Archive of Our Own

Covered in the grime of a failed mission and nursing both her arms, Fiammetta isn't surprised when all the other patients in the medbay turn in unison to watch her enter. Also not a surprise: when every single one of them notes her expression and quickly finds literally anything else to look at. There is a concert of shuffling—magazines being pulled up to obscure eyes, parents distracting their children with baubles, and throats clearing as the curious try to surreptitiously glance her way. That suits Fiammetta just fine. If her expression of pain is mistaken for fiery rage, if her injured arms are mistaken for being crossed in standoffishness, then so be it—there's plenty of both to go around and should someone piss her off right now, they're liable to find out just how little she needs her arms to kick someone's ass straight to hell.

Though she aims for the furthest chair in the corner, a small voice catches her before she's even limped halfway. "Miss Fiammetta?" The medic girl is young, as short as she is timid, and quite a lot of both. Half-hiding behind her clipboard, her Cautus ears are long enough to flop forward under their own weight. "Mostima called ahead and told us you were coming. Follow me?" She phrases the last bit as a question, shriveling under the intensity of Fiammetta's gaze.

Fiammetta grunts and lets the girl lead her down a sterile hallway, wincing as each step jostles her arms. They won't extend all the way, at least not without severe pain, and there's a tension knot forming in her jaw from gritting her teeth. Along with her arms, her right knee has joined the party and is acting up, putting a limp in Fiammetta's step; when she stubs her toe on the flat floor her exhale comes out as a growl—the medic girl jumps and lets out a squeak, her pace increasing slightly.

Fiammetta chases the medic from the exam room after the girl's trembling hands jostle her arm one too many times. Left alone with only her own anger to keep her company, under the overbright medical lights and with the smell of antiseptic alcohol stinging her nose, it's the most comfortable she's been all day.

There's a knock on the door and Kal'tsit enters. Without a word she bends to retrieve the blood pressure cuff from the floor and wraps it around Fiammetta's arm, securing it so swiftly and with such precision that Fiammetta scarcely realizes it's there. A blood-oxygen measuring device (Fiammetta's never bothered to learn the name) is clipped to her fingertip while Kal'tsit enters some data onto the computer, then removed.

Though Kal'tsit makes her nervous, Fiammetta much prefers the silent and no-nonsense approach to interaction. Streamlining conversation by removing social niceties makes for smoother communication overall, and neither of them are the type to waste time. Kal'tsit is a diplomat, Fiammetta reminds herself, not for the first time. The woman's ability to conform to any social situation is as frightening as it is useful.

Thanks to the relative silence that has set the mood for their first few minutes of proximity, Fiammetta jumps when Kal'tsit begins speaking. "I'll cut your sleeves off of your jacket while you explain to me what happened." Neither of those appeal to Fiammetta, but Kal'tsit doesn't present them as optional. She pulls some heavy-duty fabric scissors from a drawer and gets to work on Fiammetta's jacket, zipping it up so she can cut across the shoulder and down each arm, peeling the heavy fabric away. Fiammetta tries to straighten her arm on reflex and hisses as a red-hot flash of pain ignites the nerves in a line all the way to her neck.

"It was stupid," she grits out at Kal’tsit’s prompting, cradling her arms close to her chest as the pain begins to subside. Following rumors of Andoain's movements, she'd set out with Mostima and ventured far into the barrens, hoping to find a trace of his whereabouts. What they found instead was an empty and dilapidated church. A burnpile near the altar and signs of other activity dotted the area, but Andoain and his followers—if they were indeed the ones who'd been there—were gone. Still, the structure's roof was intact enough to provide shelter, so they'd cut their losses and made beds by pushing pews together, only to find that the church wasn't nearly as abandoned as they'd first thought.

Late at night the owners returned in force, a caravan of vehicles filled with bandits, armed to the teeth with heavy weaponry. What followed was a protracted siege—Fiammetta leaning through doors and windows to take potshots while Mostima finished off those that crossed the distance between their vehicles and the church to make it to the building proper. After an hour or so of stalemate, the bandit leader had seen fit to simply wipe his new problem off the map, and shouldered an RPG.

"I managed to block the explosion by holding the front doors closed. It allowed us to survive, but my arms took the brunt of the force. We escaped in the smoke, and then Mostima sent up the distress beacon and we waited for the chopper to pick us up."

She waits for Kal'tsit to call her stupid, but the woman merely nods and says, "You got lucky."

"I don't feel very lucky." Kal'tsit begins to rub ointment onto her arms. There's no way around it, even though the ointment is cool, pressure brings pain and irritation with it. By the time Kal'tsit finishes and strips off her gloves, Fiammetta's arms feel worse than when they started. Then, as if to spite her, her arms grow increasingly cold.

"The ointment will cool your arms and distract you from the pain while the real painkillers kick in," she explains. "Sorry in advance for this next part."

What Kal'tsit wraps around her arms look like regular bandages, but have stiffness closer to that of a cast. Fiammetta sets her teeth to her tongue and bites down hard enough that she bleeds, and then the process is finished and she swallows down iron. Testing the wrappings, Fiammetta tries to bend her arms and immediately regrets it. While her movement is stymied, putting force through her elbows still makes her feel the need to black out.

"Just be glad that they're still attached." Kal'tsit places her clipboard down and stands to leave. "Heat in the mornings, ice in the evenings. You're on recovery for the next three weeks, and I'll schedule you for weekly follow-up appointments. Fiammetta. Fiammetta. Those follow-ups are mandatory, do you understand?"
"I get it."

"You took the brunt of an explosion with just your arms. Those bandages might be bothersome, but they are there to keep your ligaments from being further damaged. Do not take them off under any circumstance, and especially do not rewrap them by yourself if they happen to come loose. Do you have any other questions?" 

Fiammetta shakes her head no.

"Would you like me to arrange assistance for you while you recover?”

Hell no. Capable or not, Fiammetta would rather die than have anyone in her space right now, and that desire for unobserved independence is only going to become more solidified when the pain meds wear off. "I'll figure it out," she says.

Kal’tsit nods, “Have a good day. Lancet-2 will drop off your medications within the hour.”

Fiammetta makes it all the way from the medbay to her room without issue, relying on her knees to press elevator buttons and her glare to kill conversations before they can even start. Rhodes Island is fitted with automatic doors for most public halls, but she runs into her first issue upon getting to her room. Swiping her key is simple enough—after checking to make sure she's alone, she stands on her tiptoes and hip checks the sensor. The light beeps to green, the latch clicking.

Her solution is effective, if not a little ridiculous, involving her jamming the toe of her boot underneath the handle and hopping backwards to drag it open. Then without letting it close, she does a jump kick to dislodge her foot and slam the other toe into the gap before the door can swing closed.

In the dark of her room she lets out a shaky breath. Now that she’s away from people, the weight of the last few days bears down on her. First, the failure of her mission, second, the string of failures that led to said failure of a mission exploding in her face.

The firefight was tense, but the worst part about it was the waiting. Fiammetta hates siege warfare, hates the lack of immediacy. It’s a flaw of hers, her lack of patience—she knows that she doesn’t have the head for longer fights, that fatigue will get the better of her before her enemies. It leads to bad decision-making. Still, the feeling of helplessness that arose while she shot uselessly into the sides of the armored vehicles was potent. Even her larger munitions, her grenades and explosive mortars, did little. They were stuck in the church, and fittingly, the only thing she could do was pray to a higher being while Mostima watched her back and flank.

Realistically, Fiammetta’s presence had kept them from getting rushed and killed. But knowing that does little to curb the sinking feeling that she’d been useless.

It’s tempting to collapse onto the bed and wallow until fatigue sets in, but logic forces a compromise with instinct: she ends up sitting on the corner. Everything is grimy, caked and stained. Her hair is a mess and her body is covered in sweat and dirt and blood. There are tears in her clothing from the travel, and even more tears from the firefight, along with a generous helping of scorch marks and a ruddy streak from where the wood of the pew splintered as she turned over in her sleep, pressing fibers into the upper back of her jacket.

Ironically, her arms are the cleanest part of her.

A prickle—Fiammetta lifts her arms slightly. It’s yet another problem, but this one is old and hatefully familiar: her armpits have been chafing for the last few hours. The sweaty pinions growing in over the past few days have started to unfurl and brush across sensitive skin. She’s always been pricklier than other Liberi, or so she’s been told, double-meaning notwithstanding. Lowering her arms presses the new feathers into her inner bicep and axillary line, a sweaty matting of pinpricks and maddening tickling sensations. Having put it off while in the desert, delaying shaving is no longer an option.

She wants to sleep, wants to curl up in bed with music so loud that it forces other thoughts from her head, but before any of that can happen she needs a bath, and to take a bath, she needs to get undressed. Cue a whole host of logistical nightmares, the first of which is which bath to go to in the first place. The Victoria-style showers are closer and she’d prefer their privacy, the nice cubicles that shut everyone off from the others. The drawback is their proximity to the training rooms—they’ll be occupied, and that means interaction. It means offers of help, it means pity.

The Higashi-style open-air baths it is, then. It’s late enough at night that they’ll be empty, and they’re far enough that she should be unbothered. And, as much as she’d like the privacy of close walls, the wide-open space will be better suited for sitting and shaving.

Logistical nightmare the second: does she try to get her clothes off in the dressing room, or should she attempt it now?

Taking a page from Kal’tsit’s book, Fiammetta manages to cut across both breasts of her shirt so she can shrug the garment off without needing to shake it down her damaged arms. Her bra is more of a problem—uninterested in ruining perfectly good underwear, Fiammetta reaches behind her back to undo the clasp, surprised when it doesn’t cause any pain. The next part is easy, all she has to do is let it fall down to her elbows and then separate her arms. So of course Fiammetta bumps her right elbow into the dresser, and to vent her frustration she puts a hole in the side of it with her steel-toed boot. The regret is as caustic as the pain. “Fantastic,” she breathes, “now I’ve got a fucked-up dresser too.”

To get revenge on her shoes, she falls backwards onto her bed so she can kick them off with maximum leverage. The clunk on the ground of each shoe is followed by her socks. She’s able to unbutton her skirts without too much trouble, but the garments are stiff with days-long dirt; she ends up bouncing on the balls of her feet, taking in a sharp breath to mark each time she jumps to coax the last of her clothes down her legs.

No sooner does Fiammetta have her clothes off, a knock on the door sounds, metal on metal. Fiammetta knees it open and peeks out the slit to make sure there isn't anybody present, then opens it all the way to admit Lancet-2. Her electronic voice is pleasant enough, though her slow delivery threatens to drive Fiammetta up the wall. 

"Fiammetta, I am here to deliver your prescription. Would you like me to explain how to safely take your medication?"

"Not if it's written on the bottle." Without being able to bend her arms, Fiammetta has to crouch down to take the meds from the little drawer that pops out of Lancet-2's chassis. As the robot wheels out of her room, the way the light gleams on her spherical surface somehow smacks with pity.

Lancet-2 stops before her wheels have completely cleared the threshold. "Would you like me to assist you with any tasks this evening?"

"Get out!" Fiammetta yells, trying to point at the door. Predictably, it goes horribly. Her voice is cut off with a gasp of pain and she drops the pill bottles in the process. They clatter on the floor and one begins to roll until she stomps on it. "Just go, I can handle myself!" When Lancet-2 leaves without another word, Fiammetta chides herself for the bad feeling in her stomach. It’s a robot, it doesn’t have emotions.

Thankfully, her past self had the foresight to prepare her shower caddie, though picking it up is a challenge Fiammetta doesn’t so much as solve as suffers through, finding that if she lifts it by the handle so that it’s close to her elbow, she can then shimmy the caddie onto her shoulder like an especially bulky purse.

She leaves without bothering to cover up. A nearly-naked operator is far from the most interesting thing to see in Rhodes Island late at night, though Fiammetta’s pretty sure that she’s the first in a while to be naked without a casual sex-related reason. Skyfire could likely relate. The landship has slowed to a stop for the night but continues to hum, suffusing even the coldest and darkest halls with a modicum of life. Bright lamps have dimmed to allow the calm yellow of the emergency lights to do their work, and the few operators Fiammetta passes don’t so much as acknowledge her presence outside of a glance.

To her relief, she finds the baths empty, and despite her injuries souring her mood, she has to admit the space is beautiful. Done in traditional Higashi style, natural tones of wood and stone intertwine and the space is dotted with rough-hewn marble lanterns. The low lighting emulates that of candles and torches, and the air is perfumed with an unassertive mixture of persimmon and temple incense. At the far end of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows make the soaking pool before them look endless, as if it's spilling out of Rhodes Island's flank and into the barrens far below. The night sky is pinpointed with light, framed by a wooden inlay of stately right angles that wrap the edges of the glass to draw the eye. The aesthetic design follows the hallmarks of the iconic Higashi onsen. Having never been there herself, Fiammetta can’t assess the accuracy of Rhodes Island’s construction, but she much prefers the general sense of calm to her hometown with its pristine chrome, painted paterae , and over-symbolic affreschi . More is more in Lateran City, and may your eyes pay the price as the sun reflects off every goddamn polished surface and edge.

Snagging a towel set from the dressing room, Fiammetta sets up at the farthest shower stool, letting the caddie clatter from her shoulder to the floor. She kicks the faucet to its highest setting, too tired to care if the water comes out too hot, too cold, or too whatever.

For a long while she simply hunches under the showerhead, letting the deluge cascade onto her head to run down her back. Blood, soot, and loose feathers color the runoff, but slowly it begins to run clear, detritus from weeks of travel forming a trail to the nearest drain. It feels a faux pas to dirty such a well-kept bath, even on Rhodes Island, a medical facility that is no stranger to the inherent uncleanliness of military and medical operations. As she can’t effectively wash herself, she turns up the pressure and the heat until the blast of water is scouring, lancing across every inch of her skin to leave red trails as she slowly angles her body to reposition under the jet. The thought that the bandages might become soaked comes far too late, but the material seems to repel errant droplets, steadfastly refusing to become wet.

Relatively rinsed, she tests her movement once more. Bending her arms is a no-go, so she instead tests how well she can maneuver while keeping her arms at right angles. She can rotate her shoulders and lift her arms, and if she’s willing to kneel she probably won’t have too much trouble grabbing things from low angles, but anything outside of the basics will have to be accompanied by temporary pain. Imagining a suite of morning activities, she mimes the motions of eating and winces as her hand nears her mouth; apparently if the food isn’t on a fork, it won’t be going into her mouth. Unless. . . no. Fiammetta shakes her head. She won’t suffer being spoon fed, even if it’s the only option. She’d rather eat straight from the plate like a burdenbeast.

Even with the aid of a scrubbing brush, cleaning herself with any sort of rigor is an impossibility. The solution she settles on is to dump a whole bunch of shampoo onto her head and even more body wash onto her back and chest, then let the coruscating beam of water do the scrubbing for her. More than once during the process she takes a break just to sit and droop. Her head hurts; having to constantly plan around her sudden inability, to make allowances and compromises on tasks that should be simple, is demoralizing. It’s made all the worse when she thinks of all the accessibility aids throughout the landship, even having used many of them herself on her trek to the baths and within the baths themselves. Here she sits, dejected, while many have worse injuries. What right does she have to feel pathetic?

Bending to the side she retrieves her electric razor. Expensive, waterproof, and powerful, with hefty blades designed to cut through feathers: it is a razor designed for the few Liberi that bother to shave. Flicking the blade guard back into her caddie, she attempts to bring it to the nest of down in her armpit. It takes a nick out of the crimson feathers and then a flash of pain makes Fiammetta drop it. The device clatters on the ground, vibrating hard enough to make a constant grinding sound like a rockslide in a tumble-dryer. Picking it up is a task and a half, and only further stokes the growing coals of anger in her stomach. A second attempt at shaving yields the same result: pain and failure.

Fiammetta clicks it off. Resisting the urge to hurl the inert object into the nearest wall is becoming more and more difficult. Her head has started to ache now, stiff jaw muscles working to create a system of tension that runs up through her temples and down her spine.

Injuries go hand in hand with dangerous missions, but never has being injured felt so stupid. What kind of incompetence leads to losing the use of not one, but both arms? Had Mostima not been there, she’d be dead. There’s another sting of pain when she realizes: Mostima had pitied her. In the space where a joke should’ve been about her arms, there’d been only silence.

Fiammetta raises her head. The woman in the mirror glares back at her with such intensity that she wonders if she'll burst into flame.

Humiliating. It's humiliating. It's humiliating to be a Liberi who hates underarm hair. It's humiliating to suddenly not be able to do the basic maintenance she needs to keep her body comfortable. When it comes to pain she can win the physical battle, push through agony to get the last laugh or at least a parting shot. What she has trouble with is the mental side. Nothing is more demoralizing than pain. It is no great teacher, and contrary to popular phraseology, suffering through it leaves her winded and cranky, not reborn in a blaze of glory.

Her arms dangle down, but instead of knuckles brushing the floor, her elbows refuse to bend past 90 degrees. Perhaps stretching through her full range of motion in the immediate aftermath was a mistake that only served to cement her injury; if she forces her arms straight now, she's sure the tendons will snap. The bandages exert constant pressure on her arm, but the temptation to remove them is a trap—Fiammetta has to admit that without the bandages limiting her movement, she'd be liable to make things worse.

Still, knowing that doesn't make her day any better.

Fuck. Fiammetta hangs her head. Perhaps there's a tear in the water that drips from her nose. "This is stupid."

The door to the dressing room opens, and Fiammetta doesn’t even lift her head to see who will walk around the corner. They can’t have noticed her yet, that much she’s certain of—the baths are built in such a way that a woodwork barrier obscures the view from the dressing room to the rest of the baths. Leave me alone, she wants to say, but the tightness in her chest won’t let her speak. Hopefully her dour aura will do the speaking for her, and whoever just came in will either be silent or make themself scarce.

Boots echo on the tiles—is it the cleaning staff? Who else would wear shoes into a bath?

A flash of red—and Fiammetta’s blood goes cold. She knows that hair, the halo and wings. She knows them and they’re the last thing she can handle right now. Lemuel steps into view, and of fucking course, she sees Fiammetta and freezes.

“Fia!” Lemuel says, relief coloring her tone. She bounds over, stopping just short of reaching out. “There you are, I heard you were injured so I came looking for you!” Her boots squeak on the tiles as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“Hey,” Fiammetta answers weakly, “Why are you here?” What is left unsaid is less charitable: Please leave. I don’t want you to see me like this.

Lemuel furrows her brows. “Because I care about you? I’ve been trying to track you down, but you weren’t in your room and everyone I met said they were too scared to talk to you.”

Fiammetta doesn’t know what to say to that. She settles on a lie that’s quickly becoming all too easy to tell: “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you say that,” Lemuel pulls the stool next to her close and sits down on it, leaning on her elbows to stare, “but here's the thing. You look like shit.”

The fire that should be flickering to roaring life in Fiammetta’s blood is doused when she sees Lemuel’s expression. It’s not pity but rather worry, as if she was legitimately scared to hear about Fiammetta’s injury. The urge to brush her off is instinctual and Fiammetta nearly gives in, but the sheer honesty and openness in Lemuel’s expression has caught her with her guard down. She could push her away, or, considering their bond, the nameless thing between them that Fiammetta refuses to think about, she could. . . not do that.

“I’ve had better days,” says Fiammetta after a long pause.

Lemuel smiles and scoots closer to her. “Why don’t I go get naked and then we can see about getting the shampoo out of your hair, ‘kay?”

Instead of doing the smart thing and checking the mirror to confirm, Fiammetta does the stupid thing and tries to touch her hair, but this time she’s stopped before the pain has a chance to come. Lemuel’s hands are on her wrist and bicep respectively, keeping her arm from bending. “T-thanks.”

Lemuel’s off with a wink, and she comes back less than thirty seconds later. The low glow of her halo and wings paint her hair and back with a subtle gold, emphasizing her silhouette against the dark, natural wood walls. Fiammetta has always thought she was beautiful, whether she was in combat, aiming to take out a target, or in her bed, naked and on top of her. This time Fiammetta looks away—thinking too hard about Lemuel and what they mean to each other makes her head hurt, and the last thing she needs right now is more of that.

Grabbing the showerhead, Lemuel turns it on high and runs it over Fiammetta’s head, tousling her hair none too gently—Fiammetta’s grateful for the roughness as it helps distract from how vulnerable she feels when she thinks about what’s happening for a second too long. More shampoo, the bottle making a wheezing noise as Lemuel shakes the liquid to the top and squeezes, and then Fiammetta’s back is being scrubbed, her shoulders, her arms. The loofah abrades away layers of dirt until the skin underneath feels fresh.

“Turn to face me for a sec so I can get your chest. Don’t look at me like that, I’ll behave!”

For the record (and in spite of Fiammetta’s initial misgivings), Lemuel does behave. In fact, the seriousness with which she takes her task is almost unnerving—usually she’d throw in a salacious comment or make an innuendo, but even when she scrubs between Fiammetta’s breasts and asks permission to lift them to clean her underboob, her eyes don’t wander, and all she does is make a satisfied hum that slowly turns into an idle and unguided song.

Slowly, Fiammetta begins to relax, up until the point that Lemuel nudges the razor with her foot, then pointedly glances at Fiammetta’s armpits. “Sooooo can I help you out with this?”

Feeling ever the clam, it takes all of Fiammetta’s willpower to not refuse her outright. “You don’t have to.” A Liberi having stim issues with body down is stupid, Fiammetta thinks yet again. But the thought of somebody else helping her shave? That’s even more outlandish.

Lemuel picks the razor up and, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, wiggles it. “And if I don’t, then you’re gonna?”

“No,” Fiammetta growls. “It hurts too much.”

Rather than respond, Lemuel simply sits there, diverting her gaze so she’s staring out the window. It takes longer than she’d like to admit before Fiammetta realizes Lemuel is waiting for her to figure her shit out.

Weighing the options has never been so difficult. Accept help or have a sleepless night, being forced to keep her arms above her head so the feathers wont tickle and itch. The idea of being shaved is. . . well it’s not unpleasant per se, but it does make her skin erupt in goosebumps. However, the alternative would probably be worse. Not only would she lose sleep and make every minute of tomorrow a waking hell, she’d still be in the same boat. One way or another, shaving needs to happen.

Little by little, Fiammetta’s resistance to the idea erodes away. At worst it’ll be a little awkward, not unlike the first time they accidentally fell asleep after sex and had to deal with waking up in the same bed in the morning, thereby turning their one-night stand into something a little more personal. Besides, it’s not as if Lemuel would be seeing something she shouldn’t. They have been intimate before, and this is just an. . . extension? an evolution? of that.

Before she can talk herself out of it she says, “Go ahead.”

“Okay!” Lemuel palms the razor and then looks a little above Fiammetta’s head, shying away from eye contact. “Can you uhm. . . lift up, I guess?”

Fiammetta’s voice comes out weaker than she’d like it to, perhaps because Lemuel has seemingly chosen now of all times to get embarrassed. “Y-yeah.” Raising her arms above her head is more difficult than it was before as Lemuel’s attention snaps to the crimson down in her armpits, and she nearly lowers them again out of a self-conscious desire to hide. Still, once her arms are up she prevents her own escape by gripping her elbows.

Never before has she felt so on-display, not even with her legs and pussy spread wide for Lemuel’s admiration. This feels more intimate somehow, more personal. It occurs a few seconds later that there’s no reason to have both arms in the air, but it’s too late now and Lemuel’s hand is making its way closer.

Lemuel clicks the razor on. It hums to life, drowning out all other ambient noise.

Steadying her grip with her other hand, she brings the razor to the tip of Fiammetta’s armpit pinions, slicing off millimeters to test the blade. When she pulls away, she does so with an expression of amazement and holds the razor close to her eye. “Oh dang, this thing is heavy-duty.”

Fiammetta, for her part, blows out a long breath. It’s fine. This is fine. I can do this.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of Liberi shaving their down before,” Lemuel is saying, and Fiammetta can recognize a lead when she’s being handed one. It’s a conversation that doesn’t matter, more meant to fill the air than anything else.

“Getting rid of body down is a massive pain,” she answers. “Historically, Liberi would either pluck each pinion or wax it all as a bunch, but there are drawbacks to both. Plucking them hurts because they’re deeply anchored, not unlike pubic hair. Waxing it all at once presents the same problem, but worse. So basically the only way to get rid of it is to have a professional pluck you, or you can. . . invest. Considering the amount of prep and specialized equipment doing it yourself takes, most Liberi don’t bother shaving.”

“You do though," Lemuel points out.

"I can't stand armpit down. It drives me up the fucking wall. Imagine having your armpits being constantly tickled by feather dusters. It’s like that, but a hundred times worse.”

Talking is helping, as is watching Lemuel's back in the mirror. Fiammetta follows the lines of lambent circuitry that extend up Lemuel’s spine before spitting from her vertebrae to branch to her shoulder blades where her wings connect. It’s always amazed her how alive Lemuel’s wings look, even though they’re made of harsh triangles. The panes flex and bend along with Lemuel’s movement, extending to help her balance on the chair, retracting slightly when she leans in to make a cut. Her halo too, is not a stationary object. So slowly as to be nearly imperceptible, it rotates, and when Lemuel gets excited or is otherwise suffused with adrenaline it branches out, more concentric circles forming around the first one.

Even now, Fiammetta can see that Lemuel’s emotional state is heightened; a secondary ring has begun to form, a hair-thin line. She looks quickly away, starts talking again. “The worst part is that you can’t stop halfway. Cutting the down short makes it all prickly.”

“Which is bad?” Lemuel guesses.

“It rubs your armpits raw and bleeding, so unless that sounds like a good time to you, then yeah. I made that mistake, once. Only once.”

Lemuel shudders. “But anyway, these blades—”

“Specialized for cutting Liberi body hair. The blades are strong and sharp, made for slicing through body down shafts. That also means they can slice right through skin, so please be careful.”

“Y-yeah.”

When she’s done with Fiammetta’s left armpit, Lemuel drags her nails gently across the stubble to pull away errant feathers, and she makes a small whoooa !

“You act like you’ve never seen my armpits. I usually keep them shaved—this isn’t special.”

“What’re you talking about, this is fascinating! It’s like I’m seeing them in an all new light! They’re all. . . fresh. And naked .”

Sure enough, Fiammetta can see Lemuel’s face in the mirror. Pretty red. Noncommittally she says: “Hmmm.” 

Fiammetta closes her eyes; already the relief of having some down gone is palpable, and Lemuel moves to her other side to begin shaving it as well. Her hand is more sure now, guiding the blades to cut so that the down falls in clumps rather than puffing out and making a mess over Fiammetta’s flank.

After no more than a minute, Lemuell sits back and tilts her head, surveying Fiammetta’s armpit like she’s a sculptor checking her work. “I think I got as close as I could. What do I do next?”

“Once the shafts are mostly shaved off, a normal razor can get rid of the rest.” Fiammetta nudges the caddie with her foot, “I’ve got razors in there that you can use. Just. . .”

Lemuel’s already leaned down to grab a razor and attached a cartridge; she stops halfway to Fiammetta’s armpit. “Just?”

“Be gentle.”

"You got it,” Lemuel salutes.

Fiammetta is not prepared for the level of intimacy inherent in being shaved to smoothness. It starts as shaving herself normally does—Lemuel squirts a hefty amount of conditioner into her hand—but then it’s her fingers that are sliding over the dip of Fiammetta’s armpit, and her warmth that stands out against the cool of the liquid. Were it not Lemuel, it wouldn’t be acceptable, hell, even it being her barely makes it so. But in spite of that, or perhaps only because it’s Lemuel, Fiammetta forces her body to relax. She feels every touch magnified tenfold, each gentle motion forcing her to suppress a shiver.

The worst part is that she can recognize the motions that guide Lemuel’s hands: they’re the same ones that spread lube over her cunt, the same fingers that fuck her open and stretch her out so she can take Lemuel’s cock. The gentle surety of a girl who knows how to make her squirm.

Maybe this was a mistake, Fiammetta thinks, but then Lemuel brings the blade down in a short stroke and pulls away, victorious.

“Just like regular shaving,” she has the gall to smile.

“Nothing about this is regular,” Fiammetta breathes, too low for Lemuel to hear.

Lemuel rinses the razor underneath the showerhead, then draws another stroke.

Another—Lemuel stops and looks up, concern written in her brows, “Your arms are trembling. Do you need a break?”

“I’m fine.”

She’s not fine. Lemuel’s fingers are torture—kind, sublime torture. Lemuel’s breaths are coming heavier and Fiammetta can feel the rush of air on her ribs; she’s leaned in closer than she needs to. Two fingers slide into Fiammetta’s armpit, spreading the skin so Lemuel can draw the razor over it. A caress after each stroke, testing for smoothness, and the way it tickles is entirely eclipsed by how much it’s getting Fiammetta going. Then Lemuel squirts more conditioner onto her fingers, and the flat of her palm grips the hollow of her underarm, and Fiammetta gasps.

Lemuel jolts, then laughs shortly, breathing labored and nervous. “Sorry.”

“Just—don’t stop.”

“Right. Like you said. Stubble is bad.”

All four fingers slide across her skin now, Lemuel’s whole slick palm employed in service of feeling for errant pinion shafts. Without realizing it, Fiammetta’s clenched her legs together. She exhales, long and slow between her lips and forces her legs to relax. Leaned in like a mechanic inspecting an engine, Lemuel again slides through Fiammetta’s pit, and again Fiammetta has to consciously release the building tension in her body. The cold of the conditioner has long since vanished, now the heat that builds under her arm is echoed by the heat between her thighs.

“I’m gonna do your other arm now.”

Fiammetta merely nods, knowing she’d choke on a reply. Her throat constricts even tighter when she sees Lemuel, how hard she is, how the bead of precum trembles at her tip. Lemuel’s cock bounces as she does a little hopping motion to pull her stool to the other side; when she sits back down she does so in the same way Fiammetta has—knees together in vain hope that it’s enough to hide her arousal. Unfortunately for Lemuel, the press of her legs forces her to even greater hardness. Fiammetta swallows and looks away.

Her other arm is much the same as the first, but knowing what to expect draws it out, makes it all the more intense. Lemuel’s confidence should make the process faster, but Fiammetta swears she’s taking her time. It’s probably just diligence and nothing more; the way Lemuel’s fingers linger surely isn’t an indication of anything. And she certainly doesn’t feel a strange emptiness as Lemuel makes a final stroke and withdraws.

When Lemuel breaks away, they’re both panting, and both steadfastly not acknowledging it. “I think I got everything, do you wanna lower your arms to check?”

Fiammetta does so and grits her teeth as her arms, slick and smooth and lubed, glide sublimely over her flank. “It feels better than when I do it myself.”

Lemuel, cheeks red, laughs, “Haha, I get that a lot.”

In the span of time Fiammetta takes to look out the window to cool off, Lemuel manages to get into trouble. “Do you want me to get down here too?”

Fiammetta can see her reflection out of the corner of her eye—Lemuel’s gesturing between her legs. "You don't have to do that. It doesn't bother me as much— ngh! ”

Lemuel has reached down to card her fingers through Fiammetta's pubic down. It’s a stroke from bottom to top, displacing barbules and making feathers stick up in such a way that instantly drives Fiammetta mad. “Now that I think of it, you don’t usually shave these, do you?” Lemuel asks.

“You’re messing them up on purpose, aren’t you?”

“No, I’d never do thaaaaat,” Lemuel says and runs her fingers over the slender scars on either side of her labia. Fiammetta has to remind herself to stay on her stool, lest she fall backwards from the way Lemuel’s touch has her spine go weak. “But it looks like I’ve made a bit of a mess of all your feathers here, huh? Want me to take care of that for you?”

Fingers tease her entrance and Lemuel licks her lips, but what should be enticing is merely an annoyance in the face of her unkempt feathers. They pull her focus, and if they’re left ruffled she’s fairly sure it’s going to ruin the mood. “I can’t focus on my cunt if my feathers are fucked up,” she says, and then to answer, “At least—at least comb the feathers back down first.”

“And then?”

Not trusting her voice, Fiammetta looks away and nods.

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure—oh. You’re fucking with me.”

Lemuel apologizes by popping her fingers in her mouth and pressing one to Fiammetta’s entrance. With her opposite hand she begins to comb pubic feathers back into place, and the twin reliefs make Fiammetta sigh. Now that her brain isn’t being shorted out by the problem of disheveled plumage, sensation returns to her pussy in force, a sudden influx of feeling and input that has her whole body react. Her clit is an unlit fuse and all she wants to do is explode.

“Do you want me to grab the lube?”

“I don’t think we need it,” Fiammetta says, hating every second of the vulnerability. Honesty has never been her strong suit.

Lemuel pulls her fingers away, admiring the way they glisten in the light. “Oh wow, sure enough.”

Before Fiammetta has a chance to get mad, Lemuel’s fingers are on her again, middle and ring sliding in so the underside of her thumb can grind against her clit, and suddenly being argumentative is much less a priority. Instinct drives her to grind on Lemuel’s palm and Lemuel obliges, fingers pressing in to the knuckle. She leans down to bite at Fiammetta’s breasts, gripping her nipple between teeth to pull. Her other hand wanders to grip Fiammetta’s stomach, fingers spread wide over muscle, thumb angled down to land on her clit. The extra sensation makes coherent thought impossible. Then Lemuel pulls her hood back to glide the pad of her thumb across, and Fiammetta arches.

“Does that feel good?” she asks, and Fiammetta has no recourse but to nod. Honesty may not be her strong suit but Lemuel has a way of forcing it out of her, asking questions that her body can answer without the need for words. Lemuel treats each time together like a new experience, questing fingers discovering every spot that makes Fiammetta shake until she’s fallen to pieces beneath those fingers.

It was as much a series of surprises to her as it was for Lemuel, discovering every new way her body could feel pleasure after surgery. It helped immensely that Lemuel had the patience of a saint, never once even so much as insinuating Fiammetta was a burden while she began the slow process of recontextualising her new anatomy as something more than a surgery site. Despite never labelling their relationship, Lemuel was always there, learning with her and making her feel more comfortable. Fiammetta has been selfish during the last few years, she knows, but Lemuel has stayed by her side all the same.

And now, after all of that, to see Lemuel’s face flush pink, breathing through parted lips even as her fingers slide into Fiammetta’s cunt—it’s enough to bring her to the edge.

Fiammetta clutches her arms close, pain flickering, but for the first time today it is secondary as a wave of pleasure washes over her, warm and soothing. Her orgasm is quiet, a sigh that colors the air with steam, and Lemuel is gentle as she rides it out, slowing her circles so as not to overwhelm.

“Whoa, that was fast,” Lemuel chuckles, her fingers flexing inside in such a way that makes Fiammetta jerk. “Can I do more, or do you need a break?”

“Break,” Fiammetta manages. She leans her head on Lemuel’s shoulder and focuses on drawing deep breaths. They come with an influx of water vapor which leads to a coughing fit, each cough becoming a hitch as she inadvertently clenches on Lemuel’s fingers.

Pulling her fingers slowly from Fiammetta, Lemuel unhooks the shower head so that the water pools in her palm before letting it dribble over Fiammetta’s mons. Anything more would be too much sensation, and the fact that Lemuel understands her body so intuitively causes a lump to rise in Fiammetta’s throat.

Lemuel washes her hands next, and the way her erect cock bobs with her scrubbing motions makes Fiammetta laugh for the first time in weeks. It feels good, positivity pushing negative emotions to the side to evaporate. “What can I do for you?” she asks.

“You’re hurt,” Lemuel points out, but the way her cock strains towards her navel does little to support her argument.

“You know I don’t need my hands to get you off.”

“It’s cool, I’m fine with not uhh—. . . Lemuel interrupts herself to steeple her fingers. "Well. . .” Her eyes quickly shift over Fiammetta’s body, but Fiammetta’s not sure if Lemuel is fixated on something specific or just trying not to look at her face.

"Just ask. I’m in a good mood—I won’t bite."

Scrunching her face tight as if expecting to get swatted, Lemuel’s eyes meet Fiammetta’s and then divert, down and to the right. Her palms are pressed together now as if in prayer. "I— oh man please don’t hate me for this —I kinda wanna fuck your armpit?"

Fiammetta feels her eyebrows rise, while Lemuel colors. Her wings and halo too are set alight, nearly too bright to look at. Following Lemuel’s gaze leads Fiammetta to stare at the slit created where her upper arm meets her breast. Pressing her arm in leads to a twinge of pain, but Lemuel’s sharp intake of breath convinces her. She can brave a little pain. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Lemuel echoes. “Wait, it’s really okay?”

“I do owe you,” Fiammetta says.

“I don’t want you to force yourself—”
“Lemuel!” Now it’s Fiammetta’s turn to color. It would kill her to admit aloud that the idea intrigues her, so she instead pretends it’s a transaction. Tit for tat. “I owe you, so you’d better let me pay you back, got it?”

“Right.” From the way her breaths are coming, Fiammetta half-expects the girl to pass out. Shaky, Lemuel stands in front of her. 

Fiammetta tries to motion to her back, but Lemuel doesn’t catch the signal so all she hears is Fiammetta saying, "No."

"S-sorry, I knew it was too weird—"

"No, I meant do it from behind. So I can watch you.”

“In the mirror?” Lemuel squeaks. Even in the heat of the baths, her face is scarlet. Her cock twitches. "Uh, yeah, okay!"

Fiammetta switches to watching in the mirror as Lemuel stands behind her. She’s breathing with her mouth, and her toes flex on the tiles as if she’s working up to something. “Want me to close my eyes?” Fiammetta offers, but Lemuel shakes her head.

She’s almost trembling by the time her head meets Fiammetta’s skin. She starts by sliding her cock across the back of Fiammetta’s armpit, not quite pressing in yet, rather to coat it with conditioner. The warmth surprises, Lemuel’s shaft like a hot brand.

When Lemuel thrusts in she nearly doubles over, a shock running through her body. Foot slipping, she steadies herself on Fiammetta, both hands on her shoulder. “S-sorry. Fuck that feels good.”

Another thrust, this one more experimental, and a ridge of goosebumps rise on Lemuel’s forearms. Her cock slides more down than it should, the tight fit squeezing her to a lower angle—to compensate, Lemuel bends her knees so that her cock slides through at an upward trajectory, peeking out at the tip of Fiammetta’s armpit.

“Your knees are going to kill you in the morning,” Fiammetta comments wryly. Then she goes quiet; watching Lemuel thrust between her breast and arm is magical, the heightened sensations her freshly-shaved armpit provide allow her to feel the subtle swell of Lemuel’s head, the delicate veins that arch along her shaft.

Lemuel begins to say, “You’re skin’s really soft—” but the rest of her words get lost in the air. The steam has expanded to fill the baths, each of Lemuel’s deep breaths magnified and echoing on the tiles.

Feeling charitable, Fiammetta says: “Thanks to you,” and Lemuel pulses in her armpit, a groan in the back of her throat. An increase in speed has her hips slapping against Fiammetta’s shoulder with each thrust, and after she accidentally slips out twice they get a rhythm down, Lemuel moving forward while Fiammetta leans backwards, unclenching her bicep at regular intervals to keep Lemuel anchored.

Lemuel’s bangs are wet with sweat and water, plastered to her brow. "Does this,” she pants, “hurt your arms at all?"

Fiammetta shakes her head, “No, but I can't press my arm tight enough to my side for much longer. Are you close?"

“Can I—” Lemuel begins, a shudder wracking her shoulders.

“Take what you need.”

Lemuel palms Fiammetta’s left breast and presses it upwards to help make her armpit a tight ring for her cock to push through. Fiammetta can read how close Lemuel is by the luminosity of her halo and wings, dull flashes of light coming faster and faster in tandem with her pulse. Ignoring the twinge, Fiammetta presses her arm in harder when Lemuel’s thrusts start to get desperate, her cock flexing with eagerness as she gets close.

All it takes is a second, in which Lemuel looks up from Fiammetta’s armpit and they make eye contact in the mirror, and then her whole body rolls with a shudder that starts at her feet and travels all the way up her spine, wings vibrating.

"Oh fuck— Fia !”

For a moment her halo is as bright as the sun, the triangular planes of her wings bending inward until in a shower of light the snap outward, flat and radial from her back, pure white. Her halo explodes and blooms, three extra circles expanding as her cock spasms, hot liquid flooding Fiammetta’s armpit. Lemuels’ breath cuts off in a choking sound as she comes while thrusting through, spending herself all over the side of Fiammetta’s breast.

Fiametta leans back to thrust for Lemuel one more time, earning a arching hiss as the tight press overwhelms her, and then the Sankta’s wings droop in fatigue, the extra rings on her halo fading. A tremor wracks Lemuel’s shoulders as she pulls out, leaving Fiammetta’s armpit wet and sticky. Chest heaving as if she’d just run a marathon she gasps, “Holy shit, Fia. I think I just died a little there.”

Lemuel makes her shaky way back to Fiammetta’s front, falling to her knees between Fiammetta’s legs. “Let me clean you up,” she says, and without waiting for an answer, lowers her mouth to Fiammetta’s breast, licking a line from armpit to nipple, lapping up the ropes of come. She makes a silly slurping sound as she goes, and Fiammetta has to lean back to push her away.

"That tickles! And the sound you’re making is ridiculous.”

“I can’t get it off your skin unless I slurp,” Lemuel pouts. Then she tilts her head and her expression goes soft. "You’re finally smiling.”

Fiammetta can hardly recognize the smile when she sees it in the mirror. Before she can school a scowl back onto her face, Lemuel is taking up her entire field of vision, leaning in, lips and tongue slick with white. She coaxes Fiammetta’s mouth open with a kiss and claims her attention, keeping her mind from thinking of anything other than Lemuel and the taste that’s on her.

Breaking away leaves a trail of liquid between their lips, which Lemuel wastes no time in gathering and sucking off of her fingertips. Then, gripping the handrail to hoist herself to her feet, she lets out an “Oof,” that in no way matches her appearance of youthful vigor. Her knees are red, with slight indentations from the square tiles that make up the floor. Then after a moment as she attempts to get her breathing back under control, Lemuel presents the idea as if it’s as simple as asking what flavor of ice cream Fiammetta wants.

Lemuel asks, “Want me to help you preen?”

Fiammetta freezes. It shouldn’t be strange, the idea that Lemuel might preen her. Technically it would just amount to Lemuel running her hands over Fiammetta’s feathers to coat them in oils, and Lemuel has had her fingers in Fiammetta as recently as minutes ago. On the other hand, preening is something so intimate that she’s only ever done it for herself; for Liberi, allowing somebody else to do it represents an incredibly close bond, generally the kind only seen between lovers. Lovers that’re actually mature enough to acknowledge their feelings. “Since when did you know about preening?”

“Since I started doing research?” Neither of them are looking at each other, despite the wide mirror making it easy.

“And why were you doing research?” Fiammetta asks, almost dreading the answer.

“Do you really want me to say it?”

In lieu of asking for the answer, Fiammetta requests Lemuel help her with washing once more; they both share a laugh when Lemuel washes out the hollows of her armpits—somehow, getting Lemuel off in such a unique way seems to have broken the prickly barrier Fiammetta has up. By the time they’re finished, Fiammetta’s shivering from the cold.

“Sorry, if we use hot water then my spunk is gonna stick to your skin.”

“Gross,” Fiammetta winces. “Call it literally anything else next time.”

Lemuel waggles her eyebrows, “Next time?”

“On second thought—”

“No please!” Lemuel begs, falling to her knees and clapping her hands together, “I’ll do anything!”

The soaking pool beckons, and after she’s heated her torso back up, Fiammetta sits on the edge and adjusts her butt on a wide stone until she’s able to lean comfortably back against a thick tree branch. Lemuel sits before her, cross-legged in the water, tilting a phial to drip a milky-clear liquid onto her palms before rubbing them together. The preen oil is a high-quality synthetic sourced from Iberia, and in-line with Fiammetta’s preferences, odorless.

Under Fiammetta’s instruction Lemuel combs through the twin peaks of her crest feathers, separating and re-combing barbules that’ve gotten tangled, realigning shafts, coating them in oil and smoothing them out. She does it with such a keen eye for detail that Fiammetta imagines her search history must be filled with queries such as Preening explained, or How to preen your Liberi girlfriend.

Ah. There’s that word she doesn’t want to think about.

“So Liberi don’t naturally produce preening oil?” Lemuel asks, obliterating Fiammetta’s train of thought.

“I’m not sure about others, but I don’t. And considering the availability of preening oil, I’d guess that most Liberi can’t.” She blows out a breath as Lemuel’s fingers, impossibly gentle, drag up from the base of her ears to the tips. Fiammetta’s pretty sure she’s trembling, but now that Lemuel’s hands are on her she wants nothing more than to keep them there, to have this moment stretch out forever.

Ironically, when Lemuel begins preening her pubic down Fiammetta’s whole body relaxes. She has much more experience with Lemuel’s hands on her pussy than on her head, after all. Even if it does resemble a Liberi courtship ritual.

When Lemuel looks up, eyes watery and filled with almost a desperation, Fiammetta freezes. "Hey, you know I—"

"Don’t." Fiammetta knows, but she can't hear it. Not right now. Maybe someday, maybe soon. But not just yet. "Sorry. I've had a really hard day—You’re making it better! But I just. . . don't think I can handle hearing that right now." A shiver runs through her shoulders, and she wants nothing more than to hug herself in the moment. “I’m sorry, El.”

"I was gonna say I think you're really hot and I want to put my tongue as deep in your pussy as I can."

"Oh."

"So uhh. Can I?"

Fiammetta spreads her legs and looks away. Once again, Lemuel has conspired to put her on the back foot. Over the years, it’s become an alarmingly regular occurrence. "Yeah."

A trail of gentle kisses are peppered up the insides of her thighs, small bites drawing blood to the surface. It’s never as simple as Lemuel presents it with her words: being eaten by her is an entire process. It begins as an investigational lick, a question that Lemuel can only answer by tasting more and more. Her teeth follow, and with their sharpness she extracts from Fiammetta in raw and unfiltered gasps the truth of what she seeks, how best to untangle the barbed wire of her until she’s slack and defenseless on the stone. Only then does Lemuel’s tongue find Fiammetta’s pussy and plunge in hungrily.

Lubed fingers, one and then two, reach in and apply pressure to Fiammetta’s walls, a rough interrogation as Lemuel’s tongue parts her folds and wanders upwards, meandering in contrast to the strength of her fingers. Then the point of it hardens and flicks Fiammetta’s clit, brisk and hard. Gentle strokes sooth her down, bringing a tremble to her legs as Lemuel works the stress from her limbs, only to harden her tongue again.

A strong vibration rattles through Fiammetta’s cunt—Lemuel has started to hum, pulling Fiammetta’s clit between her lips with a loud sucking noise—but Fiammetta’s too deep in to care about the sounds Lemuel’s making between her legs. The canvas of her perception is painted over with a deep blue as the midnight sky outside seems to expand past the borders of the window. The heated mist of the soaking baths imitate clouds, and Fiammetta’s falling towards that ocean, a bubbly weightlessness saturating her body.

At last she breaks the surface, gripping Lemuel’s halo to pull her in close. Lemuel jolts at the contact—her halo is as sensitive as her cock when she’s aroused—and moans into Fiammetta’s pussy, wings shining gold for a brief moment.

Fiammetta doubles over, lower abs rippling to draw her up from the stone on which she’s being devoured. “Oh— El! ”

Climax rushes up to meet her with an ice-cold shiver, water droplets splattering heat onto her skin; a splashing sound, her feet kicking in the water as she grinds out her orgasm on Lemuel’s face, and then everything uncoils at once and she’s boneless and on her back. Part of her feels like she’s become one with the soaking pool, the water on her legs doesn’t register so much hot as it does normal , and her upper body has gone warm and fuzzy to the point that she’s not actually sure how much of her is submerged. Her vision swims, or is that the steam?

It takes a minute before she’s able to lift her head.

Lemuel makes an exaggerated spitting sound and a pair of tiny red feathers shoot from her lips, and then she paws at her tongue, pulling a body down pinion out of her mouth.

Fiammetta apologizes, but there’s a feather stuck to Lemuel’s cheek that she hasn’t noticed yet, so it comes out as a laugh. “Sorry.”

Lemuel grins, her face covered in slick. “Don’t be, I’ve never complained.” She wiggles her fingers slightly, sending a burst of sensation through Fiammetta’s cunt. “You feel so good,” she says, “I love being inside you.” Fiammetta looks away—taking compliments is a different skill than believing them, and Lemuel’s genuine words are blinding. Warmth pressing on her thigh brings her attention back, Lemuel has gone limp, lowering to rest her cheek on Fiammetta’s leg. “Mind if I just stay like this for a bit?”

It’s a pleasant surprise when Fiammetta leans back and finds that putting weight on her elbow doesn’t hurt, so long as she doesn’t try to flex or extend her forearm. Staying like that, she watches Lemuel breathe, traces the glowing Sankta circuits with her fingertip, each tiny section of holy line shimmering in response to her touch—a beautiful cascade of reactive bioluminescence. The lines light up with Lemuel’s pulse, and soon her eyes begin to droop. Angular wings dip lower and slice into the water, the surface wiggling and spreading their light. Her halo, warm against Fiammetta’s thigh, thrums with life.

“Hey,” Fiammetta says, rapping Lemuel’s halo with her fingertip. It sparks under her nail and Lemuel jolts awake. “Don’t fall asleep in the water. It’s not good for you. Or something.”

Lemuel says something that sounds like “ Uwahgh ”, and lifts up, rubbing her eyes. “How long was I out?”

Fiammetta looks out at the night sky, as if it weren’t black when she first arrived. The barrens stretch out farther than the eye can see, mirrored shards of Originium clusters reflecting the starlight, making it appear as if the sands have an ocean of their own. She knows there’s a clock somewhere behind her, but she doesn’t bother trying to search it out. Lemuel turns around and leans back to look out the window with her, head resting between Fiammetta’s legs.

Hours later, Fiammetta accepts Lemuel’s help in wrapping a towel around her torso and even allows the Sankta to gently drape her Penguin Logistics jacket around her shoulders. As if sensing the mood they’ve created is about to end, they both stop at the door to the bath without crossing the threshold.

“Soooo,” Lemuel begins, steepling her fingers awkwardly.

The prospect of being alone and in her room feels hateful. “I’m coming over, obviously,” Fiammetta answers, and Lemuel lights up.

“Cool!” A shit-eating grin appears on her face. “Can I help you brush your teeth?”

“Die.”

Fiammetta bumps her with her hip before walking ahead, leaving a wet trail for Lemuel to follow. She’s going to need help in the coming weeks, and just maybe she’s found a way she can accept that. Despite the doors opening automatically as they make the trek back to Lemuel’s room, Lemuel still runs ahead and mimes holding them open so Fiammetta can stride through. Were they to be seen, one might imagine a knight and her liege lord, up until they got close enough to realize both were dripping wet and clothed only in towels.