips.
Deadlock hummed into the kiss, a sound low and rough in her chest. She coaxed Fade’s lips open, letting their tongues meet, and for a moment the room tilted around her. The buzz from the wine had dulled, but she wanted to hold onto this—this taste, this weight, this heat—so she pulled her closer, deeper, chasing the high that lingered on Fade’s lips.
Between kisses, between ragged pulls of breath, their bodies shifted almost instinctively—thighs sliding, hips angling until slick met slick. Fade shuddered at the first brush of contact, a raw sound slipping past her lips. Deadlock caught it with her mouth, then trailed away just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of her lover’s knee before guiding her hips back down.
They moved together slowly at first—gentle, rocking rolls that sent molten heat rippling through already sensitive nerves. Slick mixed with slick, the sound soft and obscene in the quiet of the room. Both of them were raw, every touch amplified, every grind making their spines arch. But restraint was impossible now. They needed more. They needed each other.
Fade tipped her head back with a gasp, a Turkish curse spilling from her lips as pleasure sparked bright and hot under her skin. Her nails dug crescents into Deadlock’s thigh, gripping like she’d drown without the anchor.
The Sentinel’s breath stuttered, chest rising and falling like she couldn’t get enough air. She tangled her fingers in Fade’s hair, tugging her down for a kiss that was anything but soft—hungry, consuming. The rhythm between them shifted, hips rolling harder, deeper, slick heat grinding against slick in perfect sync.
The coil inside Fade snapped first—white-hot and brutal. Her orgasm tore through her with a broken cry muffled against Deadlock’s lips, thighs trembling, hips jerking in helpless aftershocks. The sound dragged the Norwegian over the edge with her, pleasure crashing sharp and blinding, stealing her breath and her voice in one long, shuddering exhale.
Fade sagged forward, grazing Deadlock’s neck with her teeth in a lazy bite that made the Sentinel hiss through her teeth. Their hips slowed reluctantly, muscles twitching as they tried to come down from the high without letting go.
When the world started to steady, they moved again—slow and tender this time, as if unraveling a knot. Deadlock ended up straddling Fade’s lap, arms loose around her neck, her body flushed and gleaming with sweat. Her chest rose and fell in shaky waves. Fade’s hands cradled her waist, fingertips pressing hard enough to promise bruises she’d kiss later. Their eyes met and held—two currents pulling each other deeper.
“Happy anniversary, aşkım,” the Turk murmured, voice still husky and uneven.
Deadlock smiled, tired but soft—so real it made something ache in her chest. She leaned in for a kiss, brief but tender. “Happy anniversary, kjære.”
For a long time, they stayed like that—foreheads pressed together, breaths syncing, the weight of the world falling away until only this existed: the thrum in their veins, the lingering taste of each other, and the warm haze curling between them like smoke.
Eventually, they pulled apart, sluggish and smiling, and began peeling the rest of their clothes off—pausing every now and then to steal small kisses or brush fingers over flushed skin. There was no urgency now, no heat, just the quiet reverence of two people unwilling to let go.
Hand in hand, they made the slow walk to the bathroom. Fade turned on the shower while Deadlock grabbed their towels, the soft rustle of fabric and running water filling the silence. They stood side by side at the sink, brushing their teeth, the mirror catching their reflections: hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, eyes heavy-lidded and still glowing with something raw and unguarded.
Deadlock leaned down when she finished, brushing a kiss against the back of her girlfriend’s neck. Fade shot her a half-hearted glare through the mirror, toothpaste foam still on her lips, and the Sentinel just grinned.
Neither said a word. There was no need.
They stepped into the shower together, shoulders brushing under the spray. At first, they kept their hands to themselves—rinsing away sweat and stickiness, scrubbing shampoo through their hair, letting the heat unknot their sore muscles. Deadlock hummed a low, tuneless melody under her breath, like she always did when she was fighting thoughts too big for the moment.
Then Fade moved. Her hands slid to Deadlock’s hips, pressing her back against the cool tile. The Turk kissed her—not with hunger, not with heat, but with something far deeper. A kiss that spoke without words—I love you. I see you. I’m not letting go.
A sound escaped Deadlock’s throat—soft, fragile, almost disbelieving. Her metal fingers cradled Fade’s jaw, thumb grazing her cheekbone; her organic hand settled on the curve of her shoulder, steadying herself against the swell of emotion.
They only parted when breathing became a necessity. Fade’s gaze lingered on her lover’s lips—swollen and flushed—before she stepped back, rinsed the last suds from her skin, and slipped out of the shower without a word.
Deadlock stayed behind a moment longer, palms pressed to the tile, letting the water hide the tremor in her hands. Her mind kept replaying how easily Fade undid her walls. How quickly everything changed.
One minute, she was the perfect soldier. Cold. Untouchable. A body built to take damage and keep moving. No one to lose, nothing to break her. She swore she’d never repeat the same mistakes she made with Kaia.
And then came Hazal.
The one who reached past the scars, past the armor, and touched the parts she thought had died.
The one she’d wake up next to every morning if she could.
The one who made her believe in forever again.
Her throat tightened. She shut the water off, grabbed a towel, and wrapped herself in it before pulling her damp hair into a loose knot.
When she padded into the bedroom, the sight waiting for her nearly stole her breath: Fade curled up on the bed, swallowed by one of Deadlock’s sweatshirts, legs bare, hair damp and tangled. She was scrolling through her phone, but the second Deadlock walked in, she tossed it aside and opened her arms.
Deadlock didn’t hesitate. She tugged on her underwear and a t-shirt, then slid into bed, letting herself be gathered close—head pillowed against her partner’s chest, arms circling her waist. For a long, sweet stretch of silence, they just breathed together. Fade’s nails traced lazy lines over her scalp, scratching lightly at her undercut, grounding her in the simplest, purest way.
“Comfy?” Fade teased softly, voice hoarse from hours of moans and laughter.
The Sentinel just hummed, tightening her hold. “Mm. More than comfy.”
A quiet laugh vibrated through the Turk’s chest. She kissed the crown of Deadlock’s head and whispered something in Turkish that made her heart clench even tighter.
Today had been damn near perfect. Even with Nightmare’s earlier outburst, this was more than either of them ever thought they’d have. More than they ever dared to want.
And as stillness settled like a warm blanket, Deadlock knew she wanted more.
More anniversaries.
More late-night showers and morning coffee.
More lazy teasing and soft touches in dimly lit rooms.
She wanted everything.
And when she glanced at the dresser—at the drawer hiding the small velvet box she bought weeks ago—her breath hitched. Because now, she wasn’t just sure she wanted forever.
She was certain Hazal would say yes.
And when she did, all of this—and everything beyond—would be theirs.
Forever.
Notes:
Love ya’ll lots. I have like, at least 3 more fics I’m planning/writing… Pray for my sanity.
Translations:
Canım — [Turkish] Darling
Kjære — [Norwegian] My love
Pen jente — [Norwegian] Pretty girl
Askım — [Turkish] My love
Chapter 15: Chapter 14
Notes:
hi my loves <3 i'm back
sorry for the wait. after wrapping up the fade x vyse fic i started drafting a couple others, then lost the motivation to write at all. that + uni meant being burnt out 25/8, and I let myself take that break instead of half-assing the rest of this fic. but like i said, fadelock is back. i'm going to try to upload regularly but i make no promises. hopefully ya'll enjoy, and thank you for the patience. :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Fade woke to a dull throb behind her eyes and a sour taste on her tongue—the kind of hangover that wasn’t catastrophic, just enough to make her regret the extra glasses of wine. Her muscles buzzed faintly, still sensitive from the night before, the ghost of Deadlock’s hands etched across her skin. She groaned softly, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead before forcing herself upright.
Beside her, Deadlock was still asleep. Her girlfriend lay curled on her side, blonde hair mussed, one hand tucked beneath her chin while the mechanical one rested silent on the nightstand. For a moment, Fade simply watched. She reached out, brushing strands of hair away from her face, fingers lingering as a faint smile tugged at her lips.
Her gaze caught on the constellation of marks scattered across Deadlock’s neck and collarbone, the faint crescent scratches marring her skin. Last night flickered in fragments—teeth, whispers, soft laughter tangled with raw need. Those marks weren’t just possession. They were proof. A promise. Love and devotion she never thought she’d be allowed to claim.
But the soft buzz of her phone shattered the reverie.
Fade picked it up, pressing it to her ear without checking the screen. “Salem,” she whispered, careful not to wake the woman beside her.
“Ah, Fade,” Cypher’s smooth voice filled the line. “I trust you’re enjoying your vacation.”
“Mm.” She slid from bed, bare feet padding across the floor toward the kitchen. “What is it, Amir? You’re not one for small talk.”
“You know me too well, Dream Seer," he said with a soft chuckle. "I’m calling with news about your brother.”
Fade froze, breath locking in her chest. She forced herself into motion, tugging a mug from the cabinet, the cool ceramic grounding her. “What news?” Her voice came steady, though her grip trembled.
“Surveillance cameras placed him in Oslo two nights ago. Near an old apartment complex. He wasn’t alone.”
She set the mug down, jaw tight. “Who was with him?”
Keys clacked in the background. Then Cypher’s calm voice. “Kaia Dharan. Ståljeger lieutenant. Former Sri Lankan black-ops.”
Fade was in the middle of scooping coffee grounds into the filter when the name struck like a blade. The spoon slipped from her fingers, grounds scattering across the counter. She curled her hand into a fist, nails biting into her palm. Her pulse kicked up. She sucked in a slow breath, calming herself before Nightmare caught on to her irritation.
“Hazal?” Cypher’s voice softened. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” she murmured, tone eerily calm. “Thanks, Amir.”
She hung up before he could press further, the phone clattering against the counter. Leaning against the island, she squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through the storm building in her chest.
When she opened them again, Deadlock was at the end of the hall. Shoulders draped loose with sleep, eyes half-lidded, her organic hand buried in her pocket. Fade couldn’t tell how long she’d been standing there or how much she’d heard—but her presence alone was grounding.
The Sentinel’s gaze flicked to the mess on the counter before settling back on her. She crossed the room in steady strides, fingers sliding beneath Fade’s jaw, tilting her face up. “What’s wrong?” she asked, voice still a little husky from sleep.
“Cypher called.” Fade leaned into the touch, but her eyes dropped to the floor. She couldn’t meet Deadlock’s gaze—not when her mind was already betraying her, not when the shadows whispered their cruel truths. “Kadir’s here. And Kaia was with him.”
Deadlock’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding behind her lips. It was bad enough they'd ran into the handler a few days ago, and now she's somehow involved with Fade's brother. The thought alone made the Sentinel's stomach twist—because she knew what a relationship with Kaia cost. Knew what it'd lead to. She stood there for a long moment, trying to think of what to do or say.
But before she could speak, Fade pulled back. She began wiping the spilled grounds into her palm, shoulders hunched in silence. When the counter was clean, she set the rag aside, leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Deadlock’s cheek, and whispered, “I’m gonna go for a walk, okay?”
Deadlock stood rooted, leaning against the counter, a flicker of heartbreak hollowing her chest. “Want me to come?”
Fade shook her head once. Grabbed her jacket from the hook. Tugged on her boots. Pocketed her phone. And she didn’t look back as she slipped through the door.
Deadlock exhaled slowly, the sound almost breaking, because she knew. Knew this wasn’t just about Kadir. Knew this was Fade rebuilding walls brick by brick, putting her mask back on. Choosing to carry her burden alone rather than let someone shoulder it with her.
And the cruelest part? Deadlock had been ready. She wanted to carry it. To carry her. But now, all she could do was watch the distance grow, helpless against the quiet unraveling that had already begun.
Notes:
yikes... no more sunshine and rainbows, huh...?
Translations:
Salem - [Turkish] Hello
Chapter 16: Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
She didn’t know how long she’d been walking.
Didn’t remember the turns she took, or the streets she crossed, or the faces that blurred past her. Her pulse pounded too loud in her ears, drowning out reason, until all that remained was the ache in her chest and the chorus in her skull.
Failure.
He doesn’t want you.
You lost him once—you’ll lose him again.
You ruin everything you touch.
Fade clenched her jaw, forcing her legs to keep moving. Each step was too loud on the pavement, too hollow. The winter air bit at her lungs, sharp and metallic.
Eventually the city gave way to something else—narrower streets, flickering lights, the faint hum of distant traffic fading into static. This neighborhood felt forgotten, stripped bare. The buildings sagged under the weight of time, their windows boarded and scrawled with graffiti. A single lamppost buzzed overhead, spilling a sickly yellow light that made everything look jaundiced.
Her pace slowed as her eyes adjusted to the dark. The air smelled of rust and mildew. Her phone buzzed in her hand—Deadlock’s name glowed on the screen. She stared at it for a long second, thumb hovering, but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not yet.
Then she saw it.
An old apartment complex at the end of the street.
Four stories tall, windows half-shattered, railings eaten by rust. The sign that once bore its name hung crooked, one letter missing. The parking lot was empty except for a single sedan slumped on flat tires.
Her chest tightened. Something—instinct, or the cruel voice in her mind—tugged her toward it.
She pocketed her phone and crossed the lot. Her boots crunched over broken glass, echoing in the silence. The front door gave under her hand with a low groan. Not locked. Not even barred. That, somehow, made it worse.
Inside, the air was thick and stale. The floorboards creaked under her weight. Wallpaper peeled like shedding skin, and the ceiling sagged where water had rotted it through. A faint draft whispered through the hall, stirring layers of dust that glittered faintly in the narrow shafts of light leaking between boarded windows.
Something scurried across the far end of the hall. Fade didn’t flinch, just rolled her eyes and moved toward the stairwell.
Her radiance began to hum beneath her skin—soft, electric, alive. It crawled up her spine, coiling in her fingertips, responding to something unseen. She felt the pull again, magnetic and wrong. The whispers grew louder.
You shouldn’t be here.
You can’t save him.
He doesn’t want to be saved.
It was like she was on autopilot. Her body followed where Nightmare said to go, and she made no effort to stop it. She tried to reach out to the shadows, searching for anything, anyone.
The second floor was empty.
The third too.
When she reached the fourth, the air changed. It was heavier. The static struck her like a blow—fear, anger, bitterness so raw it nearly staggered her. She had to bite down on a sound that wasn’t quite a groan. This wasn’t some weak hum. Someone had been here recently.
“Get it together,” she muttered. Her voice sounded too loud in the silence. She took a breath, then another, and pushed forward. Her movements were slow, deliberate—every step measured, every sense sharpened.
She tried a few doors. They were all locked. Until she reached apartment 408.
The knob turned with a quiet click.
She paused, hand still on the handle. Her brow arched in quiet question, but she didn’t think too hard on it. She’d made it this far; there was no turning back now. So she pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.
The air was colder here, thicker with dust. Faint light filtered through cracks in the boards, striping the room in bands of pale blue and shadow. A couch slumped against one wall. Broken glass littered the floor. But there were signs of life—a half-burned candle, a dented mug, a threadbare blanket tossed on the floor.
Someone had been here. Recently enough that the air still remembered their presence.
Fade closed her eyes and summoned a prowler. The shadow curled from her radiance like smoke, slinking forward with soft, liquid motion. She let it wander, feeling through its senses, her own mind stretching thin into the room’s echoes.
She moved to the bedroom, hands brushing over drawers, searching for anything—any sign of who this place belonged to. She'd found some old mail, random files.
But before she could even open the next drawer, she heard a click.
Then the unmistakable cold press of steel kissed the back of her skull.
She froze, but her pulse never spiked. A soft, almost bored, sigh slipped from her lips.
“Who are you?” a man’s voice said behind her—rough, low, steady in the way that came from years of surviving. There was a faint tremor underneath it, though. A fracture.
Fade exhaled slowly through her nose. Annoyance—not fear—edged her breath. “No one important,” she murmured, raising her hands and letting the papers slip from her fingers. They fluttered to the floor like dead moths. “This your place?”
The man didn’t answer.
Instead, a hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her around.
She didn’t even finish her inhale before she saw him. The first thing that hit her was his size—tall, broad-shouldered, built like someone who’d spent his life fighting his way through the world. The face was older, sharper, his once-soft boyish features carved into something harder. His jaw was dusted with stubble. There was a faint scar slicing through his right brow.
And his eyes—God, his eyes. Mismatched irises, same as hers. That familiar beauty mark near the left one.
The world dropped out from under her.
Her throat tightened, and for the briefest moment, she forgot how to breathe. “Kadi?” she whispered, the name trembling out of her like a prayer.
The man flinched at the nickname. The gun wavered—just for a second—then snapped back up, pressed cold and steady between her eyes.
“You don’t get to say that name,” he barked, the words cracking with venom.
Fade didn’t flinch. She couldn’t. She looked him straight in the eyes and swallowed hard. “Kadir,” she breathed, voice soft but steady. “It’s me… It’s Hazal.”
Her hands rose slowly as she tugged her hood back. The light caught her face, pale from exhaustion, her dark hair a tangled mess, her eyes wide and shimmering with grief. She saw the confusion flicker through his—that tiny flash of hesitation that felt like hope.
But it died fast.
“Hazal died eight years ago,” he said flatly, the words landing like gunshots.
He didn’t even give her the chance to argue something different. Just dropped his gun, grabbed her by the throat, and slammed her against the wall. The impact rattled the air from her lungs.
“Kadi—” she rasped, fingers wrapping around his wrist, trying to peel him off without hurting him. “Please—”
His grip only tightened. His other hand came up, pressing harder, cutting off her breath. He leaned in close, face inches from hers, eyes burning.
“You’re not her,” he hissed. “My sister is dead.”
The voices in her head hissed too, cruel and gleeful.
You lost him.
He hates you.
You should’ve stayed dead.
Her vision dimmed around the edges. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She didn’t even remember crying—it just happened, a reflex, a wound reopened.
She couldn’t die like this. Not here. Not by his hand.
So she let go.
The darkness rose.
Nightmare spilled from her veins like smoke, curling around their feet. The air turned thick, electric. The violet pulse in her veins flared bright as Kadir stumbled back, eyes widening in panic.
“What the—what are you—” he gasped, releasing her, his hands shaking as the shadows snaked around his wrists, up his arms, crawling to his throat. His fear hit her like a wave—sharp, choking, bitter—and Nightmare fed on it, whispering its own cruel delight.
Fade kept her back to the wall, trying to catch her breath, a bruise forming on her throat in the shape of his hand. She watched him drop to his knees, his screams raw, his breath ragged. The sound tore through her like glass. She could feel his terror, his confusion, his disbelief—everything she’d never wanted him to feel because of her.
Finally, she pulled Nightmare back. The shadows retreated, Kadir's screams melted into pained sobs. The bounty hunter took a half-step forward, her heart clenching because of the pain she'd just inflicted. She wanted to reach out, to hold him, to tell him he was safe with her. But that’d only put them back at step one.
Then a memory came to the forefront of her mind—one that was so pure, so private, that it'd surely convince him that she was real.
“Zuzu…” she whispered.
The name seemed to cut through the noise. His sobs stilled. Slowly, his gaze lifted to her—wide, red-rimmed, breath ragged.
“What did you just say?”
Her own breath hitched. “You used to call me that,” she said softly. “When you were little. You couldn’t say my name right.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Then, slowly, Kadir stood. His shoulders squared, face hardening again.
He picked up his gun from the floor, aiming it at her.
Fade’s hands lifted in surrender. “Kadir, please—”
“Stay the fuck away from me.”
The shot rang out.
The bullet missed her head by an inch, chipping the wall behind her.
Fade didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.
He turned, climbed through the broken window onto the fire escape, and vanished into the city.
For a long moment, all she could do was stare at the empty space he’d left behind. Then her knees gave out.
The sobs came soundless at first—just tremors in her chest, shaking through her bones until they broke free. Her hands clutched at her chest as if she could hold herself together. The air burned her lungs; her radiance burned beneath her skin like a brand, like a punishment—for hurting him, for losing him in the first place, for letting him go again.
The whispers returned, cruel as ever.
You lost him again.
You killed him once, you’ll kill him again.
You’ll always be alone.
She wanted to scream back, but no sound came.
She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there. Minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter. The pain she felt didn’t dull in the slightest. Eventually, she forced herself up, body trembling, and staggered out of the apartment.
She should’ve let Deadlock come. She shouldn’t have lied. She should’ve—
The thought fractured before it could finish.
All she knew was that she’d found him. And she’d lost him again.
And this time, she wasn’t sure she’d survive it.
Notes:
oh my poor baby fade
Chapter 17: Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time Fade drifted through the front door, the afternoon sun had already risen high, spilling gold light across the Oslo streets. The air smelled faintly of rain and city dust—too alive, too ordinary for the hollow ache sitting in her chest.
She didn’t even try to hide her exhaustion. Her coat slid from her shoulders and hit the floor in a heap. Her boots were kicked off beside it. She didn’t bother putting them away properly, didn’t look back—just moved through the apartment like a ghost who had forgotten how to live inside her own skin.
The bedroom was dim, the curtains half-drawn. Deadlock was stretched across the bed—arm thrown over her eyes, metal hand resting across her stomach, one knee slightly bent. She looked calm. Peaceful, even. Her chest rose and fell in that slow, rhythmic way that always anchored Fade when the world felt too loud.
Something inside the Turk cracked at the sight.
She hesitated in the doorway, fingers twitching at her sides. For a moment, she considered turning around and pretending she hadn’t come home at all. She didn’t deserve this—the warmth, the comfort, the person waiting for her. Not after failing again. Not after losing him.
But she couldn’t keep standing there.
Quietly, Fade crossed the room and eased down onto the mattress. She didn’t reach out, didn’t press close—just lay stiff on her side, hovering near the edge, as if distance could make the ache less real.
Deadlock stirred almost immediately. The dip of the mattress, the quiet sound of movement—it was all it took. Her arm slid from over her eyes, and she rolled onto her side, her fingers brushing gently against Fade’s waist before resting there. The touch was firm but warm, steady, the kind that said I’m here without needing words.
She tugged her closer. Pressed a slow kiss to the back of her neck.
“How was your walk?” she asked, her voice soft and low.
Fade swallowed, throat tight. “I…” Her voice faltered, raw from crying. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe before the words came out in a rasp. “I saw Kadir.”
Deadlock’s hand stilled for just a moment. The air between them shifted—not cold, not tense, just heavier.
“You did?” she asked quietly.
Fade nodded. “He almost shot me.” A bitter laugh escaped her, humorless and thin. “Said I died eight years ago.” She let out a shaky breath that turned into something closer to a sob halfway through. “He looked right at me, Ise, and didn’t believe a single thing I said. He was going to kill me.” Her voice cracked. “I had to use Nightmare. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I couldn’t let him—”
She stopped. Her chest heaved once, then again. The tears came silently, hot and relentless.
The Norwegian's jaw tightened, the muscle in it twitching. She wanted to ask why she’d gone alone, wanted to curse the world, whoever had filled Kadir’s head with lies. But when she looked at her partner—trembling, undone, guilt sitting like a brand across her chest—all she could do was breathe through it.
Her hand drifted, thumb tracing slow, grounding arcs just beneath the hem of her shirt. “You did what you had to do,” she murmured. “You survived. That’s all that matters right now.”
The Initiator didn’t answer. Didn’t even nod. She just curled tighter against herself, shoulders shaking, tears slipping into the sheets.
Deadlock pressed closer, chest to her back, the weight of her presence solid and sure. “Hey,” she whispered. “You’re safe. You hear me? You’re safe now.”
But inside, it tore at her—the image of Fade alone and terrified, nearly dying without her there to protect her. The thought made her stomach twist, her heart sink like lead. She couldn’t afford to lose her. Not to the world, not to her own guilt.
She would put herself on the line again and again if it meant keeping her safe—even if Fade never knew it, even if it broke her apart quietly, piece by piece.
For now, though, she just held her.
Soft breaths. Steady warmth.
And the quiet vow that she’d never let Fade face something like that alone again.
Eventually, Fade found the strength to face her girlfriend. She wiped the tears from her face, forcing her breathing to steady, and shifted onto her back. One trembling hand reached up to cradle Deadlock’s cheek.
The Sentinel leaned into the touch instinctively. Her own fingers brushed the hair from Fade’s temple, soft and reverent, thumb tracing slow arcs over her skin. Before she could say anything, Fade pulled her into a kiss—not soft, but deep. Desperate. All grief and gratitude and the unbearable ache of loss pressed into her mouth.
When they broke apart, Deadlock pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then, quietly, she peeled away. Fade didn’t stop her, but the small flicker of disappointment in her eyes nearly made the blonde stay.
“I’ll be right back,” she murmured, her voice low. Fade only nodded, watching her go with tired, glassy eyes.
In the living room, Deadlock sat heavily at the edge of the couch and pulled her phone from her pocket. Her thumb hovered over the contact list longer than it should have. The name glared up at her like a scar she’d never let heal.
Kaia Dharan.
Her stomach turned. She hated that she still had the number. Hated that part of her had refused to delete it, as if some buried, broken piece of her still needed to remember. Their relationship had ended years ago, and not cleanly—it had been violent in its passion, toxic in its love, and full of wounds that neither had ever really stopped reopening.
But Kaia had been the one with answers once. She might still be now.
Deadlock braced her elbows on her knees and exhaled through her nose. Then she hit call.
Kaia answered on the second ring. Her voice came through smooth and bored, that faint, husky lilt that still had the power to crawl under the soldier's skin.
“Dharan.”
“Kaia.” Deadlock’s tone was sharp, clipped. She didn’t bother softening it. “Where is he?”
A quiet laugh. “Hello to you too—”
“Where is he?” Deadlock repeated, slower this time. No patience. No warmth.
A pause. “Who?”
“Kadir Eyeletmez. You were seen with him two nights ago. Why?”
Another low chuckle, this one edged with amusement. “Why would I explain anything to you?” Kaia asked, feigning innocence. “You wanted to bite my head off the last time we spoke. Now you want information?”
Deadlock clenched her jaw hard enough to make her teeth ache. “This isn’t about me. If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you.”
For a moment, she almost hung up—but she could hear Fade’s broken voice echoing in her head, could still see the way she’d curled in on herself.
“Please,” she said finally, quietly, the word dragged out like it cost her blood. “Just tell me where he is.”
There was a long silence. Long enough for the Sentinel to think the call had dropped. Then the Sri Lankan exhaled a slow sigh that brushed against the line like smoke.
“Begging doesn’t suit you, Silv.”
The old nickname made Deadlock’s stomach twist.
“Kadir’s in Oslo,” Kaia continued, casual as ever. “Visiting me.”
Deadlock’s pulse spiked. Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles whitened. “Visiting,” she repeated flatly. “You’re sleeping with him.”
Kaia laughed—soft, low, infuriating. “We have an arrangement,” she said, voice syrup-thick with suggestion. “He’s… useful company. And very eager to please.”
Rage flared white-hot in Deadlock’s chest. Her mind flashed with images, memories—two years ago, when she'd given information on Kadir's whereabouts.
She wanted to know how long this had been going on. To ask if she'd known where he was this whole time. The mere thought made her sick. Kaia always knew where to stick the knife and twist it, and she was doing it again now.
“Does Fade know that you called me?” Kaia asked, her tone turning coy. “Or are you still pretending you can protect her from everything?”
“Don’t,” Deadlock said, voice dropping to a warning growl. "Where is he now?"
Kaia hummed thoughtfully, unaffected. “He’s at my place,” she said after a moment. “Still asleep. He came in shaken up, wouldn’t tell me why.”
Deadlock’s throat went dry.
“Thanks, Kaia,” she said finally, forcing her voice even. “Really.”
Another pause, softer this time. “Anytime, Ise,” Kaia murmured—and the line went dead.
Deadlock lowered the phone and dragged both hands down her face, exhaling hard. Her skin buzzed with frustration, guilt, and the old ghosts the handler always seemed to resurrect. The conversation had lasted only minutes, but it felt like reopening a wound she’d spent years stitching shut.
She tried to think—to focus, to plan what to tell Fade—when movement flickered in her peripheral vision.
She turned to look.
Fade was leaning against the wall in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. Her hair was mussed, her eyes rimmed red, but she stood still and silent, watching her like she could see every secret Deadlock had ever tried to bury.
“I thought you were resting,” Deadlock said, her voice quieter than she intended. She stood and moved to lean against the back of the couch, half-shadowed by the morning light.
The Initiator’s gaze never left hers. “Heard you talking.”
That was all she said, but the weight in her tone made Deadlock’s stomach tighten. She didn’t move—didn’t even try to explain right away. The silence that fell between them was thick, heavy. The kind that filled every inch of space and made the air too dense to breathe.
Fade’s arms loosened from where they were crossed over her chest. She looked smaller somehow, stripped of her usual sharp edges. When she finally spoke, her voice barely carried. “Why did you call Kaia?”
Deadlock bit the inside of her cheek, the taste of regret bitter on her tongue. “To see why she was with your brother,” she said honestly. “I didn’t know how else to find him.”
Fade huffed out a short, humorless laugh. “And what bullshit excuse did she give you?”
“She didn’t give one,” Deadlock admitted, her voice quiet, almost apologetic. “Said she didn’t have to explain herself.”
Fade’s jaw tightened. “Does she know where he is?”
“Yeah.” A beat of hesitation. Then, carefully, “Her bed. Asleep.”
The words hit the air like a slap. Fade’s face faltered, her eyes dropped as if the floor had just given out beneath her.
She didn’t even respond. Just shook her head, dragged a hand through her tangled hair, and turned back to the bedroom. But Deadlock could see it clear as day—the quiet devastation disguised as calm.
“Hazal,” Deadlock said, taking a slow step forward. “Kjære, talk to me.”
Fade didn’t. She didn’t even look at her. The way she slipped her hand free when the Norwegian reached for it said everything she couldn’t bring herself to say.
Deadlock’s breath caught. That small rejection hurt more than a fight ever could.
She watched as Fade crossed the room, grabbed her cigarettes off the nightstand, and went back to the living room. The sound of the window sliding open, the creak of the old fire escape—it all cut through the silence like a blade.
Deadlock stayed where she was, hands hanging uselessly at her sides. She wanted to chase after her, to apologize, to assure her that she only called Kaia because she was desperate to help. But she knew words would mean nothing right now. Not when Fade’s heart was already tangled in too much pain to hear reason.
So she sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on her knees, staring at the floor. Her chest ached with guilt and anger—the sting of old wounds reopened. She hated that Kaia still had this power. Hated that one call, one name, could unravel everything she and Fade had built.
But most of all, she hated that she’d been the one to hand Kaia that power again.
Outside, she could hear the faint scratch of a lighter, the soft click of metal, and the quiet exhale of smoke. Fade’s silhouette wavered through the curtains—a shape carved by grief and exhaustion, holding herself together by threads.
Deadlock dragged a hand down her face, mind spinning so much it hurt. She’d done the right thing. She had.
So why did it feel like she’d just made the worst mistake of her life?
Notes:
Translations:
Kjære - [Norwegian] Dear/My dear
Chapter 18: Chapter 17
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline and the air turned sharp, Fade had smoked her way halfway through the pack. She hadn’t left the fire escape once. Didn’t need to. The metal beneath her was cold enough to numb her skin, to quiet her thoughts for just long enough to breathe.
She’d stood only twice—once to stretch her aching legs, another when her lighter slipped from her fingers and clattered to the landing below. Now, she sat on the rusted ledge, a cigarette burning slow between her lips. The tiny orange ember was the only warmth she had. Her inked fingers toyed with the lighter’s weak flame, tracing the edge of it like she could burn her way out of her thoughts.
Goosebumps prickled up her arms. Her hands trembled from the chill—or maybe from exhaustion. It didn’t matter. She welcomed the discomfort. It reminded her she was still here. Still breathing. Still alive, even if it didn’t feel like much of a blessing right now.
Eight cigarettes later, her lungs felt scorched raw, her fingertips stank of smoke, and every inhale scraped against her ribs like penance. She told herself she deserved that. The ache. The sting. The punishment of having found her brother only to lose him again.
The city hummed below her—distant sirens, muffled laughter, the wind brushing through the narrow streets. Any other night, the quiet would have been comforting. But tonight, it was too still. Too full of ghosts.
When the window behind her creaked open, she didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Deadlock climbed out carefully, a blanket tucked under one arm. The soft scrape of metal against her prosthetic echoed faintly before she draped the blanket around Fade’s shoulders. It smelled like home—like their detergent, the faint trace of gun oil, the scent of someone who always came back.
The Norwegian took a cigarette for herself, slipping it between her lips. Fade wordlessly flicked the lighter for her, the tiny spark reflecting in her tired eyes before she looked back down at the street below.
They smoked in silence. Not the quiet kind that lived in their mornings or the steady peace that came after a fight. This silence was heavy. It filled the space between them with everything they couldn’t say.
Fade could feel Deadlock’s gaze even when she wasn’t looking—those steel-blue eyes that always saw too much. The guilt in them. The tenderness. The ache.
“I know you’re hurt,” Deadlock said softly, smoke curling from her mouth like a sigh. “And I’m sorry. But calling her was the fastest way to find Kadir.”
“I know.” Fade’s voice came out rough, scraped raw by tears she’d already spent. “You don’t have to apologize.” She stared at the cigarette between her fingers. “Thank you for trying to help.”
Deadlock nodded, her jaw tight. “Are you okay?”
Fade gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “No,” she said simply. “My baby brother—the only family I have left—is sleeping with your ex. And I don’t know what she’s told him, or what she’ll take from him when she’s done.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” Deadlock murmured automatically.
Fade turned her head, eyes narrowing. “How do you know?”
Deadlock didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked down, lashes low, fingers tightening around the cigarette until ash broke loose and drifted down to the street below.
Fade sat up a little straighter, tension creeping into her voice. “How do you know, Ise?”
The blonde exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl from between her lips before she finally spoke. “Because she didn’t lie to me.”
Fade blinked. “What?”
“She didn’t lie,” Deadlock said, her voice flat but brittle at the edges. “She twisted things. Gave me half-truths, pieces of what I wanted to hear—but never lied. Kaia’s too smart for that. She doesn’t need to lie when she can make you believe you’re the one who’s wrong.”
She leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement was casual, practiced. But Fade knew her too well. She could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw twitched with every word. Deadlock hated talking about this. Hated remembering.
“She made me depend on her,” Deadlock continued quietly. “On her approval. Her version of love. She taught me how to mistake control for care. And I let her. I let her do it.”
Fade’s throat went tight. “And that’s what she’s doing to Kadi, isn’t she?”
Deadlock nodded once, slow and heavy. “Maybe. But he’s an adult now, Hazal. You can’t save him from this—not if he doesn’t want to be saved. He has to want to leave her.”
Fade dragged both hands through her hair and pressed her palms to her face. Her voice came out muffled. “You don’t understand, Ise. I’ve already lost everything once. My peace. My trust. My sanity. If she gets her claws into him…”
Her breath trembled. “I can’t lose him again.”
Deadlock looked at her then—really looked—and felt the guilt twist tighter in her chest. She’d only meant to help. To protect her. But now she could see the fear sitting behind Fade’s eyes, raw and desperate, and it broke her in a way she didn’t have words for.
The silence between them had teeth. It bit at the air, at the space that used to feel safe. Fade couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Why do you still have her number?” she asked finally. Her voice was calm, but there was a quiver beneath it—like the effort of holding something in.
Deadlock exhaled slowly through her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know,” she said after a long pause. “I should’ve deleted it years ago.”
The answer only made the air feel heavier.
Fade stared at her cigarette, thumb trembling against the filter. The words came out in a rush before she could stop them. “I’m scared, Iselin.”
That got Deadlock’s attention.
Fade’s breath hitched, her voice frayed and unsteady. “I don’t want to lose him again. I can’t. And I can’t help but feel like Kaia still has pieces of you that I don’t.”
She hated the sound of her own words—the jealousy dripping from them. It wasn’t who she wanted to be. But the thought of Kaia still lingering in Deadlock’s orbit, still knowing parts of her that Fade couldn’t touch—it made her chest feel tight and wrong.
Deadlock’s silence was sharper than any blade. She didn’t deny it, didn’t comfort her, just smoked in silence—and that hurt worse than anything she could’ve said.
“What else are you hiding?” Fade whispered finally. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a plea.
Deadlock drew in a deep breath, exhaled smoke through her nose, then pressed the burning end of her cigarette against the metal of her prosthetic. It hissed quietly. The habit was old—punishment disguised as control—and it made Fade’s stomach twist.
“Remember the bar we went to?” she said at last.
Fade nodded, hesitant.
“I wasn’t just known for tipping,” Deadlock said. “I used to go there after work to find a fight. Any bastard drunk enough to swing back.”
Fade said nothing. She just pulled the blanket tighter around herself, her fingers white-knuckled in the fabric.
“It started after Kaia got shot,” Deadlock went on. “She took a bullet for me—saved my life. After that, I… couldn’t deal with it. With what that meant. So I started drinking. Vodka, whiskey, whatever I could get my hands on, even when I was on active missions. I was either fighting or blacking out.”
Her mouth curved into something too broken to be a smile. “She came over one night and ripped me to shreds for it. Told me to get my shit together. And she wasn’t wrong.”
The memory sat heavy in her throat. She’d buried that version of herself deep, but the taste of it still burned.
“She helped me sober up,” she said quietly. “For about two years, it worked.”
Fade’s voice was barely audible. “What happened after two years?”
Deadlock’s eyes flicked toward her, full of a quiet, weary shame. “The auction mission.”
Fade’s brow furrowed—she remembered the night too clearly. The lights, the champagne, the slow dance that made everything shift.
“I had one glass,” Deadlock admitted. “I told myself it didn’t count. That it was for the role. But I wanted more. I wanted to disappear for a night. And I couldn’t—not in front of you. I didn’t want you to see that part of me. So when we got back, I started my sobriety over. Day one.”
Fade didn’t speak. Her throat felt tight.
Deadlock’s voice dropped lower, quieter. “It was hard. Fighting the craving again. But I did it because I refused to be that woman again. The one who breaks things just because she knows how.”
Fade stared at her for a long moment, eyes glistening. “That’s why you acted like that at the bar,” she whispered. “You were scared I’d find out.”
“I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.” Deadlock sighed and reached for another cigarette, though her hands were shaking now. “Truth is, I didn’t want you to know at all.”
Fade’s voice trembled. “But I’m your partner, Ise. I could’ve helped—”
“And I would’ve hurt you.” The words came out sharper than she meant, too fast, too loud. She shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t drink for comfort, Hazal. I drank to bleed. To punish myself.”
The air between them shifted—colder now, but thick with understanding neither wanted.
“Punish yourself for what?” Fade asked softly.
Deadlock let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Everything,” she said. “The blood on my hands. The people I couldn’t save. The ones I did, but shouldn’t have. The lies. The…” She trailed off. “Kaia.”
She didn’t say the rest—for abandoning her. For leaving her to recover alone. For being too cowardly to face what they’d become.
Her voice went rough around the edges. “I wasn’t a good person back then. I’m still not. But if I hadn’t sobered up, I wouldn’t be here. Not with you.”
Fade sat quietly, her cigarette burning down to the filter. Her voice broke when she finally spoke. “You’ve been fighting this alone?”
Deadlock didn’t look at her. Just nodded once.
Fade blinked hard, fighting the sting in her chest. “I still would’ve helped you,” she whispered. “That’s what partners do.”
“It’s not your problem, Hazal.” Deadlock’s voice was firm, controlled—too controlled. “You’ve got your brother, your case, your own ghosts. You don’t need mine too.”
“But—”
“Just drop it!”
The shout cracked in the night air. Fade flinched, eyes wide—not from fear, but from heartbreak.
Deadlock’s voice broke as she continued, quieter now, almost pleading. “Please. Just drop it. You can’t fix this. You can’t fix me. I won’t let you try.”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, face buried in her hands. The cigarette between her fingers burning itself out.
Fade sat there for a moment—small and silent, staring at the woman she loved as if she didn’t recognize her. Then, without a word, she stood. Climbed back through the window, her steps soft against the floorboards.
The door to the bathroom clicked shut a moment later.
Deadlock didn’t move. Didn’t call after her. She just sat there, watching the night swallow the last trail of smoke, and wondered when love had started to feel this much like penance.
Eventually, she moved. Climbed back through the window, careful not to make noise, as if silence might undo the damage. She didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just reached for a fresh blanket from the closet and stretched out on the couch, letting the cushions sigh under her weight.
She knew Fade would’ve let her come to bed—would’ve pulled her close, whispered apologies until morning—but she wanted the distance. Needed it. Needed space to breathe and think without worrying about waking her, without feeling her heartbeat against her chest.
Deadlock stared at the ceiling, eyes stinging, and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Every time she blinked, she saw Kaia’s face. Heard her voice. Felt the weight of that bottle in her hand, the taste of old habits on her tongue.
God, she wanted to drink. To make it all stop—the memories, the ache, the guilt pressing against her ribs. Just one glass, she thought. Just enough to quiet it.
But she knew where that led. Her age old routine.
Lie. Drink. Fuck. Repeat.
She’d spent years clawing her way out of that cycle. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—fall back into it. Not when she had someone like Fade who looked at her like she was worth saving.
So she stayed on that couch, staring at the ceiling until her eyes burned, until her body ached with exhaustion. Fighting the urge to move, to do anything that might drown the noise.
Fade had wiped away her tears by then, trying to convince herself it was fine. That they’d talk tomorrow. That they’d fix it like they always did.
She brushed her teeth, washed her face, scrubbed her hands until her knuckles turned red—like she could wash off the guilt, the fear, the helplessness. She hated crying over this. Hated that it made her feel small.
When she finally walked into the bedroom, she let her blanket drop to the floor and peeled off her smoke-drenched clothes, piece by piece. She stood there in her underwear—exhausted, cold, and hollow.
She reached into the dresser, searching for one of Deadlock’s oversized crewnecks—the ones that still smelled faintly of pine and were painfully soft—until her fingers brushed against paper.
An envelope. Plain, standard issue. Her name written neatly in blue ink.
Her brows furrowed. She pushed a few shirts aside and spotted a small box tucked into the back corner.
Her stomach tightened.
Fade slipped on the first shirt she could grab, then sat at the edge of the bed with the envelope and box in her lap. Her hands shook as she unfolded the letter—like it was something fragile, something sacred. The paper was soft with wear, the edges frayed. The ink had faded slightly, but the words were careful. Intimate.
She started to read.
Hazal,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. I’ll probably never give it to you.
But it’s our anniversary. One year. Somehow. You’re asleep in the infirmary chair right now, slumped like a cat in sunlight, which I guess is fitting since I’m the one laid out like a corpse. Typical. I wanted to give you wine and candles. Instead, I gave you worry and IV drips.
Sorry about that.
But still, you stayed. You always do. Even when I tell you not to. Even when it’s easier to walk away. You sit through the quiet and the ugly like it’s nothing. And that scares me more than anything—because I’ve never had anything that lasted long enough to get this far. I never thought I’d reach twenty-seven, let alone have someone to celebrate it with.
But I have you.
And if this year with you was all I ever got, I’d still consider myself one of the lucky ones.
Of course, I want more.
More mornings with your cold feet pressed to my legs. More missions where I hear your voice in my ear, calling me home. More dinners, more arguments, more time.
All of it, as long as it’s with you.
I don’t have much to give you—just whatever time I’ve got left and the promise that I’ll keep showing up. Even on the hard days. Even when I’m tired. Even when it hurts. I’ll keep choosing you.
Again and again and again.
—Iselin
P.S. Next year, I owe you real wine and a night that doesn’t end in a bullet wound.
Fade’s breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it, landing on the edge of the page.
Her throat burned. The words blurred.
This wasn’t a casual letter. It was a confession. A promise. A map of every bruise and tenderness they’d ever shared.
And tucked behind it—behind all that love—was a small velvet box.
Fade hesitated, heart pounding, before she flipped it open.
The ring glimmered faintly in the dim light. Simple, unadorned, perfect.
Her hand flew to her mouth. A sound slipped out—too soft to be a sob, too raw to be a breath.
For a moment, the world went still.
Nightmare whispered cruelly in her ear.
She’ll change her mind now. After tonight. After seeing what you’re like when you fall apart. You’re not built for forever.
Her chest tightened, her pulse stuttered. She closed the box slowly, gently, like it might break in her hands.
Fade loved her—God, she loved her more than breathing—but love wasn’t the same as safety. And tonight proved how easily everything could unravel.
Does Iselin know what she’s asking?
What she’s offering?
What she’s risking by keeping me close?
Fade didn’t have the answers. Just the ache in her chest and the silence pressing down around her.
She tucked the box and the letter back into the drawer, right where she found them. Closed it with care, like sealing a secret.
Then she crawled into bed, pulled the covers to her chin, and stared up at the ceiling—blinking against the sting in her eyes.
Across the apartment, Deadlock lay awake on the couch, staring at the same ceiling.
Neither of them slept. Neither of them moved.
And the space between them—silent, heavy, impossible—felt like an ocean.
Tomorrow, they’d talk. Maybe.
But tonight, they just existed apart. Two hearts beating in the same room, both trying not to break.
Notes:
my poor babies☹️
Chapter 19: Chapter 18
Chapter Text
When Fade woke up, the first thing she felt was the weight in her chest. The kind that comes from crying too hard and sleeping too little.
For a few seconds, she just laid there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the ache behind her eyes to fade. A part of her expected to feel warmth beside her—to find Deadlock curled up under the sheets, to smell her shampoo, to know that maybe last night had been a nightmare after all.
But when she reached out, her hand met nothing but cold sheets.
The other side of the bed was untouched. Smooth. Empty.
Of course it was.
She sat up slowly, pressing her palms into her eyes until stars bloomed behind her lids. Nightmare stirred in the back of her mind, restless and uneasy. It had been whispering all night, sensing Deadlock’s guilt, her pain, her shame. Fade had felt it radiating through the apartment like static, heavy and choking. It had taken everything she had to keep the shadows from spilling over, from feeding off the Sentinel’s grief.
She wasn’t sure she succeeded.
Now, in the cold light of morning, she wasn’t sure of anything at all.
She wanted to talk. To fix it. To sit her girlfriend down, look her in the eye, and tell her that she wasn’t angry—just scared. But at the same time, the thought of facing her right now made her stomach twist.
So she settled for silence.
Fade pushed herself out of bed, feet moving on instinct toward the front of the apartment. Maybe Deadlock was still here. Maybe she was just in the kitchen, or showering, or pretending not to hover in that quiet way she always did after a fight.
But when Fade rounded the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The couch was empty. The blanket neatly folded over the armrest. The pillows straightened with military precision.
Everything was perfectly in place. It was as if she’d never been there at all.
Fade blinked once, twice, then turned toward the kitchen. Empty. And the bathroom light was off. The place felt hollow without her—like the air itself had gone cold.
Her chest tightened.
She let out a tired sigh and padded to the fridge, needing something—coffee, food, anything—to ground her. But when she reached for the handle, a small square of paper caught her eye.
A note. Pinned under a “Welcome to Oslo” magnet.
Went for a run
Be back later
I love you
— I
Fade’s thumb brushed over the last line. The words blurred for a second, and not because of tears—she refused to cry again.
A run. Of course.
Deadlock always ran when she couldn’t sleep. When her thoughts got too loud. When she didn’t want to face what was waiting for her at home.
Fade crumpled the note in her fist and tossed it into the trash. Not out of anger—just exhaustion. She didn’t have the energy to parse it, to wonder whether that “I love you” was written before or after the regret set in.
She pulled the fridge open and stared at the contents like they might have answers. She didn’t even feel hungry, but routine was all she had left to cling to.
Her fingers curled around the milk carton.
That’s when the doorbell rang.
Sharp. Too loud for the quiet morning.
The Turk froze, then glanced up at the ceiling, as if God might give her a break for once. But when the bell rang again—impatient this time—she muttered a low curse under her breath and trudged to the door.
“Yeah, yeah, hold on—”
She pulled it open, ready to snap at whatever solicitor or delivery mix-up decided to ruin her morning.
And then she stopped.
Everything inside her went still.
Kaia stood in the doorway. And beside her—with eyes too familiar for her heart to process—was Kadir.
The world tilted.
Fade’s grip on the doorknob faltered, the milk still dangling from her other hand. For a long moment, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
Because the last time she saw that face, he was holding her at gunpoint.
Chapter 20: Chapter 19
Notes:
uni is kicking my ASSSSSSSS rn
love you all, mwah
Chapter Text
Fade’s voice barely scraped past her throat. “Kadi…?”
“Morning,” Kaia said, her smile too warm and wide to be genuine.
Fade stared at her for a beat before her gaze slid to the figure standing half-hidden behind her. “What are you doing here?”
Kadir’s head was down, hood drawn low, shoulders tight. He looked like a kid again—defensive, cornered—but the rest of him wasn’t a kid anymore. Taller, leaner, edges hardened by years she hadn’t been there to see.
Kaia didn’t answer right away. She just stepped inside like she still knew her way around the place, her boots clicking soft against the floor. Kadir followed close, keeping a careful few steps between them.
“Kadir came to me shaking yesterday,” Kaia said, finally. “Then Iselin called a few hours later. Figured you had something to do with it, so…” She gestured lazily toward him. “Here you go.”
Kadir’s head snapped up, shooting her a look sharp enough to cut steel. Kaia didn’t flinch. Her smile only thinned—taunting, but protective in its own twisted way.
Fade folded her arms, steadying herself before she looked at him again. She wanted to reach out—God, she ached to—but the last time she’d tried ended in panic and heartbreak. So instead she just took one slow, careful step forward.
He tensed immediately. Eyes on hers, jaw locked.
She stopped. Let out a shaky breath and extended her hand, palm up, voice catching somewhere in her chest. “You don’t have to come closer,” she said softly. “I just want you to know I’m here. That it’s really me.”
For a long, brittle moment, no one moved. Even the air felt like it was holding its breath.
Then Kadir’s hand twitched—almost reaching—before he dragged it back and scrubbed a palm down his face. “No,” he muttered, voice rough and unsteady. “You’re gonna use that weird vision shit on me again.”
The words hit her like a knife to the sternum.
Fade blinked hard, the sting in her throat making her voice rasp. “I won’t,” she whispered quickly. “I swear, Kadir. I won’t hurt you again.”
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away, either. Didn’t run. That alone felt like a small mercy.
Fade took a slow step closer, leaning a shoulder into the wall to keep from trembling. She let herself look at him—really look this time. The sharp lines of his jaw. The way his accent had softened. The flicker of silver in his dark hair catching the morning light. Her silver.
“You still think it's a trick, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking up to hers before he finally pushed his hood back. “Kaia showed me the pictures last night. Said you’ve been looking for me.” His tone was cautious, but not disbelieving. “Guess I had to see for myself.” He dropped down onto the couch beside Kaia, leaning back against the cushions like he’d already chosen where he felt safest. Kaia angled her body toward him slightly, relaxed in that casual, self-assured way of hers. The sight burned something hot and bitter low in Fade’s chest.
She forced herself to breathe past it. To focus on what mattered. He was here. Alive. Real. And Kaia—annoying, smug, too-close Kaia—had brought him back to her.
For that, she was grateful. For everything else, not so much.
Kaia crossed one leg over the other, resting her chin in her hand, assessing the apartment like she was taking inventory. “Where’s Iselin?” she asked, tone deceptively light. “Normally she’d have shown her face by now. Said a few words. Kicked me out.”
Fade froze—not visibly, but enough that Kaia caught it. She always did.
“She went out,” Fade said simply.
“Out,” Kaia echoed, the word rolling slowly off her tongue. Her gaze sharpened. “Did she tell you where?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“So no,” the handler muttered. “Great.”
Her expression flickered—something brief and unreadable—and then she was up, moving toward the kitchen like she needed to keep her hands busy. Fade’s eyes followed her, half wary, half suspicious.
Kadir only shrugged when Fade looked his way, not wanting to get involved.
Fade turned back to the kitchen, jaw tight, watching Kaia dig through the cabinets like she lived there.
The apartment felt smaller now. Too many ghosts in too few square feet.
“You think she’s out drinking,” Fade whispered. It wasn’t a question.
Kaia leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. Her jaw flexed once before she sighed. “So she told you about it?”
“She told me bits and pieces,” Fade admitted quietly. “Said she drank to punish herself. That you helped her sober up. Said she slipped once—two years ago—but didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to hurt me.”
Kaia’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Why did she…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Damn it, Silv.”
The nickname struck something in Fade’s chest—an ache sharp enough to make her stomach twist. She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched Kaia in silence, studying every small flicker that crossed her face. The defensiveness, the guilt, the lingering affection she was trying so damn hard to hide.
And for the first time, Fade saw it clearly. Kaia wasn’t pretending. She did care about Iselin. Deeply. Painfully.
That realization burned worse than jealousy—it felt like understanding, and understanding hurt in ways envy never could.
The silence between them was thick and stagnant. Kaia looked lost in her own ghosts, her posture heavy with old memories. The air itself seemed to hum with everything left unsaid.
When Fade finally spoke, her voice came out small. Cracked around the edges. “You loved her, didn’t you?”
She didn’t even know why she asked. Maybe to punish herself. Maybe to hear it out loud. Because a part of her already knew the answer, and another part—a smaller, softer one—needed to hear it said plainly.
Kaia’s eyes flicked up, steady but raw. The corner of her mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah,” she said finally. “I did.”
She exhaled through her nose, the breath trembling faintly. “When I saw her name on that KIA list, I—” her throat worked, once, twice, “—I almost followed her. Iselin taught me how to breathe again. How to feel something other than violence.”
“She said you took a bullet for her,” Fade murmured.
“Two, actually,” Kaia replied with a half-laugh, half-sigh. “But she saved me more times than I can count after that. I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for her.”
Fade’s eyes softened despite herself. Of course she did. That was so like Iselin—to break herself to save someone else.
A long silence settled again, heavy but not suffocating this time. Then Kaia spoke, her tone lower, almost thoughtful. “We’re not so different, you and I.”
Fade raised a brow, unsure whether to scoff or listen.
“Yeah, yeah,” Kaia said with a small smirk. “You’ve got your creepy nightmare powers and all, but that’s not what I mean.” Her expression sobered. “We’re two sides of the same coin. Two women who went through hell too young and learned to survive it alone. Two women who love her, despite everything.”
Fade froze. Love. The word landed like a stone in her chest.
Kaia took a step forward—slowly, carefully—and rested a warm, calloused hand on Fade’s shoulder. To her own surprise, Fade didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to like me,” Kaia said gently. “Hell, I don’t expect you to. But believe me when I say I’m rooting for you both.”
Her thumb brushed once against the fabric of Fade’s shirt, grounding. “I’ll always love Iselin,” she continued, voice low, honest. “But she’s not mine anymore. She never really was.” She reached up then, hesitant but deliberate, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Fade’s ear. “But she’s yours. Always has been. Always will be.”
Fade’s throat constricted. For a moment, she couldn’t move—just stood there, pulse fluttering hard in her wrist, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and pain.
Kaia stepped back then, giving her space.
The Initiator swallowed hard and turned away, reaching for the fridge like she needed something solid to hold onto. The cool air hit her face when she yanked it open, and she grabbed a bottle of water from the shelf, twisting the cap with shaking fingers. The chill grounded her. But it didn’t stop the ache building under her ribs, or the image that flashed behind her eyes—the letter in that drawer, the ring beside it, the weight of a love she didn’t know how to carry anymore.
“Why are you sleeping with my brother?” she asked finally, trying to change the subject.
Not sharp. Not loud.
Just raw. Protective in the way that comes from being the only person who knows what a child once sounded like when they cried.
Kaia’s expression flickered—surprise, then wry amusement, then something tired. She huffed a small, humorless laugh. “God. You and Iselin are the same. Nosy.” She tipped her head, eyes glinting. “It’s none of your business.”
Fade’s jaw flexed. “He’s my little brother, Kaia. The only family I have left. I’d argue that makes him very much my business.”
Kaia didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. She just shrugged, leaning lazily back against the counter like she’d done this exact dance in a hundred kitchens before. “He’s twenty-five, Hazal. Fully grown. He makes his own choices, including who he sleeps with.”
Fade exhaled through her nose—tired, brittle, fraying. “I just want to protect him from making the wrong ones.”
“But you didn’t.”
The voice came from behind Kaia—quiet but cutting.
Both women turned.
Kadir stood behind the handler now, jacket gone, sleeves pushed up, throat scarred and bronzed. His frame had filled out—military muscle, runner’s shoulders, the kind of strength that grows where softness used to live. Faded scars ran like old roads across his skin. But there were new ones too—shiny, pink, still healing.
He stepped closer to his sister—not too close—but enough.
“I don’t need your protection,” he said. His voice was low, rough, thick with something she couldn’t name. “I haven’t needed it for a long time.”
She swallowed, something stinging behind her ribs. “Kadi—”
He went still. His eyes sharpened.
That name hit him like a slap.
“Don’t.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. “I’m not him. I’m not the scared little kid who hid behind you. And you…” His throat worked. He had to force himself to look at her. “You’re not Hazal. Not my Hazal, anyway.”
The silence after that was a wound.
Fade's throat felt tight, raw. She pressed her lips into a thin line, letting the words sink in. Because he was right, she wasn’t his Hazal anymore. She was a bounty hunter, a blackmailer, a covert-ops agent. Number twenty-two. The Dream Seer.
Not Hazal Eyeletmez.
But she didn’t break. Didn’t fold. Even when something deep in her chest ripped cleanly down the center.
She just nodded once—measured, contained. Like the soldier she was, instead of the sister she wanted to be.
“You’re right,” she said softly. Then she turned to Kaia again, voice steady in a way that was almost frightening. “But you still didn’t answer the question.”
Kaia’s exhale was slow, bored. For a moment, she looked her age. Older, even. “Because it isn’t your business who keeps my bed warm,” she said—no bite now. Just exhaustion.
Fade’s eyes narrowed. “Did you know where he was two years ago?” she asked. “When Iselin watched me break over and over again because his name finally resurfaced? When she risked her sanity, risked relapsing, just to ask for your help? Was he ‘keeping your bed warm’ then, too?”
“No.” Kadir said it before Kaia could.
Whatever he saw in his sister’s eyes—the pain, the fear, the grief—it made him swallow hard. He hadn’t been truly nervous about anything in years. Working with Hourglass made him numb.
But now? He was scared.
Because he knew exactly what she was capable of.
His hand lifted slightly, instinctively, as if he expected her to lash out. She didn’t; she promised she wouldn't. But something in her posture said she could break that promise as easily as she made it.
“I was gone,” he said. “Hourglass sent me under. No contact. No outside channels. She didn’t know where I was. Not even vaguely.”
Kaia nodded once, confirming silently. No theatrics. No evasion. Just truth.
Fade searched her face for a lie, but found none.
“He came to me a month ago because he wanted out,” Kaia added. “He was already running when I found him.”
Fade’s hands curled slowly into fists—not out of rage, but helplessness. The kind of helplessness that tastes like blood.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” she murmured. “Or Iselin?”
Kaia didn’t look away. Her voice softened—not kind, but real. “He’s on the run, Fade. And you of all people know what that costs.”
That hit its mark.
Kadir’s expression shifted. He looked at her with this softness, this flicker of pity. He didn’t realize how much his sister had been through.
'Did she suffer too?' he wondered.
But before he could ask, before anyone could speak—
The front door clicked open.
Deadlock walked in humming softly under her breath, shaking off the chill from outside. She didn’t notice anyone at first — just locked the door, kicked off her boots, and headed for the kitchen like she always did after a long day.
Then she froze.
Her girlfriend. Her ex. And a man she didn’t recognize—built like a fortress, standing too still, eyes sharp and unrelenting as they followed her every move.
“Um…” she started, scanning the room.
Kaia gave her a small, polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Kadir didn’t bother pretending; he just looked her up and down, calculating, protective. Fade was the first to move. She stepped forward, plucking the grocery bags from Deadlock’s hands as if the tension in the room wasn’t strangling the air.
“Hazal—”
“I’ll explain later,” Fade interrupted quickly, setting the bags on the counter with more force than she meant to. Her tone was steady, but her eyes darted—Kaia, Kadir, Iselin. Too many ghosts in one room. “Ise, meet Kadir. Kadir, please stop sizing up my girlfriend.”
Deadlock’s ears went pink. Even now, two years in, hearing Fade say girlfriend still hit somewhere deep in her chest—warm and solid. But the heat rose higher when she caught Kaia’s faint smirk—knowing, teasing, the kind that said she respected the possessiveness in the bounty hunter's tone.
Kadir noticed, too. He crossed his arms, muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt, and tilted his head at Deadlock like he was trying to decide what kind of weapon she was. “You’re dating my…” He hesitated on the word, exhaling like it hurt to say it. “You’re dating Hazal?”
“Yeah,” Deadlock said evenly, unfazed. She shifted slightly behind Fade, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked toward Kaia. “What the hell is she doing here?” she murmured under her breath.
“Later,” Fade replied, equally quiet but sharper, the word cutting like a blade.
That was enough to silence her.
The Sentinel sighed, shrugging off her jacket. The movement revealed her black muscle tee and the gleam of her steel prosthetic catching the light. Kaia’s composure faltered for half a heartbeat—her gaze lingered too long on the scars, the metal, the reminder of everything the Vault had taken from them.
Then Kaia inhaled slowly through her nose, gathered her things, and turned for the door without a word.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You could almost hear the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock. Fade’s jaw tightened. Kadir watched her closely. Deadlock didn’t move until the soft click of the closing door broke the stillness.
“She’ll be back,” Deadlock said finally, her tone quiet, matter-of-fact. She gave Kadir a small, almost apologetic smile before disappearing down the hall toward the bedroom.
When it was just the siblings left, the air shifted—not lighter, but familiar in a way that stung. Kadir looked around the kitchen, then back to his sister.
She hadn’t said a thing, but she didn’t need to. He could read her like he used to when they were kids—the small tremor in her hands, the tension braced in her shoulders, the way she wouldn’t look at him for too long. Every line of her body screamed hurt.
Damn it, he thought.
Without a word, he stepped beside her and reached for one of the grocery bags. He started unpacking quietly, placing things in the fridge one by one. Fade didn’t stop him. She didn’t even look up, just kept working alongside him in silence—the kind that used to fill their mother’s kitchen on bad nights. And when his hand brushed hers, reaching for the same carton of milk, she almost smiled.
Almost.
Once the last of the perishables were put away and the paper bags flattened in the recycling, Fade leaned back against the counter. Her palms pressed against the edge, shoulders drawn tight beneath her jacket. Kadir stood across from her, braced against the island, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t trust them not to fidget.
For a long time, neither spoke. The apartment hummed around them—the faint buzz of the fridge, the muted whine of a streetcar outside. Fade studied him the way she would a target: every scar, every shift of muscle beneath his shirt, the gray threading through what used to be jet-black hair. There was even a small silver stud glinting from his left brow, like a quiet rebellion against the brother she remembered.
“Take a picture,” he muttered finally, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’ll last longer.”
“If it wouldn’t risk you getting caught, I would.”
He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either—just full of questions neither of them knew how to ask.
“So…” He tilted his head, tone light but probing. “Girlfriend?”
Fade’s lips twitched, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’re talking love lives now? Really?”
“You asked about Kaia.”
She groaned softly, rubbing a hand over her face. “Fine. Yeah. Two years.”
Kadir nodded slowly, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Is she good to you?”
Fade hesitated, then answered truthfully. “The best.”
“Then why aren’t you talking to her?”
That landed like a blade between them. Fade’s expression didn’t crack, but her shoulders went rigid, her breath just barely caught. Most people wouldn’t notice the shift—but he did.
He spoke carefully, his tone gentler than she expected. “What happened?”
There was something in his voice that didn’t belong to the man he’d become—a warmth that reminded her of Istanbul. Of late nights and shared secrets. Of her kid brother who used to trail after her through the markets, pretending to be her shadow. He looked at her like that again—like she was worth protecting.
And it hurt.
Fade’s throat tightened. She folded her arms across her chest, steeling herself. “I’m not your Hazal, remember?” she said quietly, eyes down. “It’s not your problem.”
“Maybe not,” Kadir replied. “But if you were my Hazal, I know you’d talk to me. You’d make me sit down and listen to you rant, then ask if you’re being an idiot just so I’d tell you you’re batshit.”
The smallest, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Trust me, I already know how batshit I am.”
She tapped her temple twice. The air shifted—a faint pulse of shadow rippled through the room, just enough for him to feel it, the echo of her power. Nightmare stirred, its voice low and poisonous in her head.
She doesn’t trust you. She never will. You drove her away. You always do.
Fade winced, shaking her head slightly like she could dislodge the voice.
Kadir’s brows drew together. “Then what’s the issue?”
She didn’t answer. Her jaw flexed, teeth clenched. He could see her counting under her breath—one, two, three—the way she used to when she wanted to keep from breaking something. Finally, she exhaled through her nose and pushed off the counter.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered, brushing past him.
He didn’t stop her. Didn’t push. Just rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of stubble loud in the quiet. When the sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, he sighed and made his way to the couch. The cushions sank under his weight as he stretched out, one arm over his eyes, the other resting on his chest.
The apartment felt too still, too full of everything unsaid. But for now, at least, they were together again.
In the bedroom, Deadlock was standing at the dresser, blonde waves dripping onto the hardwood from the quick shower she’d taken. Fade slipped inside without a word and closed the door behind her, letting the latch click softly into place.
She didn’t move closer. Just stood there, watching her girlfriend trade her towel for boxers and sweatpants, leaving her torso bare in the lamplight.
Even angry, even exhausted, even hurt down to the marrow, she couldn’t look away.
Her eyes mapped every scar on Deadlock’s back, every healed bullet groove, every faint burn she’d memorized during late nights they’d spent skin to skin. Watched the steady rise and fall of the woman’s breath. Studied the way her shoulder blades shifted like the wings of something wounded and trying not to show it.
If Kadir weren’t in the next room, if her world weren’t actively tilting sideways, she would have crossed the space and taken Deadlock to bed—out of desperation, out of hunger, out of the aching need to make this feeling stop. To drown herself in skin and heat and forget for a few blessed minutes.
And Deadlock knew she was being watched. She always knew. But she didn’t call her out on it. Didn’t smirk or tease or soften. She only pushed her damp hair away from her face and tugged on a sports bra with a steadying breath.
Then she turned.
Fade’s heart stuttered.
“You okay?” Deadlock asked, voice low but careful, her eyes flicking over her girlfriend like she was cataloguing tells in real time. Watching for a lie. Preparing for it.
Fade didn’t answer. Not with anything that could be used, or misunderstood, or weaponized later. She only inhaled sharply, grabbed her cigarettes off the nightstand, and walked right back out of the room.
Deadlock didn’t stop her. Didn’t follow. Didn’t beg.
She just stared at the empty doorway, pulse thrumming loud enough to feel in her throat.
What the hell happened? How could a single conversation—one she hadn’t even witnessed—tear open this much old scar tissue? Why did it feel like the floor had shifted and she was the last person to realize it?
She muttered a Norwegian curse under her breath, snatching a t-shirt from the drawer and pulling it over her head a little too hard. Fabric stretched, seams protested. She didn’t care. This was why she preferred hand-to-hand combat. Why she’d built every defense she had around logic and strategy instead of feeling. Why she’d once poured herself into vodka bottles until she blacked out just to turn her brain off for a few hours.
Emotions were chaos. Unquantifiable. Uncontrollable.
Fade had made her want them anyway—made her learn softness, taught her warmth, curated her chaos and made it survivable.
And now she was gone.
Not forever. Not really. But enough to leave the room cold.
Deadlock sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, pressing her palms hard over her face. She breathed steadily through her fingers, fighting off the familiar itch beneath her ribs—the old urge, the one she thought she’d buried. The one telling her a drink would make this easier. That numbness was safer than feeling unwanted.
“Fuck,” she whispered into her hands, the word cracking at the edges.
Eventually, she forced herself to stand. Forced herself to move. Emotions were terrible, but doing nothing with them was worse.
She padded barefoot out of the room, the air conditioner humming like static in her ears.
Fade’s boots were gone. Her jacket, too. The apartment felt wrong without her in it—quieter, emptier, colder.
But Kadir was still there.
He lay on the couch like he’d tried to sleep and failed, eyes half-open, reflecting the kitchen light. He sat up when Deadlock entered, but didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her move—swift, efficient, unsettled.
She opened cabinets without purpose. Straightened a stack of coasters that didn’t need straightening. Put her hands on the counter and let out a slow breath, staring at nothing.
After a moment, Kadir rose and joined her, his presence steady but not imposing. A man built for violence trying, awkwardly, to be gentle.
He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. Just leaned against the counter beside her, arms folded loosely across his chest. He didn’t say anything at first—he just watched. Observed. Calculated. It was uncanny how similar he and Fade were when they slipped into that silent, analytical mode.
Finally, in a quiet, almost reluctant voice, he said, “Are you going to talk about why Hazal left, or just stand here and brood?”
Deadlock shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint from the walls. But he held her gaze, steady and unbothered. If anything, he looked impressed she even bothered to intimidate him.
She huffed out a breath, shoulders dropping as she tried to collect her thoughts. The problem was she didn’t have any that made sense. Her emotions were a maze—twisting, looping, contradicting themselves. A place she hasn’t willingly walked into in years.
Kaia.
Kadir.
Tomorrow’s unknowns.
Yesterday’s ghosts.
And that look on Fade’s face when she walked out.
How the hell was she supposed to explain any of that?
A warm, calloused hand landed gently on her shoulder, pulling her back before she could get lost in the spiral. She didn’t flinch at the touch—not because she trusted him, but because she was too tired to react. There was no judgment in his expression. Just a muted recognition. Two strangers linked by the same woman—one by blood, one by choice. It wasn’t trust, not really. But it was something close enough to stand on.
Deadlock straightened, forced her shoulders back into something that resembled posture, discipline, control. “She left because she needed space,” she said, quiet but steady. “That’s all.”
Kadir nodded like he accepted the answer, but she could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that he didn’t buy it. “And Kaia?”
Deadlock’s jaw tightened. “What about her?”
“What’s the deal with you two? She bolted the second you walked in.” His tone was blunt, practical, almost accusing—but underneath it was something else. Curiosity. Concern. Territory.
“We have…” she paused, prosthetic fingers tapping anxiously against the countertop, “history. It’s complicated.”
Kadir rolled his eyes so hard she could practically hear it. “Everything about this is complicated.”
She let out a humorless exhale that was almost a laugh. Almost. Her eyes drifted to the front door, to the empty space where her girlfriend had been minutes earlier. Fade was gone, and the apartment felt colder because of it.
He followed her line of sight, then sighed. “Tell me what’s going on with Hazal.” This time it wasn’t gentle. It was a demand softened only by the worry in his face.
She scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“How do you not know?” His brow arched. “You’re her girlfriend.”
“That doesn’t mean I know what Kaia told her before I walked in,” she snapped. “Kaia’s the wildcard. It could’ve been anything that got under her skin.”
Kadir shook his head. “No. She was already upset when we got here. You could feel it.” His voice softened, the way it might when someone admits a truth they’ve tried to avoid. “I may have missed eight years of her life, but I can still read my sister. She doesn’t always know when she’s hurting—but I do.”
Deadlock went still.
The words cut under her armor in a way she wasn’t prepared for. Her arms slowly dropped to her sides. Her gaze lowered to the floor, lashes trembling. She didn’t know what startled her more—the fact that he could see Fade’s pain so clearly…
…or the fact that she couldn’t.
That she missed it. That she failed her.
Kadir recognized the shift instantly; regret softened the edges of his expression. “Look,” he said, voice gentler than before, “just… figure your shit out. Whatever it is, Hazal will forgive you. She always does, right? But don’t break her.” His jaw tightened. “Because whether you realize it or not? I think you’re the only person she actually trusts.”
Deadlock’s throat constricted. Her eyes burned. She blinked, desperate to keep the tears at bay—not in front of him, not now, not when she needed to be strong. Needed to maintain the illusion that she was unshakeable.
Soldiers don’t weep.
Soldiers don’t feel.
Then why the hell did her chest hurt so much?
The words slipped out before she could stop them—raw, small, terrified.
“What if I already did?”
Chapter 21: Chapter 20
Summary:
midnight upload - i apologize for the emotional damage :)
i truly love you all <3also, realized this while i was writing - we're getting kinda close to the end of the fic. we're like 80% there i think. it's so bittersweet to think about, but hey, all good things come to an end eventually, right?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time she stepped inside, Nightmare had already turned the ache in her chest into a storm—an electric, choking pressure that made her ears ring and her pulse sharpen until she felt hollow and overfull at the same time.
Kaia and Kadir were on the couch, some mindless show playing on the television, the flickering light painting their faces in intermittent blues. Deadlock was in the kitchen, a half-eaten bowl of cereal in one hand and her phone in the other, frowning faintly at the screen as if willing it to give her something she could actually control.
Fade walked right up to her, close enough to smell the cold sweetness of the milk, and whispered, “Can we talk?”
Deadlock froze. Just a small, almost imperceptible pause—but Fade saw it, felt it. Then the Sentinel nodded toward the bedroom.
They walked in silence, a silence so fragile Fade was afraid speaking too loudly might shatter something neither of them could put back together. The door clicked shut behind them. Deadlock leaned against it, still eating her cereal, bracing herself with every quiet crunch. Fade paced in front of the bed, arms locked around herself as though that was the only way to keep the fear from spilling out.
After a long, unbearable moment, she stopped and asked quietly, “Is there anything else you’re hiding?”
Deadlock blinked—genuinely blindsided. “Why…?”
“Just answer the question.” Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was soft. Too soft. A plea that landed like a blade.
Deadlock set her bowl on the dresser with a dull clink and exhaled, shoulders lifting and falling heavily. “Yeah,” she admitted, voice low, “but nothing as big as my… problem. Or Kaia.”
Fade’s stomach sank even though she’d already braced for the possibility. A part of her wanted to push—wanted to force the truth out of her, crack her open the way she did on the balcony. But then she remembered the letter in the drawer, the ring sitting beside it like a ghost of a future she no longer knew how to reach for. So she let it go. For now.
Silence settled again, thick enough to choke on. Neither moved. Neither breathed right. The air itself felt tight, like a room too small for both their wounds.
Finally, Fade dragged a shaking hand through her tangled hair and let her shoulders sag. “Why didn’t you tell me about the drinking, Iselin?”
Deadlock’s jaw flexed immediately, the armor sliding back into place. Her hands disappeared into her pockets, as if she were afraid of what they’d do if they stayed free. “Because it’s not your problem.”
Fade swallowed a bitter laugh. “But you should’ve trusted me to support you.” The hurt slipped through before she could clamp down on it. “Just like you trusted Kaia. She helped you—why won’t you let me do the same?”
That landed like a physical hit. Deadlock’s eyes shuttered, something flinching in the depths of them. “I didn’t trust Kaia, Hazal. Not at first. I tried to push her away, but it didn’t work.”
Well, it’s working now.
Fade didn’t say it, but the words sat in her chest like stones, heavy and cold. Her eyes burned, vision glossing, but she refused to fall apart. She was so tired of crying over this woman. So tired of carrying the fear that everything she loved would be taken from her sooner or later.
Deadlock saw all of it—the shine in her eyes, the stiffness in her posture, the tremor in her breath—and rubbed the back of her neck, her own emotions fraying at the edges. “I don’t want to talk about this. Not right now. Let’s just deal with today’s problem.”
It stung. But Fade didn’t have the strength to argue. She nodded, folding her arms and staring at the hardwood floor like it might anchor her. “And what would that be?”
“Your brother,” Deadlock said softly. “He’s hiding from Hourglass, right? We can ask Brimstone if he can be under protocol protection. Like Iso.”
Fade nodded again, because speaking felt dangerous. Her throat was too tight. Nightmare was too loud, slicing Deadlock’s words into cruel shapes. She doesn’t trust you. She doesn’t need you. She didn’t choose you.
She turned toward the door, ready to escape before she cracked open, but Deadlock gently caught her arm.
“Hazal,” she whispered. “Look at me. Please…”
It took everything she had to lift her eyes. It felt like dragging herself out of a grave.
Deadlock swallowed hard, her expression raw, the fight gone from her. “I’ll call KAY/O. We can fly back in the morning, okay?”
“Okay.” Fade forced a smile—small, strained, a caricature of reassurance. It didn’t touch her eyes. It didn’t reach anything inside her.
Before the weight of Deadlock’s gaze could break her, she slipped out of the room and drifted back toward the living room.
And she didn’t look back.
Kadir was alone on the couch, half-dozing, his hands laced loosely over his stomach. His jacket was back on, hood low over his brow, shadowing most of his face. In sleep—or close enough to it—he looked younger. Softer. Peaceful in a way Fade hadn’t seen since they were children sharing a cramped bedroom in Istanbul, whispering stories under blanket forts.
She didn’t want to disturb him.
But the moment her shadow hit the edge of the couch, he cracked an eye open and muttered, “Staring is rude, you know.”
“Just making up for lost time,” she murmured, crouching beside him.
After a beat of hesitation, she lifted a hand and brushed her knuckles against his cheek.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He only blinked fully awake, letting her look at him without embarrassment or anger—something she wasn’t sure she’d ever get again.
She swallowed and moved to sit on the coffee table. The wood creaked beneath her as she leaned forward, forearms resting on her knees. “Iselin and I are leaving tomorrow,” she said quietly. “And I want you to come with me.”
Kadir blinked, slow and disbelieving. “What? Hazal—”
She cut him off with a small flick of her hand. “The Protocol can protect you from Hourglass. You’ll be safe with us, I promise.” She exhaled carefully, as though trying not to spook him. “But I’m not forcing you. Kaia was right—you’re an adult. You choose.”
Silence settled between them—thick and fragile.
Kadir shifted upright with a low groan, pulling his hood back. For the first time, he met his sister’s gaze head-on.
He had dreamed of this once. Seeing her again. Sitting in the same room without fear scraping at his ribs. Being allowed to choose her, the way he always used to. But his dreams had died somewhere between year three and four. Nothing about him felt familiar anymore—not even to himself.
Still, Hazal didn’t rush him.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t break eye contact.
She simply folded her hands together and waited, patient in a way she rarely was with anyone else.
He finally exhaled, his head drooping, lashes lowering as though the truth were too heavy to speak aloud.
“I don’t want to put anyone else in danger,” he whispered. “This is my mess.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
If one more person said that to her, Fade was actually going to lose it.
Her jaw tightened—but she kept her expression calm, her voice gentle as she rested a hand on his knee.
“Kadir,” she said softly—so softly it almost startled him—“it’s more dangerous for you to stay here alone. Come with me. I will protect you.”
His breath hitched. “You’re willing to risk your life—your girlfriend’s life—for a promise? For someone who’s practically a stranger now?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
And it wasn’t bravado.
It was love.
Old, scarred, battered—but alive.
Something in his posture cracked. Not fully. Not yet. But enough that the hard line of his shoulders eased. He gave one small nod, stood up, and walked toward the door.
She straightened, confused. “Where are you going?”
“My stuff is at Kaia’s,” he said with a one-shouldered shrug. “And… I have to say goodbye.”
Fade bit the inside of her cheek but didn’t argue. He needed closure. Needed to leave this part of his life the right way. “Dikkat olmak,” she said quietly.
His smile—small, lopsided, painfully familiar—was the first real one she’d seen in years.
“Her zaman.”
Notes:
Translations:
Dikkat olmak - [Turkish] Be careful
Her zaman - [Turkish] Always
Chapter 22: Chapter 21
Notes:
wait chat i think im locked in again
Chapter Text
By the time they touched down in the hangar, the afternoon heat was blazing. Freshwater waves rolled lazily against the white sand of the island, the kind of soft, shimmering peace that mocked the knot of tension sitting between the two women. The cool, salt-heavy air drifted through the chaos of the hangar as the maintenance crew went to work—unloading cargo, refuelling, running diagnostics with practised efficiency.
KAY/O walked two steps behind Kadir, escorting him toward Brimstone’s office to discuss protection protocols.
Deadlock and Fade still hadn’t spoken—not to each other, anyway. Not since the bedroom. Not since the quiet ache of that conversation lodged itself under both their ribs and stayed there.
Even when KAY/O asked how the vacation was, they only hummed vague responses. Neither looked at the other.
But their silence wasn’t the kind that meant this is ending.
It was the kind that meant we need a moment to breathe before we break something we can’t fix.
Both women understood that. It didn’t make it hurt any less.
They were the last to step off the drop ramp, duffles and suitcases weighing down their arms. Before they could reach the hangar exit, Deadlock stopped Fade with a gentle touch on the shoulder.
She stopped, raising a curious brow. But her expression softened when the Sentinel lifted the heavier of the two bags off her shoulder and swung it onto her own like it weighed nothing. Ten extra pounds of clothes and trinkets from Oslo—pieces of a version of them that suddenly felt impossibly far away.
They walked in silence—through the corridors, into the elevator, across the quiet hallway of the Initiator suite. Fade unlocked her door and stepped aside to let Deadlock in first.
She placed the bounty hunter's luggage in the far corner, stacked the duffel on top, then turned around.
Fade was leaning against her desk, arms loosely folded, watching her with the kind of softness that almost made them both forget the wound still bleeding between them.
“Thanks,” she whispered, forcing the smallest, gentlest smile.
Deadlock nodded and offered one back, though it didn’t touch her eyes. She hesitated—her fingers flexing at her sides like she wasn’t sure whether to step forward or step back. For a heartbeat, she almost stayed.
But then she exhaled quietly and chose the door.
And Fade didn’t stop her. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t ask her to stay. Her body didn’t move. Only her heart did—splitting open as the automatic door slid shut with its familiar mechanical hiss.
She swallowed hard.
Maybe she should let it go. Kaia. The drinking. The half-truths. Maybe the price of keeping the peace was pretending she wasn’t hurt. Maybe that was the only way to have her partner back, to get even five minutes of the warmth they shared in Oslo—the brief illusion of normalcy, love, safety. She’d kill for just five more minutes of that.
But that small, stubborn shard in her chest—sharp, aching—refused to pretend.
Refused to let it go.
Refused to forgive a wound that was still fresh.
Nightmare agreed, whispering that she wasn’t trusted, that she never would be.
“…fuck this,” she muttered under her breath.
She took off her boots and climbed onto the mattress without bothering with the covers. She lay on her side, facing the door like she could will it to open again. Like she could wish Deadlock back into the room, into her arms, into something that didn’t feel so fragile.
Minutes passed, slow and suffocating.
Then an hour.
Then nearly two.
She stayed awake through all of it. Watching that door. Hoping. Hating herself for hoping.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged her under.
And Nightmare was waiting.
As soon as Deadlock stepped into her room, everything crashed into her at once.
The jet lag.
The exhaustion.
The guilt that had slowly hollowed her out from the inside since the balcony.
She dropped her bags just past the door and didn’t bother with the lights. She barely made it to the bed before collapsing, one arm thrown over her eyes, the other curled loosely over her stomach. Images from their trip flashed behind her eyelids—Fade laughing in that bookstore, smiling into her shoulder on the balcony, leaning against her in bed with a peace she rarely let herself feel.
She had been happy. Truly happy. And Deadlock had been so grateful to witness it. To see the shadows loosen their grip on her for once. To lie beside her without fearing tomorrow.
Maybe that was what she missed the most—the quiet. The stillness. The feeling that, just for a moment, they could be normal.
And now all of it was ruined because she pushed away the one person she trusted more than anyone.
A soft knock pulled her out of the spiral.
Deadlock groaned and slid off the bed, already annoyed at whoever thought now was a good time to socialize. She hit the keypad. The door slid open—
—and Skye slammed into her like a linebacker.
“Kirra—!” Deadlock wheezed as she was swallowed into the tightest hug known to mankind. Her arms were pinned uselessly to her sides.
The Initiator only squeezed tighter. “Finally you’re back, mate!”
Deadlock wriggled free with the grace of a cat shoved into a sweater. She smoothed down her rumpled shirt with a huff. “I was gone for eight days, not eight years.”
“Could’ve fooled me. A week here feels like a lifetime when you’ve got Phoenix and Jett trying to out-dumb each other.”
Skye breezed into the room like she owned the place and dropped onto the small couch. She scanned Deadlock with a look so sharp the Sentinel nearly bristled on instinct.
For all her sunshine, Skye wasn’t stupid. She could read her best friend like a book, even if no one else could.
“What’s goin’ on with you, girly?” she asked, crossing her arms. “You seem all… down.”
“Nothing.”
Skye’s stare said Try again.
Deadlock exhaled and sat beside her, shoulders sagging. There was no point in pretending—not with someone who’d patched her up, dragged her through breakdowns, and taken her on runs at three in the morning just to keep her steady.
“I told Hazal about the drinking,” she muttered. “And the relapse.”
Skye straightened immediately, her expression sobering. She’d known the broad strokes—Sage had filled her in during intake—but not that part. “What relapse, Ise?”
The soldier scrubbed a hand down her face. “Two years ago, during the auction mission. I told her everything. She wasn’t mad. Just… hurt I didn’t tell her sooner. She thinks I don’t trust her.”
Skye barked a laugh before she could stop herself. Her shoulders shook as she doubled over.
Deadlock glared, but there was no heat behind it. “Glad you find this hilarious.”
The Aussie tried, and utterly failed, to stop another laugh. “Sorry—sorry. It’s just—Hazal once held a knife to your throat in sparrin’, and you didn’t even blink.”
“It was sparring.”
“No,” Skye shot back gently. “It was trust. If anyone else tried that shit, you’d have snapped ‘em in half.”
Deadlock opened her mouth—and promptly shut it.
“Fuck you,” she muttered, already getting up.
Skye only grinned.
Deadlock crouched beside her duffel and pulled out a familiar carton of cigarettes—Fade’s favorite brand. The ones they shared on the balcony. She hadn’t touched them since that night. Her chest tightened, but she slid one between her lips anyway, digging through the bag for her lighter.
“Oh wow,” the redhead said, leaning back with a smirk. “One week alone with Hazal and ya picked up her smokin’ habit?”
The blonde scoffed. “Technically it’s my habit. I just hadn’t done it since…”
Since the Vault.
She didn’t say it. She didn’t have to. Skye’s gaze softened.
Deadlock lit the cigarette, inhaling slowly. The smoke scraped her throat and settled heavily in her lungs, grounding her in a way she’d forgotten she needed. Then Skye’s phone rang, and Yoru’s contact lit up the screen. Deadlock’s lips twitched into a smirk she didn’t bother hiding. The Initiator shot her a glare sharp enough to cut metal.
“Don’t start,” she warned, cheeks already flushing as she stood to answer. “Hey, Ry.” She slipped out into the hall, the blush deepening. He was absolutely saying something inappropriate. Or uncharacteristically tender. With him, it was probably both.
The Sentinel watched her go with a quiet warmth in her chest. At least someone was happy.
She turned back to her duffel and pulled out the small velvet box—its weight disproportionate to its size. She walked to the bed and stretched out on her back, cigarette balanced between her fingers.
The ring caught the dim light when she opened it, glinting like a promise she desperately wanted to keep.
It hurt to look at. But it also grounded her. Reminded her what she was fighting for. Reminded her that this argument—like every demon she’d wrestled with—was survivable.
She imagined Fade's reaction—soft smile, stunned silence, Neon crying loud enough to wake the dead. Maybe Raze screaming into the vents.
A small smile tugged at Deadlock's lips.
And vanished just as fast.
Because a smaller, uglier fear whispered what if she says no? Not because she doesn’t love you—because you hurt her. Because you gave her reasons not to trust you.
She took another slow drag and exhaled through her nose, then ground the cigarette out against her metal palm. She tucked the ring back into the box, then hid it deep in the drawer beneath old letters she’d never sent.
Maybe she’d work up the courage to give Fade the ring.
Maybe she’d chicken out again.
But for now—at the very least—she needed rest. She knew Fade would chew her out if she didn’t sleep, even while they were fighting.
And right now, that was the closest thing she had to comfort.
Chapter 23: Chapter 22
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The moment they landed in the hangar, Fade knew she’d have to face Neon eventually. She knew she’d be ambushed with a hurricane of questions, cornered into listening to fifteen separate rants about Gekko’s latest disasters, and then inevitably have the electric menace attach herself like a barnacle for the next forty-eight hours.
What she didn’t expect was for it all to begin ten minutes after she woke from that hellish, dream-heavy nap.
She heard Neon before she saw her—rapid footsteps, a crackle of static, the unmistakable sound of someone skidding to a stop far too quickly. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, squeezing hard enough to make the Initiator nearly drop her mug. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into it, just slightly, acknowledging the comfort without outright asking for it.
“How’s Mateo?” Fade asked, deadpan, not bothering to hide her smirk.
The Duelist audibly gasped and smacked her arm. “I hate you.”
“Noted.” Fade took a calm sip of her coffee and turned to lean against the counter. “Any more surprise sleepovers?”
“No,” Neon snapped.
Fade arched a brow. “Any planned ones?”
“I will zap you.”
“Whatever,” Fade murmured, lowering her mug.
Neon opened her mouth to start her interrogation, but didn’t get the chance.
Kadir walked into the mess hall with his hood pulled low, eyes immediately finding his sister. The few agents scattered around eyed him like a threat—like he was another Fade. A manipulator. A risk.
They weren’t wrong. He was dangerous. Just… without the radiance to sharpen his edges.
Both women watched him approach—Neon with a curious, guarded tilt of her head, Fade with the smallest smile she’d managed all day.
Then he reached for her mug and downed half her coffee in one enormous swallow.
Fade stared at him, offended on a soul-deep level. “…Pislik.”
Kadir put a hand to his chest like she’d wounded him. “So rude.” Then, without shame, he took another sip.
Neon jabbed her elbow into her friend's side and pointed blatantly. “Okay—who’s the giant, and why did he drink your coffee like he pays rent here?”
Kadir muttered a Turkish insult under his breath. Barely audible—unless you were his sister.
Fade flicked the back of his head. “Be nice.”
He lifted both hands in surrender, rubbing the offended spot.
She turned back to Neon with the kind of long-suffering sigh only older siblings could master. “That giant is my brother. And he stole my coffee because that’s what little brothers do.” She gave Kadir a sharp look. “They take your things with no remorse.”
“You love me,” he reminded her sweetly. “Remember?”
She scoffed, but there was warmth beneath it. Nearly nine years apart, and they still bickered like they’d never missed a day.
Neon shook her head, silently thanking God that she didn’t have siblings. “So where’s your viking soldier?” she asked. “You two are basically attached at the hip.”
Both siblings froze for just a second—long enough for Neon’s eyes to widen.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Did you two break up? What happened? I’m gonna kill her—”
“Tala.” Fade grabbed both her shoulders, grounding her before she self-destructed. “Breathe. We didn’t break up. We’re just… working some things out.”
“What things? What happened?”
“Nothing we can’t fix.”
“That’s not—”
The sprinter's phone buzzed with the urgent mission tone, and Fade had never been more grateful for the existence of Omega agents and their stupid timing.
Neon groaned loudly, then pulled Fade into another tight hug. “We’re talking about this later,” she promised into her shoulder. When she stepped back, she shot Kadir one last squint, slowly raising a finger at him like he’d personally inconvenienced her entire bloodline.
Fade nodded solemnly, snatching her mug back the moment he lowered it.
Kadir shrugged, unbothered.
For a moment—just a moment—it felt like old times.
“I take it Brimstone’s letting you stay?” Fade asked, her tone carefully casual as she scooped the freshly ground Turkish coffee into the filter. The familiar scent—rich, bitter, grounding—helped steady her nerves.
“Mhm,” Kadir murmured. “I’m not an agent, though. Or planning to become one. It’s like I’m a… prisoner, I guess.”
Her hand paused over the pot. “Prisoner?” she repeated, quietly. She turned on the machine and watched the dark liquid begin to drip, anything to keep herself from looking at him too quickly.
Kadir leaned back against the counter like he wanted his spine to disappear into it. Hands stuffed into his pockets, hood casting half his face in shadow. “Kind of,” he said. “I can walk around the common areas, but I can’t visit any suite unless I’m escorted. And since I’m not an agent, I have to sleep in one of the cells.”
Fade went still.
A cell.
Her younger brother was going to sleep in a cell.
Her fingers curled slowly around the edge of the counter. She remembered those walls too well—the sterile lights, the echo of her own breathing, the suffocating quiet. The way isolation gnawed at you until you weren’t sure where your thoughts ended and fear began. The Protocol’s cells were humane, safe, kept clean… but they were still cells. They were still meant to contain someone dangerous.
The fact that Kadir was being put in one was like a blade buried under her ribs.
He noticed—of course he noticed. Even after years apart, he still read her better than most of the Protocol could on their best day. He offered her a small, reassuring smile and placed a warm, calloused hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay, Hazal,” he said gently. “It’s only temporary. I spent three years in a cell that wasn’t half as nice. What’s a few more days?”
Her throat tightened. She didn’t trust her voice enough to use it, so she just nodded—small, stiff, pained. She blinked once, slowly, trying to clear the blur from her eyes.
“Come walk with me,” she whispered after a moment, grabbing her mug and taking a sip that burned her tongue. She didn’t care.
He didn’t argue, didn’t question. Just fell into step beside her like he used to when he was twelve and she was his whole world.
For a long time, they walked in silence—their shadows stretching long along the hallway walls. A few agents passed them and stared, confused. Fade never walked with anyone except Deadlock. Never allowed anyone into her space. But she ignored the glances, and Kadir did too. They were used to strange looks. Used to people trying and failing to understand them.
Eventually, they wandered into the courtyard. The sunset washed everything in warm gold and soft rose, the sky streaked like a painting. The kind of beauty they never had time to enjoy in Istanbul.
And Kadir… talked.
Actually talked.
Not stiff, guarded answers. Not clipped, defensive half-truths. Real words. Real feeling.
He told her about the years after the cell—missions Hourglass sent him on, the people he met and barely cared for, the things he’d done because he had no choice. The places he saw that he wished he’d seen with her instead. Who he regretted hurting. Who he didn’t. The twisted logic they fed him, the lies they drilled into him.
And then—so softly she almost missed it—he told her about the story they invented about her. How Hourglass said she’d gone rogue and gotten herself killed. That she’d become Istanbul’s most wanted.
“How could I believe that?” he muttered, rolling a pebble under his shoe. “You wouldn’t go out like that, Hazal. Not without a fight.”
Fade didn’t interrupt. Couldn’t. Her chest felt too tight, her pulse too loud. Every detail was another needle under her skin. She listened, but her hands were trembling around her mug. Rage curled inside her, cold and sharp. Rage at the men who stole him. Rage at the world that kept punishing him. Rage at herself for not saving him sooner.
But her face stayed calm. Controlled. She nodded when he needed her to, forced her grip on the mug to loosen before the porcelain cracked.
And when his words faltered—when the memories started cutting too deep—she didn’t push for more. She simply reached out and took his hand.
Just a small squeeze. Silent. Steady.
Enough to tell him she was there.
“Thank you,” he said after they sat on the stone bench near the pond. His voice was quiet, almost uncertain. “For… not giving up on me.”
The words sliced her heart clean in half. She set her mug down in the grass and leaned her head against his shoulder—something she hadn’t done since they were kids, when he was still small enough to lean into her instead.
“I’ll never give up on you, Kadi,” she whispered. “Seni seviyorum, küçük kardeşim.”
Kadir inhaled sharply, trying and failing to hide the emotion tightening his voice.
“Ben de seni seviyorum,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and holding her close.
Notes:
Translations:
Pislik - [Turkish] Asshole
Seni seviyorum, küçük kardeşim - [Turkish] I love you, little brother
Ben de seni seviyorum - [Turkish] I love you too
Chapter 24: Chapter 23
Chapter Text
Later that night, Fade found herself drifting through the monotone grey halls of the Protocol—moving on instinct more than intention. She didn’t have a destination. Didn’t want one. She just needed motion. Something to occupy the hands she couldn’t keep still and the mind she couldn’t let settle, not when settling meant thinking, and thinking meant spiraling.
Everything felt too close, too sharp. The air of the base, the hum of the ventilation, even her own heartbeat—it all pressed in on her until she needed to walk just to keep from crawling out of her own skin.
Kadir had gone back to his assigned cell to sleep, despite her insisting—multiple times—that he take her room instead.
“It’s okay,” he’d told her with that familiar, infuriating stubbornness. “I’ll see you later.”
She exhaled a humorless breath at the memory, shaking her head. Her brother, locked up in the same wing she’d once been caged in—sleeping on a thin mattress under flickering lights—while she wandered freely. It didn’t sit right. It gnawed at her, a constant, low ache beneath her ribs.
She turned a corner and nearly collided with Wingman, who zoomed past her boots like a neon-yellow blur. Behind him came Gekko, scrambling after the creature with the gait of a man running entirely on panic and fumes.
“Wingman—dude—stop—!” Gekko wheezed, voice cracking somewhere between desperation and exhaustion.
Normally, Fade would’ve kept walking. Pretended she didn’t see. Let him deal with his gremlin child of a radivore on his own. But something about his ragged breathing and the hopelessness in his voice tugged at a part of her she rarely acknowledged. The part that remembered what it was like to be chasing something endlessly—hope, sanity, answers—never catching up.
She dragged her nails down her left arm, gathering a handful of thrumming shadow that pulsed like a second heartbeat. A flick of her wrist, and the mass twisted downward, hitting the ground as a prowler, its feline form cutting through the hallway with smooth, predatory grace.
It caught up to Wingman within seconds.
The little creature screeched, tiny limbs flailing, as the prowler’s maw scooped him up like a misbehaving kitten. Then, obediently, the shadow beast padded back to Fade and deposited Wingman gently at her feet.
Gekko skidded to a stop beside her, bracing his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. Sweat plastered curls to his forehead.
He looked up with a grateful, half-delirious smile. “Thanks,” he panted.
Fade nodded once, releasing the prowler. The creature dispersed into smoke as Wingman plopped onto his backside, offended and babbling an incoherent string of chirps. Gekko scooped him up before he could bolt again.
Fade lifted her mug in a small, acknowledging gesture—almost a salute.
“No problem.”
He gave another breathless nod and trudged off down the hall, murmuring scoldings to Wingman in rapid Spanish.
And she stood there for a moment longer, alone once again in the quiet hum of the corridor, grateful for at least one task that didn’t demand anything from her heart.
Fade continued her wandering, drifting past the Controller suite without a thought, through the mess hall that still faintly smelled of coffee and something burnt, past the training room where some forgotten piece of equipment hummed in standby. She didn’t know where she was going, but movement felt better than being still. Stillness meant thinking. Feeling. And she’d had enough of both.
At one point she paused, peering into the third-floor common room. Clove and Vyse sat at one of the round tables, cards scattered between them.
Clove looked like they were lecturing on a topic they cared deeply about—hands painting shapes in the air, expression bright enough to compete with the fireplace beside them. Vyse nodded along, not quite engaged but not uninterested either, her calm presence absorbing Clove’s enthusiasm like a sponge.
Fade didn’t linger long. Vyse had been quiet when she first arrived—unsure, skittish in a way the Initiator understood too well. It was nice seeing her settling, finding someone to sit with, even if that someone talked enough for five people.
Or maybe Clove had trapped her there. Hard to tell. Not Fade’s business anyway.
She slipped her phone from her pocket and shoved her earbuds in, turning the volume up until the bass thrummed through her bones. The music swallowed everything—the Protocol, her ghosts, even Nightmare’s hiss behind her thoughts. Then her mind finally fogged over in that half-numb, half-floating way she always welcomed.
She must’ve looped around the compound twice—maybe three times—before she ended up at the library without consciously deciding to go there. It was after midnight now; most of HQ was asleep. Which meant this quiet corner of the world belonged to her.
She drifted through the rows of shelves, fingers trailing along cracked spines until she pulled some dense, overly-serious thriller free without bothering to read the summary. It didn’t matter what it was. She just needed words to stare at until her brain softened.
She claimed one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, sinking into it with a heavy exhale. For a few precious hours, it was just her, the dry rustle of turning pages, the warm crackle of burning logs. No questions. No conversations. No Deadlock. No Kadir. Just Fade, and silence thick enough to drown in.
Then something shifted.
The temperature dipped. Shadows bent in ways they shouldn’t—curling at angles, coiling along the walls like slow-moving ink. The air pressed colder against her skin.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. Just flipped to the next page.
Omen slid into the armchair across from her with a low, gravelly grunt. Fade acknowledged him with the smallest nod, still not lifting her gaze. He returned it—his version of a greeting—before pulling out his knitting needles and whatever muted-blue project he’d been working on for weeks.
The quiet resumed, reshaped now around the soft clink of metal needles tapping together.
Their bond had always been a strange one, misunderstood by most of the Protocol. People assumed Fade preferred solitude. They were half-right. What she actually preferred was peace. And Omen… Omen didn’t disturb the peace. He lived in it.
They were creatures carved from similar darkness—both more comfortable in the hush between breaths, both familiar with being outcasts among outcasts. They didn’t need conversation. Didn’t need explanations. They simply existed near each other without demand.
Most people could tell something was wrong with Fade lately. Omen could too—she felt his gaze flicker to her more times than she acknowledged. But he didn’t pry. Didn’t ask. He never had. Partly because he wasn’t built for interrogations, but mostly because he understood that trying to pull truth out of her was like trying to coax light from the void.
And Fade would rather have her teeth pulled out one by one than open up right now.
So he did what he always did—what very few others ever managed.
He supported her in silence. Sat with her in the dark without trying to fix it. And if she wanted to speak, he’d be there, wordlessly ready to listen.
If she didn’t… he’d just keep knitting.
And she’d keep pretending she wasn’t falling apart.
The next hour crept by even slower than the last.
Fade was just over halfway through her book when the library door hissed open, breaking the stillness. No one ever came here this late—not unless they were lost, restless, or haunted enough to need the quiet. Both she and Omen lifted their heads at the sound.
Kadir didn’t announce himself. He never did.
He moved through the space like he was afraid of disturbing it—like this was something sacred he didn’t want to shatter. He drifted toward one of the farther shelves, fingers brushing spines until he pulled a random book free. Nordic folklore. Of course.
He crossed the room and claimed the chair beside his sister.
Still, he didn’t speak. Just gave Omen a brief nod—respectful, cautious—before opening the book and settling in. Fade watched him from the corner of her eye, noting the way his shoulders loosened the longer he sat there. The firelight caught on his skin, softened the sharpness of his features, made him look younger. Less like a weapon. More like her brother.
He knew she was looking. That was why the corner of his mouth lifted—not enough to draw attention, not enough to invite conversation. Just a quiet acknowledgment. A I see you too.
Eventually, Fade turned back to her own book.
As much as she wanted to talk—to ask questions, to fill the silence with words she’d been holding onto for years—she didn’t need to. This was enough. His presence was enough. Real. Solid. Not something her mind had conjured in the dark.
Another hour passed. Then another.
The fire burned lower. The windows shifted from black to deep blue, the first thin threads of dawn creeping in. By then, Kadir had succumbed to exhaustion—his head tilted to the side, book slipping open in his lap, lips parted as he slept. It was the first time she’d seen him truly rest since he arrived.
Fade stood quietly and eased the book from his fingers, careful not to wake him. She set it on the table beside her own.
Omen, ever observant, set his yarn and needles aside and rose without a word. With gentle precision, he scooped the sleeping man into his arms like he weighed nothing.
“I will take him to his cell,” the Controller said softly.
“No.” Fade shook her head immediately. “Put him in my room.”
Omen paused. Tilted his head. “And where will you sleep?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, tired and quiet, and waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about me. Just… take care of my brother, yeah?”
For a moment, Omen seemed like he might argue. Like he might say something—anything. But instead, he simply nodded and dissolved into the shadows.
Fade stood there after he was gone, staring at the floor.
She could sleep here—but questions would come with that.
She could go to Neon—but that meant noise, interrogation, concern she wasn’t ready to face.
So she did what she’d always done. What she’d done back in Istanbul, when sleep felt like a luxury and peace was fleeting.
She put the books back. Straightened the chairs. Collected Omen’s knitting supplies with quiet care.
Then she stepped back into the hallway.
And began wandering again—soft-footed, sleepless, a ghost moving through a place that never truly rested.
Fade didn’t remember walking to the Sentinel suite.
Didn’t remember the turns she took, the corridors she drifted through, the agents she passed like shadows in her periphery. One moment she was wandering, hollow and sleepless, and the next she was here—back pressed to the opposite wall, eyes fixed on the familiar metal door across from her.
'It’s late,' she told herself. 'Don’t wake her. Don’t make this worse.'
'Just go sleep in the common room. Or the library. Or anywhere but here.'
But she didn’t move.
Her boots stayed planted against the concrete, like her body refused to obey her thoughts. Like something deep and instinctive had already made the decision for her. Like it could feel Deadlock on the other side of the wall—alive, warm, real.
Fade squeezed her eyes shut and cursed softly under her breath, sharp Turkish slipping out before she could stop it. Her stomach twisted with nerves, with guilt, with the fear of being too much.
Then, before she could lose her nerve, she lifted her hand and knocked. Light. Careful. Barely there.
The door slid open almost immediately.
Deadlock stood there, half-asleep and disarmed by it. Her blonde hair was a mess of frizzed waves curling in every direction, her face soft and unguarded in a way the Turk rarely got to see. Her eyes blinked slowly, unfocused, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. The prosthetic was gone, resting on the nightstand behind her, catching the low light.
The sight of her like this—tired, vulnerable, real—made something ache low and sharp in Fade’s chest.
She didn’t comment. Didn’t ask. She just said, quietly,
“Kadi’s sleeping in my room.”
Understanding flickered across Deadlock’s face even through the fog of sleep. She stepped aside without question, letting her girlfriend pass, and closed the door behind them.
An arm slid around Fade's waist before she could even think to pull away, drawing her back until her spine met the soldier's chest. A soft kiss pressed to her temple—automatic, habitual, intimate in a way that hadn’t happened since the fight began.
That alone splintered something fragile inside Fade.
“Get some sleep, baby,” Deadlock murmured, voice rough and slurred with exhaustion as she turned back toward the bed.
Fade hesitated only a second.
Then she gave in.
She toed off her boots, shed her jacket, and climbed beneath the covers, careful and quiet. She kept her distance at first—respectful, restrained—lying flat on her back with her hands folded neatly over her stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Guilt gnawed at her. For waking her. For needing this. For being unable to stay away even when she told herself she should.
Nightmare whispered anyway.
But even half-asleep, the blonde felt her there. Felt the absence of warmth where Fade should’ve been.
Her arm draped over the Initiator's middle, tugging her closer without waking, without asking.
Fade didn’t resist. She never did.
She shifted onto her side, careful not to disturb her, and Deadlock pulled her in fully—Fade’s back fitting perfectly against her chest, like muscle memory had taken over where thought failed. The warmth of her body bled into Fade’s, steady and grounding, drowning out the static in her head little by little.
There was still so much unresolved. Words unsaid. Hurt that hadn’t healed.
Fade still didn’t know how they’d fix it.
But right now—wrapped in the familiar rhythm of Deadlock’s breathing, held like something precious even in sleep—Nightmare finally quieted. Her heart slowed. The nausea eased.
For the first time in days, everything felt… survivable.
Like maybe, somehow, this wouldn’t be the thing that broke them.
Fade let herself believe that as her eyes slipped shut.
And for a few precious hours, she slept.
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