Chapter Text
It started with a letter.
Talia Rivas, frankly, was a simpering, gossiping socialite, always preening like a pretty little songbird stuck in a golden cage. She had a personality, particularly a mouth, way too big for her body. But not that Caitlyn would ever say that to her face, of course. House Rivas was a Lower House, and as the youngest of three siblings, Talia was never meant to be named heiress to the small family fortune stitched and sewn together by silk and satin, by the trade of textiles in Piltover’s plentiful ports. They had attended Piltover Preparatory together, gossiping and gasping and giggling like little schoolgirls together in the marble halls between lessons.
So it seemed, Talia had never grown out of gossiping or gawking. In fact, she embraced it. She was always at every formal dinner and garden party and charity gala, talking in low, hushed tones about love affairs and bastard children. In fact, shortly after graduation from the Academy, she had become a columnist for the Piltover Gazette, much to the dismay of many members of high society. Now, the people of Piltover were privy to the private lives of the most prestigious families in the city. Now, every morning, they got to sip their tea and read the tabloids, Talia blabbering on about Eliana Herrera’s divorce and the Ferros heir’s drinking problem.
Recently, and more so after the war, Talia had taken to traveling. Caitlyn had almost sighed in relief upon seeing so, especially after a rather strong, scandalous piece had been published in the gossip column, something about the new Sheriff and her “lapdog.” The thought still made Caitlyn grit and grind her teeth.
And, so, Caitlyn didn’t have the most positive or polite connotation with the journalist. In fact, she had almost forgotten about the girl entirely.
Well, until the letter arrived.
It arrived on the correspondence tray with all the letters, brought to the doorstep of the Manor daily by the courier just as the sun was rising over Piltover’s high towers and shining spires. Caitlyn opened the front door and accepted the tray with a slight nod of approval. Appreciation.
Kieran, the courier, always dipped his chin and tipped the brim of his hat, the edges golden and glinting in the early morning light, just like the rest of his uniform. “Sheriff,” he would grunt in greeting while handing over the silver tray. “Here you are.”
“Kieran,” she would reply. “Thank you.”
He would nod and barely meet her eye, lingering on the dark, sleek eyepatch the way everyone always did. Then he would clear his throat, settle the swinging satchel slung over his left shoulder, and be on his way, walking down the slick marble steps and out through the main gates.
And Caitlyn would watch him, her one eye narrowed, and then step back inside with a soft sigh, returning to either the dining room or her study to sift through the contents atop the tray, all the reports and letters and complaints from the Council, namely Sevika. Mainly Sevika, to be exact.
This morning, she retired to the sunroom, where she and Vi had made a habit of eating in the mornings, sipping hot drinks to warm their bones and letting their skin soak up the sunlight streaming in from the high, slanting windows above. Vi was already seated at the table, balancing a tiny plate and a knife as she buttered her croissant, brows furrowed in concentration. A cup of coffee, served in the mug she had claimed as her own, sat beside her, still steaming, black and bitter as she liked it.
Caitlyn instantly softened at the sight. She felt as warm and gooey as the melted butter every time she saw Vi here in the house they were slowly making a home. She set the correspondence tray on the other side of the tabletop and bent over to press a kiss to Vi’s temple. Vi hummed absentmindedly, and Caitlyn smiled as she settled in her own high-backed chair, crossing her legs primly at the ankle, and making her selection from the elaborate spread before her, left out each morning by the house staff. Slices of fresh fruit, drizzled with honey and sugar, stacks of warm buttermilk pancakes with syrup, and piles of pastries. Caitlyn chose her favorite: a pale, round pastry powdered with sugar and vanilla, zangy lemon custard-cream filling in the middle.
She was just taking her first bite when her eye locked onto the letter on top of the stack. The envelope was a pale manilla, simple and unassuming enough. It was the stamp that caught her attention. The wax of the seal was a deep, dark red, and Caitlyn’s first thought was that it was another letter from Mel, who had returned to attend to the pit of vipers that was Noxus. But, upon further inspection, the crest was not the Medarda symbol at all.
Caitlyn squinted her singular eye. This sigil was the same color, but it formed a different shape. Two blades, the outline of scissors poised over a ribbon, preparing to pierce through the delicate scrap of silk. The symbol of a seamstress. A merchant.
The symbol of House Rivas.
Caitlyn pursed her lips, frowning, and held back another sigh. What did they want? Was it an invitation to a dreadful dinner? A compliment? Or a complaint?
Caitlyn opened it anyway, slicing the envelope with the silver letter opener that went with the tray, both of which had once belonged to her mother. She remembered many mornings that she spent like this, eating breakfast before school, her legs dangling from the chair, licking chocolatey syrup off her fingers. She was always watching her mother, fascinated by her work, the work that would one day be passed on to her. Her mother, who sat opposite of her, sipping her jasmine tea and scowling down at documents.
She felt like her mother now as her lips tugged into a tight, taut line. The letter was not from just any Rivas. It was from Talia.
Caitlyn’s teeth worked into her bottom lip. Marvelous.
Still, she read on. The letter opened nicely enough, a neat explanation of Talia’s work since the war, which was a year of travel and becoming a food critic, apparently. At least she was expanding her horizons beyond the gossip column, Caitlyn supposed with a wrinkle of her nose as she came close to the end of the letter. It dissolved into polite nonsense, congratulating her on her promotion and relatively new position, about looking forward to coming home and seeing her again at some far-off soiree.
Caitlyn nearly rolled her eye and took a long, slow sip of her tea, the steam warming and flushing her face as she prepared to set aside the letter and tend to her official duties as Sheriff, to the stack of reports she had to sift through, patrol routes she needed to approve, and paperwork she needed to sign.
The last line of the letter made her pause though.
Also, I neglected to mention earlier, but I visited your stand while I was in Demacia not too long ago. What a darling little place! So quaint and peaceful. I didn’t know you were investing in other industries now, especially in baked goods, but the cupcakes were simply exquisite, almost too cute to eat. Just kidding! I had three. Alas, I’m very glad to see the Kirammans are back to sponsoring new entrepreneurs again, especially foreign ones.
Caitlyn blinked and put down her cup.
I visited your stand while I was in Demacia not too long ago.
What?
Stand. Demacia. Cupcakes?
Caitlyn let out a long breath and then read the letter again. Then again. She set it back on the tray and picked it back up again, rubbing at her temples soothingly, already feeling a headache coming in. She felt Vi giving her a curious stare, her nose wrinkled and eyebrows pinched together in that endearing way that Caitlyn loved, but couldn’t properly appreciate due to the nonsensical nonsense Talia was nagging on about.
Her hands were gripping the paper so that it was wrinkling, she realized. Quickly, she set it down on the tabletop and reached for the napkin draped across her lap, wiping her lips and hands thoroughly, trying to calm herself. To collect her thoughts.
She tried to sort through the small amount of information she was given, to fix the fractured facts.
Talia Rivas was a traveling food critic. While in Demacia, she had visited a food stand, a cupcake stand specifically. She had liked it. She had liked it so much, in fact, she just had to write to Caitlyn out of the blue to tell her so. And, somehow, she thought Caitlyn was involved in the whole thing. That the Kiramman name was attached to some baker making cupcakes in a corner of another country.
With furrowed eyebrows, Caitlyn took a long sip of her tea. More of a swig. She tilted her head, lifting her chin, and downed the rest of the liquid left in the teacup. It was warm and soothing against the sudden swell in her throat. She sighed again and set the teacup back down on the table’s edge with a rather loud clank of porcelain and fine bone china. By now, Vi was staring straight at her, both eyebrows raised up to her hairline.
Was this a prank? A rouse? A scheme? Using a name as prominent as hers could have its perks. It would turn heads and gather more interest. More customers. More income. Or was it some kind of show of unity between regions, a new diplomatic initiative? The Council had been working hard to rebuild relations with other trading partners after the war.
Caitlyn bit her lip even harder. And even if the business was attached to the Kiramman name, who was running it? It couldn’t be a Kiramman, could it?
She silently shook her head. No.
And if not, if a Kiramman didn’t own it, then who had funded it? An old, random project of her mother’s? A new prospect her father had picked out? Some sort of joke from her younger cousins overseas?
Caitlyn shook her head again, folding her hands under her chin as she thought. No.
Then who else knew her, knew to use her name—her last name, her family name—to tie themselves to her and her family. Her fortune. Who else had access to such resources? Had such a reputation?
Caitlyn’s eye flicked up to her girlfriend, who was licking the butter off her knuckles and reaching for her mug. She lapped up the last dregs of her coffee and Caitlyn lifted an eyebrow, considering it. It didn’t make much sense, but…
The stand served cupcakes of all things. Cupcake. Vi’s special, silly, and stupendously stupid nickname for her, still sticking even a year later. Could it be some sort of prank? Vi did love to tease her, to bark and banter. Or was it a gift? But their anniversary and birthdays were far past, unless it was a spontaneous thing, of course.
She tapped her fingernails against the tabletop absentmindedly, already thinking of the board up in her study, of the maps she had rolled up in the drawers of her desk. Good thing she had ordered a new spool of red thread from the craft shop downtown. She was going to need it.
It took her a moment to gather herself. Well, and gather the courage to ask her girlfriend that particular, peculiar question. It almost felt like an accusation.
In the last few moments of silence, Caitlyn had visibly relaxed, pretending to move on to another letter when, in reality, her mind had not moved on. Vi still sat across from her, legs crossed, her head tilted as a bird began to sing about the start of another day. She cradled her cup to her chest, thumb ghosting over the rim subconsciously.
Vi’s gaze had drifted towards the windows that overlooked the Kiramman Manor’s marvelously maintained and manicured gardens, lingering on the willow branches just outside the glass, bent like a woman wispy and weeping, soft green touched to gold by the sun’s rays. The light touched Vi’s too, highlighting the crooked bump of her nose from a bad break as a teenager, the hard line of her jaw. The dark ink of the gear tattooed onto the skin of her neck. The splatter of freckles covering the ridge of her nose and her cheeks like a dusky brown constellation.
Caitlyn swallowed. She had to ask. To be sure. To know.
“Violet,” Caitlyn hummed, easing onto it gently, and Vi looked over at her, beautiful blue-gray eyes peering over the rim of her mug. “Did you, per chance, begin a new business venture?”
With the waggle of her eyebrows, Vi’s eyes narrowed over the ceramic edge. “Like what?” Her nostrils flared as she snorted, accompanied by an open-mouthed scoff. “I’m not exactly a businesswoman, Cait.”
“A baking business,” Caitlyn clarified. “Cupcakes, specifically. Under the Kiramman name.” She only paused to fiddle with the string of her eyepatch, smacking her lips and tasting the last remnants of lemon-vanilla flakes and butter-warm bread. “With an active property in Demacia, to be exact.”
Vi laughed. Something curled and coiled deep in Caitlyn. Something tight and thorny. “Violet,” she said slowly, softly, sounding as bitter as Vi’s black coffee. “Please.”
Registering the seriousness in her tone, the desperation, Vi paused. Her lips pursed, pinched together, and her jaw slackened. She looked at Caitlyn in such a soft, surprised way that still made her heart skip a beat. She dipped her chin, head slightly tilted to one side, her red-pink hair shining in the sunlight.
Caitlyn opened her mouth, then closed it. She tried to find the right words. And she failed.
Because her mind was going a million miles a minute. Because she was guessing and accessing and accusing. Because she was imagining every single situation and scenario.
Because if it wasn’t Vi, then just who was it?
Because all the signs pointed one way, the same way a compass’s needle always pointed north. True north.
By now, Vi’s eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. In concern. “What is this about, Cait?” She asked, a sharp edge to her voice, as sharp as the dull scrape of a knife. She had put down her cup, her hand hovering only a few inches from Caitlyn’s, like she wanted to reach out, but still hesitated. “What is going on?”
Caitlyn forced herself to clear her throat. To be clear. To be true. “I’ve received a letter from an old friend,” she said, frowning as she failed to find a proper way to address Talia. “She is currently traveling. She was in Demacia and wrote to me about a cupcake stand there.” Caitlyn watched Vi closely, carefully, seeing the slight curve of her lips at the mention of a certain frosted dessert, the tug at the corner of her mouth. She frowned even deeper. “My stand, apparently.”
Vi’s small smirk fluttered, then faltered. “Huh?”
“I guess the Kirammans are running a food stand in Demacia,” Caitlyn muttered with a flick of her wrist. “Who would’ve thought that, huh?”
Vi stared.
Caitlyn stared back. Eventually, she blinked, breaking the spell, and slid the letter over the tabletop to Vi. Vi blinked back at her, then picked up the paper and began to read. By the end of it, her lip was curled and her eyebrows were bunched in the middle. She sucked a sharp breath in, then let it out.
“Okay.” Another breath, followed by another blink. “Okay.”
There was confusion in her voice, but, underneath, something like fear. Something like awe. Something like hope.
“And it is decidedly not you,” Caitlyn said, more to herself than anyone else. “So…”
She trailed off, feeling the tip of her tongue tickle. The prickle at the back of her throat.
“Not me,” Vi murmured in agreement, merely a breathless whisper. Her wide eyes were still glued to the words, written in fancy, looping cursive the way all Piltovian children were taught. “Definitely not me.”
Finally, their eyes met—sharp, icy cerulean and wide, stormy gray-blue—clicking together like a key and its lock. A sudden wave of realization, of recognition, seemed to pass over them, like water lapping against a rocky shore. Suddenly, Caitlyn was cold. She shivered as a jolt shocked her straight up her spine, making her squirm and straighten, settling back in her chair. Her skin tickled and tingled, goosebumps crawling up and curling over the crest of her shoulder, the nape of her neck.
Vi was still gaping down at the letter, mouth wide open. She was gripping the paper so hard it wrinkled, the way Caitlyn had been holding it earlier, knuckles strained and a ghastly ghost-white. When she looked up, her wide, watercolor eyes were shining. Wet.
Caitlyn closed the small distance between them and grasped Vi’s hand, taking it in hers and feeling the calloused palms and scabbed-over knuckles. Hands that had punched through walls and rattled brains in their skulls. Hands that had held Caitlyn through a hundred different hurricanes. Hands that had reached for her sister that slipped through her reach again and again and again.
The same sister that might be—
“What…” Vi’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky. So were her hands as she put the paper down and grabbed Caitlyn’s other hand, gripping it like a lifeline. “What do we do now?”
Caitlyn ran her palm over Vi’s hand, pressing her palm flat against the ridge of her knuckles, feeling the notching press of hard bone. The warmth of her skin. The slight smell of the hand soap that they shared.
“We wait,” she says slowly. Softly. “We gather more information.” She looked back down at the letter without breaking contact with Vi. “I can write back to Talia, as much as I loathe to do so.” She paused to think, pressing her lips together. “I can see if she can provide more details.” She tsked her tongue thoughtfully, teeth clicking together. “Anything will help.” She began to count off on her fingers, briefly pulling away from Vi’s warmth. “A precise location, a description of any patrons, specifically about the baker, or whoever was standing behind the counter—”
A soft, stifled sob left Vi’s mouth and Caitlyn’s mouth clamped shut and stiff. Vi was slumped, the slope of her shoulders stiff and her spine curved as she leaned over the table to press a hand to her mouth in surprise. Shock. Sincerity.
Oh, Caitlyn thought. Of course.
Vi’s eyes were still wet and wide, tears starting to bubble at her lash line, streaming down the slope of her cheek. The same cheek Caitlyn reached out to touch, to brush deft fingertips over her jaw, to caress her cheek. To cradle it.
“Oh, Violet,” Caitlyn murmured.
“Cait,” she croaked out.
“It’s alright, darling,” she breathed out, trying to be steady. To sound sure.
She bit her lip and tried to calm and corral her racing, running thoughts, that part of her brain that saw a puzzle and just had to solve it, to take it apart and put it back together again.
This was Vi’s sister. Her baby sister. Her flesh and blood. The last living member of her family, presumed dead by the city, a death mourned by Zaun and celebrated in Piltover. A death that was known to be fake by only a select few. Jinx was Vi’s sister. This was Vi’s decision. Her life. Her love.
Vi had choices made for her her whole life. Had her freedom snatched away and all that she loved slip through her fingers like water in her hands. It was only fair she got this chance. This choice.
This time, for once, she got to fairly decide her fate.
Now, Caitlyn frowned, brushing a fingertip across the tattoo right under Vi’s eyes, still cupping her cheek with her other hand. “What do you want to do?” She asked, forcing her heart to slow, to hear herself over the roar of blood in her ears. “What do you want, Violet?”
Violet just stared at her, mouth still partly open, a tear streaking down her face. Caitlyn frowned and wiped it away, smearing it against soft, sun-warmed skin. Despite it all, despite the wound inside them all, the world still went on. The sun still shone, the light that came in through the glass now, touching Vi’s tears to liquid gold, shining like spilled honey on her skin.
“I’ll write to Talia,” she repeated slowly, already making lists in her head. “Or you could, if you want. And I’ll have to talk to Father.” She paused, snapping her head up. “And get a message to Ekko and Sevika. They’ll want to know—”
“Cait.”
“—And add more information to the evidence board,” Caitlyn continued, cursing under her breath. “Shit. I should call out today. I couldn’t possibly—”
“Cait.”
This time, it was Vi who reached out and cupped her cheeks, forcing her chin up. Forcing Caitlyn to look at her. Really look at her. Her touch made Caitlyn stop, jolting her out of her jumbled rambling. She blinked, staring at her girlfriend. Vi’s eyes were shiny, her cheeks streaky, and she was smiling.
Her heart nearly stopped in her chest.
“Cait,” Vi said again, all low and languidly. Lazy. Her finger stroked slowly over Caitlyn’s cheek and she nearly shivered again. “Shut up.” Her blue-gray eyes shimmered, and Caitlyn’s own eyelid itched behind the patch. “Please,” she added as an afterthought, the corner of her mouth curling up in tandem.
Then Caitlyn’s lips were twitching too. She was smiling, and letting out a low laugh, and then Vi was leaning in and kissing her, like water lapping against a rocky shore.
It tasted of sweet salt and soft, sticky butter. It tasted like a promise.
That night, after hours of talking at the table, then lounging around, sleeping, and having soft, slow sex in bed, they ended up in the study.
Caitlyn had brought out the giant, rolling evidence board. Or murder board, as Vi liked to call it. Though it was not counting clues about a murder. It was keeping track of all known sights of a certain blue-haired terrorist. Or, former terrorist, hopefully.
Caitlyn pinned the letter from Talia to the side and unrolled a long map of Demacia across her desk. She had stared down at it until the ink seemed to bleed, her vision swimming, while Vi slipped in and out of the room, bringing her more tea and a sliced tangerine that she nibbled on in little wedges, careful not to drip droplets of juice onto the old, dusty parchment of the map. Sometimes, Vi paced, offering an odd comment or helpful suggestion, or came to stand by her side, a heavy head on her shoulder or a strong arm looped loosely around her waist.
But, for most of the evening and well into the night, they stayed in silence, simply coexisting side by side, the stillness only broken by the crackling of the fire in the hearth or the clinking of a teacup against the saucer as Caitlyn finished another cup of tea.
After many hours of staring and studying, of cross-checking and clenching her jaw, of writing and wallowing, Caitlyn snapped out of her stupor. When she looked over the slope of her shoulder, Vi was seated in the velvet armchair that was the shade of a deep, dark emerald green. She was looking into the flickering flames, the ends of her now-longer hair touched to a fiery copper as it curled around the nape of her neck. Her expression was still and solemn, almost serene, as she stared into the fire, only breaking the trance by blinking.
Vi dangled a glass between her fingers, one of the ones salvaged from an old, dusty room tucked into one of the abandoned mining tunnels. Vander’s, Vi had simply said when Caitlyn had asked. It was filled with whiskey, the amber liquid swirling and glowing in front of the flame. She was humming, a soft, slow sound pulled from the back of her tight throat. A song. The way her mother used to sing to her and to…
Caitlyn stepped behind the chair, casting a tall, twisting shadow over Vi’s sloped form. Carefully, she draped herself over the top, leaning in close and letting her fingertips brush the top of Vi’s tilted head, to run her nails softly through soft hair and the sensitive skin of her scalp, feeling the scratchy spots of the shorn part of her head. It was scruffy, more fuzzy than it was a few months ago.
Vi relaxed at her touch, untensing, her song slowing and stopping, giving way to a satisfied sound, a low huffing hum of apprehension, but approval too. Appreciation. Caitlyn leaned in close, hot breath ghosting over Vi’s skin, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Vi hummed yet again. She had been silent for most of the night too, thinking. Processing.
“It’ll be a week’s journey,” Caitlyn told her now. “By air at least.”
Vi scoffed, the warm puff of air brushing past the shell of Caitlyn’s ear. “I still can’t believe you have a fucking blimp.”
“Airship, actually,” Caitlyn pointed out, perking up. She peered over the top of the chair. “Airships have a rigid metal hull, allowing for longer travel, which is what we’ll be—”
Vi scoffed again and turned in her seat, twisting around to peek over the edge of the chair and press her lips to Caitlyn’s. Caitlyn sighed against the soft skin of Vi’s mouth, warm and wet, and let her eye close, sealing shut, her eyelashes fluttering faintly.
When she pulled away, Vi was staring up at her, a curious expression on her face. “We?” She echoed, repeating Caitlyn’s words from a moment before. Her jaw tightened, her throat bobbing, rising and falling like a ship on a stormy sea. “You mean it?”
A bit confused, Caitlyn just nodded.
“You’re coming with me?” Vi asked unsurely, as if it were an uncertainty.
Caitlyn nearly scoffed. In what world did she not go with Vi? In what world did she not stick by her side? In what world would she not follow her to the ends of the earth?
Caitlyn squinted against the flicker-flame of the blazing hot fire in front of them. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I go where you go.
Something in Vi’s eyes shifted, softening and then shining. Her pupils dilated to pinpricks and her breath came faster, more raggedly, like it was catching in the curved crook of her chest, the hooked hitch of her throat. Before Caitlyn could say anything else, Vi reached over and kissed her again, grabbing her by the face and pulling her down, all soft and slow.
This time, it tasted like green tea and honey. It tasted sweet, like a cupcake.
A few hours later, when Vi's breathing had evened out against her back and her snores came soft and slow, Caitlyn slid out from under the silky sheets and sneaked out of bed. She grabbed the pearl-gray robe from where it hung on the edge of the dressing screen and slipped it on over her shoulders, shrugging into it. She shivered as her bare feet brushed against cold marble, hands falling into her pockets as she yawned and made the familiar way back into the study.
She had tried to sleep. She really had. But her mind was a wild thing, running and raging and restless. She had tossed and turned since she and Vi had turned out the lights a few hours ago. Vi had immediately clung to her the way a leaf clung to its branch during the dregs of autumn, legs tangled and arms twisted together like a misshapen tree trunk.
Caitlyn had forced herself to be calm. To slow her breathing and relax her muscles. To be still and silent. To not wake up Vi, who was dealing with a lot already.
Still, when she was sure Vi was sound asleep, she slipped out of bed and back to the study. Back to the quiet room that smelled of smoke as the fire burned low. Back to her desk, running her fingers over the smooth, dark wood. Down the last drawer on the right. There, she pulled it open and paused, drawing in a long, heavy breath before continuing.
She picked up one of the only two items in the drawer. A piece-plate of cool metal, half of an explosive, a crudely drawn monkey face staring back at her as she blinked down at it, as if it would answer her many questions. As if it would give her any clarity whatsoever. With a sigh, she placed it on the desktop, a few inches away from her.
Caitlyn reached down again to retrieve the second item. A small, dark box. She ran her finger over the top, feeling the velvety softness of the lid. Then, placing it in the center of her palm, she propped it open and allowed herself one glimpse of the band inside, the ring, glinting faintly in the dying fireside light. Then, she closed it and placed it next to the discarded bomb. She stared down at both of the things lined up in front of her on the desk.
And Caitlyn put her head in her hands and tried to stop the tears.