"That should keep you guys going for the week, at least. Tell Shelly I said hi, okay?"
Smiles and farewells exchanged, the door swung shut with a soft jingle and Blake was alone once more. Weekday afternoons at the food share were always quiet, but on days like this one quiet didn't always cut it. It wasn't as though they really needed to be here in the first place. There were certainly enough other tasks that needed doing, and Velvet always had more than enough on her plate. She preferred the administrative end of running the movement they had co-founded, for which Blake was immensely grateful. As they put it, Blake had a 'severe bureaucracy allergy' that left them unfit for such duties. Still, help was steadily rolling in every day, thanks to their combined efforts; more and more faunus looking to trade a mask and a gun for a T-shirt and picket sign.
When it came down to it, Blake was here because they enjoyed the work. Manning a food share was a far cry from what they had envisioned for their life, but... the difference they made was tangible, here. There was no abstraction in stocking the food Velvet and Sun managed to acquire, no layers of separation between the work they did and the children they were keeping fed, the families they were keeping off the street. It felt real.
Sometimes, though, when things got hectic and that old, familiar anxiety reared its head, Blake wondered if maybe they shouldn't have just stuck to killing Grimm. They were never left wondering long. She had left, left her team, her lovers, with nothing more than a hasty note taped to the door of their shared apartment. Blake knew her reasons were good, and they knew they would very likely have done the same, had the White Fang come after them seeking blood, but the parting still burned. Ten years gone, and still it sat festering in their gut, an infection that time only seemed to sensitize. Every year when the day came around Blake found themself wondering if they could have - should have done something. Maybe they could have beaten time to the punch, taken out the old bastard themself and
she never would have had to leave
but they knew that would have only made things worse. Besides, she would never have forgiven them for it. Somehow, though Blake never understood it - there was a lot about family Blake wasn't sure they'd ever truly understand - she loved him, even as she hated him.
And now she was lost to Blake, to Ruby, to Yang. Lost for good, if she was even alive. Blake wasn't sure which possibility hurt more. Sometimes, on anniversaries like today, they could almost smell her, even as time faded the memory. Chamomile and spearmint, rolled together with that unique fingerprint of scent that made it all her, unmistakable. Spearmint and chamomile, even at the end of a weeks-long hunt, even when Grimm blood soaked her clothes; at her best and at her worst, they never quite left.
Then the door chimed gently, and Blake's musings fled; there would be time to mourn later.
Chamomile and spearmint
and Weiss
Blake couldn't stop the way their smile faltered and their breath hitched at the agonizingly familiar scent, just like they couldn't keep the sorrow from their eyes when it wasn't her standing in the doorway. The woman at the door was nothing like Weiss. Her stance was hunched and tired, her walk trepidatious. Nothing like the air of untouchable confidence and purpose that had been so natural to Blake's lover, all those years ago. She wore a simple, weathered-looking hoody and jeans, the kind of outfit Weiss wouldn't be caught dead in. Her hair was cropped into a rough pixie cut, black as pitch. Weiss's hair had always reminded Blake of silk, the way the long tresses flowed like liquid through their fingers. And yet... she smelled so much like her, it was all they could do to keep themself from fleeing the room. And those eyes... the same frosty blue that had met theirs with love and longing so many times in the past. It couldn't be her, couldn't be, and yet... fuck, they wanted so badly for it to be her.
Blake shoved the thoughts aside. They had a job to do, after all, and whoever this ghost of their past was, she looked half-starved.
"Hello, miss. What can I help you wi-"
"Hello, Blake."
Had Blake's life been a story, they would have found the way those words - that voice, they thought they'd never hear it again - sent ice shooting through their veins nicely ironic. Amber eyes scoured the woman's face, looking for... something, though Blake wasn't even certain what. It couldn't be her, couldn't be because - because they had already (given up) accepted that she was gone, that they would never see her face again.
Their voice, when it came, came in a whisper hoarse with longing, with need, with hope long buried and newly unearthed.
"Weiss?"
Spearmint and chamomile
and Blake was over the counter, across the room like the years apart had never taken their toll, and in her arms, like they thought they'd never be again. The harsh lessons of Blake's youth had never quite left them, and they shook silently as a decade worth of unshed tears stained Weiss's shoulder. They gripped her tight through the fabric, as though she might vanish if they let go, even for an instant. Gentle hands wrapped around them, drawing familiar circles on their shoulders as Weiss cooed soft comforts.
When they could breathe again they pulled away - a bit, just enough to meet her eyes - and ran a dark-skinned hand along her pale cheek, over familiar scars crisscrossed with new ones. Blake's lover, teammate, and friend smiled, and they felt the weight of years apart begin to fall away.
"I'm back, love."