Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In early 2025, Neal Shusterman stated in an AMA that he believed Curie and Faraday were soul mates, but their lives and duties made it impossible for them to maintain a relationship.

I posted the following to tumblr in response:

You know, I have a headcanon for that.

A copy of Curie’s mind ends up on the Tonist ship, right, but her body, her body is somewhere in the waters off Endura, cut off from the Thunderhead, slowly rotting and/or being eaten by fish, right?

So in my head there’s this fisherwoman. And idk, you could make it a man if you want, but in my head she’s this old butch, sun-browned, no nonsense. She’s a solo sailor, as off the grid as they come. Maybe she’s a noble character doing important conservation work, maybe she’s more like a pirate. Maybe a bit in between, like she has this equipment onboard her ship that’s old, offline and rudimentary, but it can extend the lives of marine animals of various kinds and do important things for oceanic diversity. Maybe she has a side-hustle catching and finning sharks for shark-fin soup, though, then using her equipment to rebuild them and return them to the ocean. Like it’s not painless and it's definitely illegal, but they go back in the water good as new, and she can make a killing in the Pan-Asian grey markets, so, no harm, right?

Of course, a woman like that is going to be attracted to the wreckage of Endura. Those waters are full of scavengers, including sharks, feeding on the dead. Only one day, she catches something unexpected, a human body in a lavender robe, badly damaged by fish and decomposition, but she still has some of her silver hair, and she still has her ring. Maybe our fisherwoman recognises her from long ago when she was more connected, maybe not. Either way, she’s curious whether her clunky old machine can revive a person.

Turns out, it can.

When she wakes up, Marie has no memory of who she is. She has language, so she is capable of asking her saviour, but our fisherwoman claims to have no idea, just found you in the water one day, thought I’d bring you back. I could use a second pair of hands, you know. I’ve been out here alone for a really long time.

And so Marie stays. Her hair grows in silver and she lets it get long - that feels right, somehow - and she learns all about her companion’s work and helps her with it. They do dock, from time to time, or sell to other passing ships, but Marie (or whatever she is being called) has no desire to leave. Her new companion is wise and dry and funny, and there is a lot of freedom in this life (she’s not sure what other lives there might be, but she somehow understands this one to be quite free). Eventually, the two become more than friends - it feels right to Marie, to be saved from death by this woman and then grow so close to her. What else is there? She can see why her new companion was lonely and she’s happy to give and receive succour.

Over time, though, Marie does have flashes of some former life. She helps with the food preparation and has the sense that she has always loved to cook, and at one point, the ship's engine needs a repair, and Marie finds that the smell of oil sparks the memory of a bright red car. Sometimes, when they’re at ports, she gets funny looks from people, and after her companion allows her to help fin the sharks, Marie finds herself always doing it, because her skills with a blade mean that the fins fetch higher prices than when her lover does it.

They do hear about Overblade Goddard of North Merica, of course, but her companion suggests that she steer clear of scythes in general. That’s the best way to stay alive, after all. They do encounter one, once, in a fish market, and he stares at Marie for far too long.

“Kiss my ring for a year of immunity,” he says, but her lover intervenes.

“We don’t want it,” she tells him. “Besides, she has no nanites. Immunity won’t help her if she bangs her head.”

“Why don’t I have nanites?” Marie asks her later. “Shouldn’t I get some?”

“I don’t trust revival clinics,” her companion answers. “Even if they are off-grid.”

It fuels a growing sense Marie has that there is something she’s not being told.

It’s an ordinary day when the tone rings out, but it doesn’t stay that way. Something explodes in the back of the ship. It’s in the living quarters, though, not the engine, which is very strange. When Marie’s companion goes to investigate, she comes back reeling, carrying a ring with a shattered diamond and looking none too well.

She dies quickly, but not so quickly that she can’t apologise to Marie for never telling her that this ring was hers, that she was once a scythe. I’m sorry, I didn’t know how lonely I was out here, I didn’t know how much I needed someone. Go back to land. You know how. The Thunderhead will have your memories. Find out who you were.

Marie buries her lover at sea, and does. By the time she gets her memories back, the ships have long since departed. She doesn’t know it, but a copy of her is on board one of them and will wake in however many hundred years it takes her to get to her new planet.

But Marie is here on earth, body and mind restored, finally, and she knows where she needs to go. There’s a little cabin by the beach on the north coast of Amazonia.

He’s there. And they finally get their retirement.

This piece feels to me like the outline of a novel or novella I do not have time or labour-of-love inclination to write. If another dedicated fan is keen to remix it into an actual fic, I offer it freely to a good home. If Neal Shusterman occasionally lurks on ao3 and is open to another volume of Gleanings with guest authors, hmu, bro.

Chapter Text

“It’s a mess,” Diana says, slipping down onto the couch he’s stretched out on. “Everyone’s an idiot.”

“Of course they are,” Lamb says, opening his cigarette pack. “You’ll find that’s the problem when you’re smarter than everyone else in the room.” He offers her a cigarette and she takes it.

“I really shouldn’t,” she says, but leans forward to let him light it anyway. Their foreheads nearly touch as he does.

“Your problem,” he says as they lean back, “your problem is a lack of depth perception. “You can never see how far is too far, never know how close things are to going off the rails.”

His hand falls onto her knee and she lets it, lets it creep under her skirt. It’s as familiar as touching herself, really, only with slightly dirtier fingers.

She knows he’s right. She’s long needed glasses and resisted them, refusing to have people see her as an impersonator or pretender at cleverness (it hadn’t been long after Ingrid had started wearing glasses that her optometrist had delivered the news to her; she rejected the idea on principle). It’s true whether one’s talking literally or metaphorically.

But she hasn’t got as far as she has by admitting weakness. “My problem is that no one cares about the details, Jackson. Everyone’s all ‘big picture synergy’ and other such wank. I should be in charge of the lot of them.”

“You’re a pedant,” he says, thumb tracing the inside of her knee. It’s familiar rather than seductive. “Though a chaotic one, I think. You want everything done perfectly, but that’s only so you can enjoy watching it come tumbling down.”

“Fuck you, Jackson Lamb,” she says. “I’m a mastermind.”

“Mm,” he replies. “Queen of piss and paperwork, you. Always juggling two completely incompatible things - your brilliant plans and the people who have to carry them out.”

“Well,”’ she huffs. “I can’t help that everyone is an idiot. Someone should just build them different.”

“Oh,” Lamb murmurs in a tone of surprise. “So it’s a quarrel with God you’ve got. Yeah, you should definitely focus on that. No one’s ever wasted their life doing that before.”

Diana snorts, but she doesn’t have a reply to that.

They smoke in silence.

Chapter Text

Shall I compare thee to a Higland spring?

Thou art more subtle and more volatile

At one moment bright, the next thundering

Mercurial heat, then frosty a while

Thy moods art fickle, thy temper fearsome

Grown men do tremble at thy savage wit

Cunning thou art, a quicksilver wisdom

Shining sun that to a tempest dost quit

And yet for all this do I admire thee

With style so sharp and laughter so cutting

Thy eyebrow can describe a symphony

Thy ruthless clever mind dost miss nothing

For all thy tempests and thy sunshine days

Dost thou have mine ardor and fangirl praise

Chapter Text

"...your callous disregard for human life," M says, but Bond barely hears her. He's caught on the shape of her lips, the way her mouth bends around that cut-glass voice. There's a bit of colour in her cheeks, too - he seems to be able to get a rise out of her in a way no one else can. And best not to even let his eyes fall below her chin; he can only imagine how much harsher the bollocking would be if she caught him staring at her tits.

"...put your own and others' lives in mortal danger… absolutely reckless…"

Oh, hell. What's his life for but to risk it? Sweeping forward, he catches the back of her head and plants his lips on hers. It stuns her to silence, and he lingers there, enjoying the quiet in the last few seconds of his life and feeling her breath hot against his lips.

It will be worth it to go like this.

But when he lifts it, his head is still attached to his body. Her eyes are clear: sharp but amused. Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile.

"You'd best be willing to put that mouth to work, Bond, because if you're going to use it to shut me up, I'll have to consider it a weapon. And all of your weapons are property of Mi6."

Bond preens, cocks a smile. "Ready for duty, ma'am."

"Well?" she says. "Show me what you've got, then."

Bond does.

Chapter Text

Catherine wishes they didn’t have to be so discreet. She knows secrets are their business, but she doesn't like keeping them.

In her life, secrets have been damaging, secrets meant shame. The bottle of gin in her desk had been a secret; so too had sneaking back from pub lunches.

But she’s not ashamed of this. This - waking with Diana on a sunny Sunday morning, keeping her cupboards stocked with coffee fancier than anything she would ever drink - this, she wants to shout from the rooftops.

Diana is First Desk, now, though. That changes things.

“I know you can’t be public,” Catherine says, kissing Diana’s palm, “but I wish we didn’t have to hide.”

Diana, sitting across from her at the breakfast table, arches an eyebrow. “Who says we have to hide?”

“Well, you’re a public figure now…” Catherine starts.

“…which is exactly why I shouldn’t have any secret relationships,” Diana finishes.

It takes Catherine a moment. “Wait, what?”

“That’s what brought Whelan down,” she says, “trying to hide his dalliances. I’m not ashamed of you.”

“Oh!” Catherine murmurs, touching her throat, feeling her cheeks warm. “I thought…”

“There’s an event coming up,” Diana tells her. “Australia Day at the embassy. You should come with me.”

“Oh!” Catherine repeats, breathy, stupid. “Will there be…?”

“I’ll make sure there are soft drink options. What do you say?”

“Well,” Catherine says. “All right, then.”

“I’ll be happy to show you off,” Diana says, then leans across the table to kiss her properly.

Chapter Text

"You can use my office," Taverner says, "but I expect you to complete it before you leave."

"Thank you, ma'am," Flyte replies. Grateful for the promise of privacy, she spreads out at the table in First Desk's office and gets to work.

What she hadn't expected was that Taverner would stay.

She also hadn't expected her to be a cat.

Emma has one of those at home, a blue-eyed grey tabby who demands her attention at all times. When Emma cooks, she's on the bench inspecting the meal. When Emma takes work home, she sits on it, or else forces her way into the part of her lap where her computer needs to be. It's why Emma prefers to work at the office rather than taking it home. It's why she appreciates having a space to focus and work in peace.

Except.

"What do you think of this, Flyte?" Taverner asks, wafting a perfumed wrist under her nose. "Only I'm wearing it for the first time today, and I've been smelling myself all day. Is it overwhelming?"

"No, ma'am, it's lovely," Emma says. "Very business-chic."

Taverner murmurs approval, moves past her to the tea and coffee facilities. "Can I make you a cup?" she asks.

"I'm all right, thanks," Emma says, keeping her eyes on the page.

Taverner sets the kettle boiling and moves back into her office, but pops out a few moments later with a bottle of scotch. "Or maybe something a bit more of the hour?" she asks, and Emma sighs, forced to look up this time.

"I'm trying to get this risk assessment done," she says. "My boss is a demanding dragon-lady who wants me to complete it before I leave."

"Mm," Taverner murmurs, approaching the table, moving behind Emma to peer over her shoulder. "She sounds terrible. Or maybe she's just trying to keep you occupied until everyone else has gone for the night."

Emma holds her shoulders stiff, dots an 'i', but can't help the smile tugging at her lips. "Why would she do that, ma'am?"

"Oh, I don't know," Taverner murmurs, leaning that beautifully perfumed body down over Emma's back. "Maybe to engage in a little bit of workplace sexual harassment?"

"She must know she's very good, then," Emma says, feeling Taverner's lips touch down right below her ear, "to be so sure I won't report her."

"Oh," Taverner breathes, mouth moving down Emma's throat, "she's very confident in her abilities. Arrogant, even."

"What makes her so self-assured?" Emma asks, even as she arches her throat to allow more access.

"Well," Taverner murmurs, fingers sliding over Emma's shoulder to reach for the button at her collar. "She knows the magic words, doesn't she?"

Emma's skin tingles when Taverner's fingers land on it. "And what are those, ma'am?" she asks, voice turned breathy.

"Well, I only need to tell you what a good girl you are for playing along, don't I?" Taverner asks, sucking on Emma's throat until her toes curl.

She's not wrong.

Chapter Text

After the Old Bastard’s funeral, he goes to her home. He goes to her angry, with smoke on his breath.

He doesn't know what he wants to happen.

“What the hell were you playing at?” he snarls once she’s let him inside, backing her up through that fancy foyer.

"Well, I did bury a former boss," she tells him, but her eyes are hard and insincere.

"Oh, don't try to tell me you give a fuck about that, Diana. You just take pleasure in hurting people."

"Pride," she tells him, and his step falters.

"What?"

"Pride," she repeats, and he feels his heel touch the floor. She reaches out to steady herself against the wall, straightens her back. "It's pride rather than pleasure. I'm a scalpel, Jackson. I wound with purpose."

"Do you?" he asks. "What was the purpose of that?" He stares her down, and after a long moment, he sees her falter. It's not physical, not in her body language, but he sees it in her eyes. She sighs.

"Puncturing a myth," she says. "Just wanted to stop pretending."

"Pretending what?" he asks, but she doesn't answer.

"I'm tired," she says instead. "You were right about being happier than me." Then she reaches up and catches the tie he's wearing.

She kisses him. It's such a vanishingly rare thing that it steals his breath, seems to suck all the air from the room.

"Do what you want with me, Jackson," she says after. "I'm all out of fire."

Chapter Text

“I’ll go,” Catherine says. “They’ll let me in.”

They’re sitting outside the Park in Lamb’s car - the two of them in front, Roddy and River in the back.

“Why would they let you in, of all people?" Roddy asks, incredulous.

“Well,” Catherine says, glancing around at the present company. “I’ve never told anyone I put a bomb in the car park, or let a computer virus loose in the system.” She glances at River. “Or broken in, even if it was for a noble cause.”

“Yeah,” Lamb grouses, “pinnacle of virtue, you. What are you going to do? Stumble in there and vomit over the security guard? That'd be just like old times, wouldn't it?”

“Actually,” Catherine says, “I can just ask to see First Desk.”

Lamb barks a laugh. “Oh yeah, that’ll work. Lady Di will drop everything to see you.”

Catherine smooths her skirt, gathers her courage. “Well. She has been, lately.”

“What?” Lamb scoffs.

“Seeing me,” Catherine says, glancing up at him. “Regularly. For about six months now.”

“God, you are pissed,” Lamb says, and that makes Roddy pipe up as well.

“Is it an online thing?” he asks. “Because you know that’s how they get you, right? I’ve been burned, and it’s even worse for old folks. I have an uncle who thought he was dating Michelle Yeoh. Sad, really.”

Catherine bristles, takes out her phone. She sends a quick text message as River says, “God, just let her go, will you? The sooner I can get out of this back seat, the better. It smells like something died back here.”

“It probably did,” Catherine says, and slips out of the car. She crosses the street and feels her phone vibrate. Checking it, she smiles.

“Impeccable timing,” she says a minute later, as Diana steps out of the armoured SUV in a stylish swish of coat and meets her at the main entrance. Her security detail are watching, but she’s bullied them back for at least a few moments. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” Diana asks, all business.

Catherine turns to face her fully. “Kiss me,” she says. “I just told them we’ve been seeing each other, and Lamb and Ho are over there thinking I’m drunk or delusional.”

“Well,” Diana says. “We can’t have that, now, can we?” Stepping close, she reaches up to curl her fingers around the back of Catherine’s neck, pulling her in for a kiss that’s all First Desk - bold, possessive, in charge. It's decidedly hot for all its brevity, leaves Catherine a little bit weak in the knees. Swaying and speechless.

That turns out not to matter. Diana has the words for both of them. “There," she says. "That ought to shut them up. Now, I’m presuming you have something for me? We’re not just here to put on a show?”

“No,” Catherine breathes. “I mean, yes. No show, yes intel.”

Diana betrays a little smile. “Come in, then,” she says. “And leave them out here.”

Chapter Text

"I hear congratulations are in order," Ingrid says when Diana opens the door. She's got a bottle of Château Bernadotte in her hand. She looks tall and sleek and unflappable.

“Come in,” Diana says.

They haven’t seen each other since Ingrid left the Park. She hadn’t exactly been kicking and screaming on the way out, but she hadn’t gone quietly either. She’d left with a word in the right ear; she’d left some of her knives behind sticking out of Diana’s soft parts.

(It’s hard to blame her, really - none of her blades had been as big as the one Diana had put in her back.)

Now, she moves into Diana’s home like a panther, quiet and deadly, not even pretending she doesn’t know her way around. They move into the kitchen and Diana retrieves two glasses, hands her the corkscrew.

“I see nothing’s changed around here,” Ingrid says, pushing the corkscrew into the wine. “Place still doesn’t look lived in; same books with unbroken spines.”

“A few things have,” Diana says, “but I’ll admit, at first glance, it seems that way.”

Ingrid pulls the cork and pours. “How’re you finding the job?” she asks, giving her glass a sniff.

“Exhilarating,” Diana says, “but familiar. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

“Mm,” Ingrid murmurs, taking a sip. “I hope it’s enough for you. Hope you don’t get bored.”

Diana takes a swallow from her own glass, can’t help but appreciate the taste: robust, sophisticated, expensive.

“This is quite the drop,” Diana says, but after a moment tilts her head. “Bit of a bitter aftertaste, though.”

“Yes, well,” Ingrid says, stepping closer. “Sometimes you don’t know something’s going to be toxic until you’ve tried it.” She inches closer again, looms over Diana. There’s something electric here, dangerous. Diana doesn’t know how to pull away from a live wire.

But sometimes there’s a circuit breaker.

“Is everything all right, Diana?” Catherine asks, appearing in the doorway from the sitting room.

Ingrid straightens, an almost imperceptible tightening of the shoulders. Diana lifts her chin but doesn’t turn around.

“Everything’s fine, Catherine,” she says. “Ingrid was just offering her congratulations.”

“I was,” she agrees, but doesn’t back away. “Help yourself to a glass, won’t you.”

“I won’t, thank you,” Catherine says.

Ingrid takes a swallow of her own. “Well, I can see that I’ve interrupted your evening,” she says, reaching past Diana to set her glass down. “I won’t stay.”

Before she leaves, though, she leans down, captures Diana’s mouth in a bruising kiss. It’s forceful enough that Diana tastes her, has to reach back and catch the edge of the bench.

Ingrid’s finger trails Diana’s chin in her wake. “Good luck,” she whispers, then turns away. Her jacket flicks as she pivots. “All yours,” she tells Catherine as she makes her exit, leaves Diana standing there braced against the countertop, cheeks hot.

Catherine doesn’t react, just lets the air cool. After a moment, she replies, “I know,” speaking to the ghost now absent.

Chapter Text

After Footprint leaks, they do let Ingrid collect her things. Ostensibly, she's resigned, though everyone knows that her hand was over the fire. She and Diana do a handover; Diana tries not to gloat.

Not very hard, though.

"I'm sure you'll have offers soon," she says, watching as Ingrid sorts documents to be handed over and to be shredded. "Cambridge might have you back, or maybe America will call. Exciting things ahead for you, I'm sure."

None of them as exciting as this, though.

"I'm sure," Ingrid agrees, packing her fountain pens away. "You'll enjoy the view from here. Regent's Park is peaceful."

It's the one thing I'd miss, Diana had told her once, four drinks in and both of them half-clothed, my office above the Hub. I love being part of it all, being in it.

And I love being in you, Ingrid had replied, mouth hot against her throat.

Her throat is bent now, cocked to the side as she considers a small wooden sculpture; a gift,
no doubt. She smiles and places it with her things.

"Have you said your goodbyes?" Diana hears herself ask: sweet, sarcastic, petty.

"I have," Ingrid replies. "To everyone who matters, anyway." She moves out from behind the desk with her service ID in hand.

"You can hand this back for me, can't you?" she asks. "It needs destroying."

It has a lanyard attached, red, woven. Diana remembers a time when Ingrid bound her wrists with it.

"Of course," Diana says, reaching for the thing. She tries to grasp it nonchalantly but finds her hand around Ingrid's wrist instead, pulling her close. Kissing her.

Ingrid smiles minutely in the aftermath of it, shakes her head. "You always were greedy, Diana. Such a sore winner. Don't forget to enjoy your victory, will you?"

Chapter Text

Diana sets the alarm to go off fifteen minutes early.

It’s a good time of year for it. Summer; even at 5AM the sun is rising. Diana wakes in a tangle of sheets to light glimmering beneath the blinds.

"God," comes the groggy moan from beside her. "What time is it?"

Diana rolls over. "5:15. Don't worry. You don't need to be up for hours yet."

A groan. "Then why am I awake, Diana?"

Diana reaches out to pull her lover close, presses lips against the back of her neck. "Because I want a good morning kiss," she murmurs. "I have to be at work in an hour."

Ingrid rolls to face her. "Whose fault is that, hm?" she asks. "You take my job, you take my sleep. Is there anything you're not greedy for?"

Diana hums. "Not really, no," she says, cupping Ingrid's cheek and claiming her mouth.

Chapter Text

Diana Taverner never wanted to outlive anyone she cared about, but she's always been healthy. For years, she embraced it: live long, be successful, care for no one.

But attachments will creep in.

Some losses hit her harder than she expected: David Cartwright, her first mentor, lived to see her become First Desk but was already lost by then, never knew.

Some losses are exactly as she dreads: Jackson Lamb, massive heart attack in the field, felt like her soul being cut in half even though on most days she never even liked the man.

Now, she's getting her wish, and she doesn't want it.

Pancreatic cancer, she learns. Aggressive, spreading quickly. No point fighting it; she's 85, something's got to get her.

But. Here is Catherine, sitting by her bedside. Catherine, who has seen far too much death. Catherine, whose gentle soul Diana would protect with a quiver-full of arrows like her namesake goddess, would topple governments or order assassinations for.

It happened unexpectedly, crept up on both of them. A job, a shared understanding of the world. Intelligent conversation, wit, laughter. A beautiful pair of breasts and a warm pair of thighs.

A hand clasping hers, now, a partner.

"I wish you didn't have to bury me," she whispers, gripping Catherine's hand tight. "I wish I could take that pain instead."

"I wouldn't have it," Catherine replies. "You carried us all for so long."

Catherine's kiss is summer warm, autumn bright, winter long. Peace, it says. Sleep now.

Chapter Text

'I am not taking Cartwright' were her exact words, Lamb had said, but only because she's too polite to call you 'the fuckwit'.

Maybe if he'd let Whelan die, he'd be back in, River thinks. Then again, maybe not.

She comes to him late, when the air has turned chilly and darkness cloaks the streets. She texts ahead: 'unlock your front door and I'll slip my security detail', and he's still smarting but he does it anyway. He turns the lights out and heads to bed to show her what he thinks of the demand, though. Like hell he's making her a drink.

He smiles when he hears her bump into the cabinet in the hallway on her way to his bedroom.

"Congratulations, Madame First Desk," he says once she's inside the door. His voice is heavy with sarcasm.

"Oh. Is the puppy sulking?" she asks, matching his tone.

River wants to say no but he knows that would make him sound even sulkier. He wants to say yes and shrug the whole situation off, but his mouth can't form the word. It takes him a few moments of self-reflection to mentally articulate why.

Because she's got everything she ever wanted and he's still stuck at Slough House.

Because he had no one to call when he thought that might be changing.

Because he wanted to tell his grandfather that he was back in the game while the man might understand him, might still be capable of pride.

In the end, he just sighs. His eyes prickle and he fights it off, but when he next breathes in he hears the unshed tears in his sinuses.

He thinks she probably hears it, too. There is a rustle of fabric as she undresses. When she joins him in bed, she's naked: no fancy lingerie, no armour, just her skin laid bare and made pale by what little light leaks in from outside.

"I'm not a nepotist," she tells him, eyes hidden in darkness but cheekbone caught in the light. "I don't do favours for people I'm sleeping with. I won't begin my tenure as First Desk that way. But I do see you."

And she does kiss him. Fingers in his hair, tipping his head back, hot and deep.

She's never done that before. She'd told him once that, to her, kissing meant being caught, being turned, and he hasn't failed to notice that, while she regularly lets him kiss her, she's never initiated one, never kissed him like she never kissed any of her marks in Berlin.

He takes this one as an apology, an acknowledgement. Maybe he is something a little bit different, a little bit special to her.

That's definitely a consolation prize, but he supposes he'll take it. Her skin is warm under his hands, after all, and her mouth tastes good. Sometimes, after she fucks him senseless, she even lets him talk to her.

And he is a slow horse. He's not getting any shinier trophies.

Chapter Text

It’s frantic, desperate, his cock in her hand and his palm crushing her breast. It’s grimy down here in this decommissioned tube station, not an official bunker but a spot Jackson knew about anyway, dusted with the accumulated grime of centuries.

It hardly matters now.

It was an accident that they’d been together when the messages came through - impending missile strike, brace for nuclear fallout. As the world turned to chaos they went to ground - they both had memories of the Cold War, of preparedness drills that they’d known damn well wouldn’t actually have saved anyone.

It probably won’t save them now. But old habits are hard to break, and sometimes, when things are hopeless, the idea of keeping everyone else calm as you steer the sinking ship is just too much to bear. Sometimes, baser instincts take hold.

“If we’re going to die I don’t want to talk about it,” Diana told him. “Don’t even want to think about it.”

What did being First Desk matter if they all went up in flames or died in the fallout? What did a pretty dress or a spaghetti stain on a coat matter?

“I remember this,” he said. “Remember the drills. Hiding under the desks at school, that booklet that showed you how to put the gear on. Load of bollocks. All I ever wanted in those drills was a kiss.”

She doesn’t give him one, but she does want distraction, wordlessly grips his hand and pulls it against her breast, then shifts to straddle him when he pulls her close. She doesn’t even take her knickers off, just tugs them aside and sits on him, digging her fingernails into his shoulder while her skirt pools around them and his hands grip her hips. It's affirming to feel her heart beating so alive in her chest, comforting to feel the throb of him between her legs.

She clings to him after, face in the curve of his throat. His arms curl around her back and draw circles through fabric.

"I'm glad I could end it with you," she whispers.

But then the world doesn't end; they start to hear the trains in the tunnels again. Life seems to resume.

It's only when they're in the lift returning to the surface that they have enough coverage to receive the messages rescinding the alert. Radar error, false alarm, all apologies.

"Huh. We're saved!" Jackson murmurs, voice dripping with irony, and suddenly the lift has no air in it, is the slowest moving machine to have ever winched two people upward.

As it arrives, though - before light and voices and the rest of the world spill back in - his hand curls around her wrist and tugs her toward him. She can't help but look at him, feeling warm in the cheeks but determined to hold her head up.

He might be looking a little pink, too. They make eye contact.

"Don't worry, Diana, I won't hold you to it," he says, and kisses her.

Chapter Text

Making Catherine whimper is the first bit of joy Shirley has felt since Marcus died, and even then, it’s complicated.

Sometimes, they lie together naked - once Shirley can convince Catherine that she really doesn’t want to be touched like that, anyway.

“Promise me,” Catherine says, arm around her shoulders and breasts against her back. “Promise me you’re not just saying that to punish yourself.”

“I promise,” Shirley murmurs, reaching up to slide her fingers through Catherine’s and pry her hand free, press her lips against Catherine’s palm. “Jesus, do I have to buy you a book about the different types of dykes? Haven’t you been into women longer than I’ve been alive?”

“Yes, well,” Catherine says, voice a sigh. “I wasn’t exactly present in my mind the whole time, was I? I can learn, though. You’ll have to teach me what your limits are.”

“Don’t mind kisses,” Shirley says, “long as they’re in the right places. Nowhere too intimate.”

“Oh,” Catherine murmurs. “Is the back of your neck okay?” She lays her lips down there when Shirley assents.

“Your shoulders?”

“They’re okay,” Shirley replies, and feels Catherine’s breath there, too.

“What about your back?” Catherine asks, shifting down.

“Go slow,” Shirley says, “I’ll tell you when you need to stop.”

“Do,” Catherine murmurs, and lays kisses on her spine.

It’s an imperfect joy, Shirley thinks, the kind that could flip over into discomfort at any moment. But it’s a promise, too - to listen, to care, to learn.

She’ll take it.