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It starts with a quiet question asked on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Do you know somewhere I can sleep? I glance up from my array of screens and scattered papers to look into her tired eyes, shadows running deep beneath. There’s been a haunted quality to her ever since Leviathan. The ghost of her innocence, I suppose. How much of the blood of that child stains my hands? My own train of thought has been running on morbid tracks lately. I know exactly what’s to blame.
Shelter not working out? I ask her, even though the question provides the answer. She shakes her head, unwilling to say why. But I know. That’s my problem. I always know, except when it matters most. Well, I’d say you could just crash here at our base, but…
Rachel. Taylor says flatly, and I grimace. Wounded dogs don’t forget the hand that hurt, and she dealt a pretty hard blow. Even more so that Rachel had even started to like Taylor, in her own way. Few things scar worse than letting yourself be vulnerable with someone and then having that exploited.
I should know. I’m an expert in scars and exploitation.
Well, I say, mulling over options, even though there’s really only one other place she could go where she’d be comfortable and secure. You could bunk with me.
I don’t want to ask you to house me, says the girl with raven-wing curls, and I have to resist the urge to laugh. Taylor’s a bit silly like that sometimes. Self-confident and self-effacing all at once.
You didn’t ask though, did you? I’m offering. If you really don’t want to, we can look at some other options. Market’s a bit tight at the moment due to all the flooding and other destruction, but….
I go through the motions of walking her through a few potential apartments (and if I happen to show her crappier ones that are still overpriced, that’s just the website being badly organized, not me.) Taylor’s frown grows and grows as she weighs the pros and cons in her head and comes to the same conclusion I did— that it really just makes more sense for her to stay with me. With a face that looks as if she’s making a dire bargain with the devil, she accepts my offer.
We can have sleepovers and everything! I announce with faux-cheer. It'll be like being kids again, except we can go on shopping sprees.
What happened to not spending it all in one place? She offers me a small little smile— to wring one out of the sullen, taciturn girl is always a feat, and I can’t help but feel smug that I’m the one who prompts the most out of her. Still. Thanks, Lisa. I owe you.
Don’t even worry about it, I say, closing the laptop. I was about to head home myself. Grab your stuff and hop in, bestie. I’ll get you settled in no time.
As it is with most things, changes came in microadjustments.
I’m barely functional in the morning without my coffee, and the first time I woke up to find Taylor had already fixed my busted espresso maker and had a steaming hot mug waiting for me, I nearly cried. I’ll get you something in return, I promised, eagerly sipping at the warm drink.
You don’t have to. Taylor says, but I wave a hand to shoo away the sentiment. I don’t like having debts to people, especially people I’m friends with.
It wouldn’t be fair, I explain. If you do something for me and get nothing in return, the ledger isn’t balanced. I don’t want to have that weight between us. She tilts her head in that oddly avian way (was that the origin of the little owl nickname, I wonder.)
It’s not a weight. It’s just… a gift. Like you letting me stay over. You don’t need to maintain a steady exchange of favors to have my friendship, Lisa. You already have it. This is just a… she shrugs. Benefit. Enjoy it.
I mull on that for the rest of the day, the words digging into my skin like one of her ticks. Taylor really made no sense sometimes. In the end, relationships are all about transactions. You provide something for someone, and they give you something in return. Time, money, favors— all the same. Debt to pay. If the scale becomes unbalanced, then you’re not equals, and then it’s time to reassess where you stand.
That’s just how the world works. How people work. Nothing’s ever given away for free. No one ever…
It’s a goddamn espresso machine. I’m just getting in my own head about it.
Still, I can’t just let her have the upper hand. So after a few days of searching, I go and get her a set of weights for her to use along with a nice, comfortable bench.
Are you sure? She asks, even though I’ve already paid for it.
Look, we both know you’re not happy with the fact you can’t really do your neighborhood runs anymore, what with the roads being busted or flooded. This way, you can still get a good full body workout in, right? Just promise that you’ll shower after.
I dunno… Taylor frowns. Exercising in front of other people feels weird.
What, like running up and down the street, full of people? I grin at her glare, and she rolls her eyes. Besides, it's better then a gym, right? No need to worry about people looking at you all weird like.
Right. She drawls, sitting down on the bench, reaching for the first rack. Cause anyone would look at me that way. I have to fight down an instinctive response, and then wonder why my first instinct was to say that she deserves to be looked at that way. Taylor’s… sure, she won’t be catching heads walking down the street, but there’s more than one kind of beauty. And anyone who said to her face that she wasn’t beautiful would be walking away crying or without teeth.
You might be surprised, I land on. That’s non-committal enough. Have fun getting sweaty! She rolls her eyes again and gives me a wave.
I go back to my espresso and try to put my thoughts aside.
It’s about three days later when Taylor knocks on my door, late into the evening. I frown. She had a meeting with Rachel, didn’t she? She shouldn’t have been back till much later. I open it and three things stand out to me— the first is that she has blood on her face. On her knuckles too, bright and vibrant on the swollen skin. The second is that it’s not hers, because I can’t find any open wounds or much splatter on her clothes. The third is that she’s holding out a gun.
Hey. She says, like my heart hadn’t just run an entire marathon in the last few seconds. This is your favorite make and brand of pistol, right?
What? I think blankly for a moment before focusing and… it is. In fact, it’s…
I thought it looked like yours— the one you lost on our last job. Rachel, uh… well, the meeting went well after we had a little fight? And on our way back some guys thought that breaking into a store in her territory was a good idea, and when we were done, I saw one of them had this piece on him, and I thought of you, and… yeah. She offers it with her hands, unclean and hurting.
I gingerly take it from her and set it down on the cabinet after making sure to flick the safety on. Then I take her hands into my own and guide her to the bathroom sink, and begin to wash them clean, dabbing sanitizer into the splits along the knuckles. I rub my fingers in tiny little circles as I rub the dried blood off, the sink turning a light pink.
There are so many scars on her hands now. A dozen little scrapes. Some from blades, some from bugs she had uncaringly cling to her, nevermind the cost. Callouses on her fingers from a different kind of instrument. Lisa? Taylor asks, and I realize with a start that I haven’t been talking. That’s… unusual. I’m a talker. A big one. It’s my game. Something about her has a way of catching me by surprise. I never quite respond in the same way. Taylor’s different, but… I guess I’m a little different too. And we don’t pretend around each other, not the same way we do with everyone else. We lie with a bit more honesty. You saw a gun and thought of me? I say, and can’t help but let a sardonic grin grow on my face. I can’t tell if that’s sweet or disturbing. Her eyes widen a fraction in panic.
I didn’t mean— my laughter cuts her off.
I’m flattered, Taylor. Really. It’s nice, to be thought of. And I definitely appreciate that I won’t be going to our next job unarmed. Thank you.
I squeeze her now clean hands, digits running over the scars and memorizing their texture. Would you like to watch a movie with me for the rest of the evening?
Taylor blinks, as if the offer of spending time with someone I care about is a surprise. But then again, how couldn’t it be? We’re both starved animals. Maybe that’s why, against all my earned instincts, I find myself being myself around her.
Sure. She answers. I’d like that.
Great, I say, tugging her out of the bathroom. Now, something you should know about me: I only keep bad movies. Like, really bad movies. Because that way, I don’t care if my power spoils it for me, because it’s not about the plot, it’s about laughing at the atrocity of filmmaking I’m witnessing.
Sounds good. Taylor says. I’ve never really been much of a movie person anyway. I probably wouldn’t be able to appreciate a good one.
Yeah, you’re a book nerd. Way more sophisticated. I tease. She rolls her eyes, but another rare smile teases her lips.
As we settle down on the couch, I realize that I never actually let go of her hand. I think about it for a few moments, but then the movie starts, and she’s warm, and…
I don’t let go.
She doesn’t either.
Things change once she bleeds for me.
It’s just another job. We’re hitting another bank, this time as an out-of-town favor for Accord. It’s going smoothly right until it goes to hell. Some independent heroes show up and they’re not pulling punches. With the addition of Foil and Parian to our team, we’re managing to stay afloat, but things are balanced on a knife-edge right now. I’m just trying to create openings for the team while riding around on one of Rachel’s dogs, firing off shots intended to distract and scare rather than hit.
One of them must have done their job a bit too well, because I feel Taylor’s bugs frantically scratch the left side of my face— I duck, but it’s too late, I get full body tackled off of the dog and hit the ground hard enough to skid across the marble floor until I smack against one of the walls, the breath knocked out of me. I try to get to my feet, but my attacker kicks me back down with barely any effort at all. A brute. Fuck, fuck— I go for my knife, but he’s faster, ripping out of the sheath on my thigh and raising it up for a stab meant to leave me helpless, oh fuck—
A dark grey blur. Blood splattering across my face. I scream. Taylor, a knife halfway embedded in her palm, doesn’t even make a sound. She stares down a man who could probably tear her in half and there’s not even a hint of fear in her. Before he can do anything else, a black tide descends upon him, and the brute falls back, choking on spiders and hornets. With her good hand, Taylor yanks me to my feet and helps me run into Grue’s smokescreen to make our escape.
I don’t remember much of the flight. I just remember staring at Taylor’s left hand, knife still poking through the armor, slowly dripping red. Once we’ve made it back to the safehouse we have in Boston, I make myself watch as the doctor we’ve paid handsomely delicately sews up Taylor’s left hand— another scar she’ll have for the rest of her life. Did you know your armor would prevent the knife from being able to get into far? I ask, even though I already know her answer. No. She replies, without even a hint of remorse, because she can be awful like that. Awful and honest in moments where I wish she would lie. I just knew that yours wouldn’t.
Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. I murmur. I reach out and take the uninjured hand. I don’t know how to pay you back for this. Maybe he wouldn’t have killed me. But at the angle and speed it was coming down, the fact that he had enhanced strength… sure, he’d been aiming to hit my shoulder. But the blade would have gone in deep enough to hit something important in my neck. And she’d willingly put herself in front of that. Potentially giving up using her left hand again. Like it was nothing. Like I wouldn’t have to spend months trying to find something that could possibly be equal to that.
You don’t. Taylor says. Just… try to avoid picking fights with Brutes.
Like you have room to talk. I huff. But seriously, Taylor. Thank you. I… The fear I’d felt, when I’d seen her step in front of me. I’ve never felt that before. Not for anyone but myself. Like I was about to…
How about I order some take out for us to pick up on the way home? I offer, trying to distract myself from my own whirling thoughts.
Hm? Sure. Not the Japanese place, though. She holds up her left hand, palm and stitches out. Not sure I can do chopsticks right now.
You’re hilarious. I step away, but all I want to do is step closer.
Oh.
At last, I can’t avoid the question any longer.
Taylor, what are we? I ask it while we’re both spread out on my couch, and maybe I’ve gotten just a tad high.
… friends? I think? Taylor responds, maybe just a tad tipsy, because that had seemed more acceptable to her than weed. Because her dad raised her on old cartoons that treated weed like the very own devil’s lettuce or whatever.
Of course we’re friends. But… there’s something more. I swallow. I hate this. I should feel confident, in control. That’s how I stay alive. But at this moment, my masks are all slipping and getting caught on each other. I don’t know who to be right now. I feel it. I know you do too.
…yeah. Taylor sighs. Yeah. She turns her head to look me in the eyes. Do you want to do something about it?
…I don’t know. I whisper. I don’t… I don’t even know if I can do that. If I can like people, like… that.
Taylor mulls over that for a moment. I try to get my power to help me out with getting behind her flat affect to the dizzying fast mind beneath, but I’m already feeling the peak hit, and all I get is a jumble of information that has me promptly shutting that valve off.
We don’t have to be anything you don’t want to. Taylor eventually lands on. I like… this. What we have. I don’t need anything more, Lisa.
But do you want more? I ask. Do you want more from me?
Only what you’re willing to give. She responds. I just want to be next to you. Whatever form that takes, I’ll be satisfied.
I feel like I’ve been suckerpunched and also stumbled upon a stack of unattended cash at the same time— and perhaps it’s funny that both have happened to me before, but in this moment, I’m just reeling from the reality that I’ve found myself in. That someone won’t try to mine me for everything I have. That I am, in myself and not the gift I carry on my back as a curse, am enough.
I make myself rise up, up, up on the couch until I can crawl my way over to Taylor, sinking down until I’m entwined with her, face to face. Lisa… She murmurs, but says nothing as I find one of her poor hands, and lace my fingers in it.
I don’t know what we are. I say. But I know that I want to be it with you.
…me too. She whispers back. We lay there, soaking in the comfort of the other for as long as we can.
It’s a nice night.