The campus has looked... better. To put it mildly.
Better on a normal day, and better after a fight. The Protector's ameliorating magic did a lot of work restoring the worst damages, but the Miraculous coin had expended too much energy prior to fix it all. After letting go of the transformation, Kel had had to climb over tipped benches and fallen trees to get back to the campus' lawn.
When she'd arrived, her downtrodden spirits flagged further upon witnessing the vestiges of her fight. The building facades had been repaired where they were torn down, but there were still stones and two wrecked statues littering the walkway to the office building, and at least three of the ground floor library windows were still blown out.
Now she stops and surveys the wreckage as her heart does a weird, painful fluttery movement in lieu of beating properly. For a long while, minutes perhaps, Kel just stands there and looks. There are people milling around – emergency services technicians are checking on those who were, presumably, there when the attacked occurred, and others (largely students, she notes) are either wandering, talking on their phones, or whispering in small groups – all of it subdued.
Kel swallows convulsively a few times as she watches the wind pick up a few scattered leaves and bits of plaster and dust, swirling them around. A young man in an oversized sweater (she had a class with him, once) is standing, as frozen as she is, looking unseeingly at the rubble until his friend puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs him away. Maybe to get checked out or to talk or to just not be here where a tiny little piece of the world was shaken to its roots.
She might have stayed in that exact position for another hour or another day, but then there is a hand on her arm and she glances rotely to the side. Owen Jesslaw's staring back at her, expression full blown with his usual, chaotic mix of too many emotions. There's a startled sort of fear (as opposed to the ancient sadness living in her bones), and flustered worry. But there's also excitement and anger and determination and –
Kel does not hug Owen, but she does touch his elbow in her own brand of affection. Owen comes even more to life, flinging his arms around her, leading her to a mostly unscathed fountain basin so they can sit.
"Kel! I'm so glad you're okay! Were you here when it happened? I couldn't believe how scary it was! That guy looked like he came out of Inferno or Sworn Oath or something! Like right out of a video game! He totally tore the place apart – were you here? Did you see?"
She follows the conversation mostly because she's trained herself to follow Owen over the years. And it's a good thing too, because there's no chance she'd be able to keep up otherwise. Not when her mind's in about ten different places, all of them requiring all of her attention.
"No," she replies, "I wasn't here. I heard about what happened, so I came."
Owen nods, almost frantically. Or, what would be frantically if he wasn't Owen. "Yeah, yeah. You should check it out! I got some great footage!"
"Owen –..."
"Seriously, Kel. Here." He unceremoniously shoves his tablet into her hands, his blog page already up, and presses play on the video at the top of the site. Kel does not need to look. Kel does not want to look. But if she's ever described herself as an immovable object (which she hasn't) then Owen is undoubtedly the unstoppable force. She's not keen on finding out what will happen if she refuses. (Though maybe a little selfishly, it's because she does know what will happen. And because she's tired of breaking hearts, which is all she seems to do these days.)
It doesn't start off with any surprises. There she is, utterly recognizable to herself. Her suit is the same as she remembers: the boots and trousers a rich, earthy brown underneath the deceptively thick, sky blue tunic edged with cream colored seams. It's impossible to tell from the shaky footage how sturdy the material is – how it acts like body armor and shields her from blows that might take out regular old Kel. Her mask is of the same color, clinging like a second skin to her face. And beneath that mask – it's herself.
Kel wonders what Owen sees when he looks at The Protector. What everyone sees. She's never asked, never sought out that information willingly. In fact, she usually tunes out or turns away when discussions among her friends turn to the masked duo. Then again, it's not like she'll ever know for certain what the world sees when it looks at The Protector. That's the magic of the Glamor at work. It's dead useful, given how unrealistic it would be to expect that no one would recognize her with just a change of clothes and a mask. She's grateful, honestly, that with just a little pull on her Miraculous' energy she looks like a completely different person to the outside world; she's grateful that everything changes, from the color of her hair to the width of her shoulders, even though she'll never see that disguise herself.
And she's never felt any desire to find out what her own Glamor looks like.
(And she's never wondered about Chevalier either. Because he asked her if they could stay secrets and she's been good, so good, at keeping that promise. Even though if she knew – if she knew, she could have stayed when his hair and his eyes and his height changed back: she could have stayed and made sure that he was okay, that he wasn't hurt too badly, that he would live –)
The battle she'd just experienced plays out in high quality on the screen, ending when Chevalier draws the giant towards the park. She expects that to be the end, but the footage doesn't stop and she finds herself watching as the wall sporting multiple scorch marks, the outer wall of the library, groans and collapses.
Not all of it goes, but Kel is completely frozen and sporting an unreadable expression as she witnesses the bricks and stone and mortar give out. No one seemed to have suspected it; The Protector and Chevalier had left with the giant at least thirty seconds prior, and as the pieces shake loose and tumble down to earth everyone in the vicinity scatters. That's when the angle of the camera drops, the frame shaking as if someone's running, then cuts out.
"Isn't that wild?" Owen asks, and Kel remembers that he's still sitting next to her. His voice is a mix of exuberance and reverence. "I can't believe it was that bad. There's never been property damage that bad before, you know?"
"Yeah."
"Anyway, I was on my way to the library to meet up with Roald and Cleon because I needed to talk to them because Margery let me buy her coffee when I bumped into her this morning and asked her if I could and I needed to know what that meant, and sorry! Off track. Anyway, I was just getting to the lawn when that giant showed up out of nowhere! And Chevalier was already there, and then The Protector showed up! Gods, she's so amazing, Kel!"
"Mmm."
"I've never been so close to the action, so I just had to get a good video. Everyone needs to see what an awesome job they do, you know? Not that anyone's complaining! But still, we need proof. So I took the video! Then I went to go check on Roald. I'm just going back to him now, wanna come?"
Kel blinks up owlishly at him, and takes a few minutes to process before she nods sharply. C'mon, you're better than this. Yes, things are – they're not great. But she is better than this. She doesn't fumble, she doesn't falter, she doesn't doubt herself and what she's doing just because some over powered bad guy decided that he was going to take out his aggression on the prettiest part of her campus. She tried, she's trying – she's doing the right thing.
I am a clear lake, she thinks. Then she stands up and follows Owen.
Roald is not hard to find. He's sitting on the flat stone divider right in front of the library doors while a medic is methodically cleaning what looks like a long gash down his temple. Kel's stomach flips, but she picks up the thread of her mantra once more: I am the trees that bend, which gives her enough resolve to sit down next to him and grab the hand that isn't next to the medic.
"Are you okay?" She asks, words tumbling against each in their haste to be spoken. Roald moves to nod, but winces when the medic keeps a firm hold on the top of his head.
"Yeah, nothing serious. Just some of the glass from the window, it kind of," he motions with his other hand as much as the position and paramedic will allow. "It's not serious."
"Are you sure? Is he okay?" Kel directs the last question to the paramedic, who pauses in her ministrations to assess Roald's head.
"I haven't finished cleaning the wound yet, but the bleeding stopped quickly and his eyes are responding normally to light. With some rest, and a checkup in a few days, he should be fine."
Kel's sigh of relief is almost a whistle, a huge gust of air straight from her lungs as she grips Roald's hand a little tighter. "Thank the Gods. You were really blessed, Roald."
"And I'm thankful for that every day. So mote it be." They take a moment to stay silent, thanking every force on earth that things are okay in their little corner of existence.
Owen, of course, is the one who breaks the quiet; though to his credit, he does speak softly. "I called Liam for you," he tells Roald, "Your parents are still out of town, but Liam said he'd call them and everyone else to let them know you're alright."
"Thank you. I truly appreciate the help."
Owen glances at Kel, and Kel knows exactly what his expression is trying to tell her. It's not at all rare for Roald to affect the princely cadence that he's perfected over the years. But there are times when it sounds a little strained, a little reserved, and they know that it's his own personal coping mechanism with stress. As the paramedic finishes applying a butterfly bandage to his temple and moves on to her next patient, Owen lunges forward and pulls Roald into a hug.
For a few moments, Roald does a very good imitation of a startled deer. He locks eyes with Kel over Owen's shoulder, but she refuses to save him. In the end he relaxes, gently winding his arms around Owen and murmuring his thanks quietly. When they break apart, some of the tension has bled away from the air.
"Have you seen anyone else?" Roald asks. "They wouldn't let me go anywhere until someone looked at me. I don't know who else was around. I'd been studying with Neal a few minutes before, but he left right before the attack and I haven't heard anything..."
Statistically speaking, the other shoe had to drop eventually. Kel's getting just a little tired of her world constantly twisting and turning and dropping out from underneath her altogether. She suppresses the thrill of panic like a pro and stands, brushing any dust she can find off of her jeans.
"I'll look around for him and anyone else I can find. Owen, stay with Roald and call me if there are any problems, alright?"
"Yes, ma'am!" He replies enthusiastically, puffing out his chest. But his gaze is steady and his voice doesn't waver at all. She nods at him, lets the briefest smile flicker over her lips, then turns on her heel.
She can call him, she probably should, but it feels so – urgent. So last resortish. Her fingers twitch and burn and to soothe them she shoves her hands into the pockets of her hoodie as she winds her way through the few people still getting checked by paramedics. Maybe he left earlier than Roald said, maybe he's home and has no idea what chaos has descended upon Corus University, made all the worse by her own presence. So she won't call just yet – she can look for others first, or try to ascertain news about how bad the injuries. If anyone – if anyone didn't make it out.
As she walks, Kel realizes that while there are plenty of emergency technicians, paramedics, and even firefighters, there are no sirens blaring or police on the scene. They'll come, she has no doubt, but everyone is quiet, not grieving, and that in and of itself is enough to bolster her. She can't hope that everyone is alive, not yet, but what she can do is shove down the mix of shock and shame that has been brewing ever since the fight and focus on the task at hand.
Neal, to his credit, makes it very easy on her to locate him. Not a minute after leaving Roal and Owen, she can hear his carrying voice cut through the hushed background noise of the campus. It's loud and pointed and she almost sees it: full of angles and walls and sharp edges over the low hum of his usual drawl. She hears it, and allows herself the luxury of letting the smile that grows live for more than a few seconds on her lips. It's private and bright and thoroughly smoothed over by the time she rounds the corner to the south side of the library, spine straight and shoulders back.
He's obscured by a gurney and an EMS truck, but she can see part of him and the rest of the breath she'd been holding releases in an only partially aggravated sigh. "Neal!"
When she calls out he freezes for a second, any words he might have said dying in his throat. Then he struggles forward despite the firm, well meaning hand the paramedic presses against his chest. She ducks around the truck and the stretcher and is on the verge of smiling until she takes in her first proper sight of him.
"Kel! Thank the Goddess, I didn't know if you were still at school. Are you alright?"
She hears in his voice that familiar upward tick of frenetic concern, and she wants to answer. But while his tone is strong and his eyes are just as electrically charged as ever, he just doesn't look okay. The very first thing she sees is the massive, red mark that mars the entire left side of his face, swelling his eye and traveling from temple to chin. She's absolutely positive that the whole thing will bruise by tonight.
But while the mark strikes her first, it's not the worst of it. There is a gash on that same temple, reminiscent of Roald's, and it snakes down from his hairline to the top of his cheekbone. The paramedic is currently stitching it closed, a row of five black sutures standing out against the pale bloodlessness of the surrounding skin. Below his head, what she can see of his shoulder and chest are littered with bruises and smaller cuts that create a horrifying palette of sickly blue and angry, inflamed red. Doubtless there is more damage on the parts of his body she can't see, the parts covered by the soft cotton of his shirt.
Distantly, Kel realizes that Neal has been watching her carefully, waiting for her to say something. It's a sharp contrast from breakfast that morning (only that morning?) when his impatience with her tacit nature hadn't stayed contained. Ignoring his questioning look – ignoring him altogether – Kel turns to the medic.
"I'm his emergency contact and his roommate. What's wrong with him?"
"With – him? As if I'm not right here!" He practically squawks his indignation, but the return to normality does not soothe her one bit. The medic seems to understand, and also tunes Neal out in favor of speaking to Kel directly.
"He sustained some injuries during the attack. A lot of bruising, some lacerations though blood loss is no longer a concern. His pupils are a little sluggish, which is indicative of a minor concussion. He might need to be observed tonight, either at a hospital or at home."
"I'm not going to a hospital!"
The medic plows onward, a consummate professional, "The stitches are dissolvable, so he can't get them wet. They'll fall out on their on in a few days. While he seems to be doing alright for the most part –"
"The most part? Kel, please tell her that I'm fine!"
" – He does have some worrying injuries to his abdomen and torso: substantial bruising to his ribs, and a large burn. No nerve damage as far as I can tell, but it'll require medication to prevent infection."
"Gods, no, Kel, please."
Also a consummate professional, Kel continues to ignore Neal. "Thank you so much for letting me know. I'll be with him, so I can make sure he gets what he needs. Do you have prescriptions, or do I need to pick them up?"
"I've called them into the hospital. Either he or a relative can get them and get them filled."
"Alright. Is that all?"
"That's it. He can't sleep tonight, but as soon as his headache clears and his eyes return to normal he'll be in the clear. Between fluids and rest, he should make a full recovery."
Apparently sensing how invisible he's become, Neal's given up arguing in favor of practicing his champion – level sighs. They're fairly impressive, all things considered, and Kel is having absolutely none of it. As soon as the medic sheds her gloves, gives Kel the phone numbers she needs, and leaves, Kel pivots and levels her very best glare at Neal. He shrinks under her gaze, a fact that she notes with grim satisfaction, and lasts all of two seconds before frantically plowing into explanations.
"Look, it honestly wasn't my fault! I was – I didn't even see it coming! I left Roald to go check in with the librarian in the south wing before leaving, and it just – came out of nowhere!"
"What came out of nowhere?" She's being short, she knows she is, but if he notices the extra sting in her voice, he makes no comment on it.
"This like, light... thing?" It should be a bad sign that his eloquence is faltering. Kel has never known Neal to use the word thing when he could replace it with literally anything more descriptive. And lengthy. And usually unnecessary. "It just sort of, caught the edge of my chest and threw me into that statue over there. I must have – anyway, the next thing I knew, everything was quiet. I was going to look for Roald when that paramedic intercepted me. Gods forbid I find a stroke of good fortune –"
He says the last with his usual self-pitying flair, but Kel cuts him off with an unyielding hand on his shoulder that startles him into silence. She says nothing, does nothing except hold on, fingers digging in deep, and looks at him. It must be a particularly effective scathing stare, because Neal wilts even further, shoulders hunching up and chin dropping as his gaze finally (finally) lowers to his hands.
"I know. That was – stupid of me to say. But we've never seen so much destruction before, and I – I needed to know that Roald was okay. And I needed to know that you were okay, that everyone made it out. But no one was telling me anything. When I saw you I just... I knew that things would turn out fine."
Kel's throat tightens suddenly and without mercy and without thinking (pulled wholly by the knot of emotions pulsating in her chest), she steps forward and wraps her arms around Neal's shoulders. His instinct, she feels, is to stiffen. But as soon as the shock passes he has her in his arms as well. Though the motion must have pulled against his injuries, he makes no sound of protest.
"Are you alright?" He whispers. And isn't that just entirely unfair? How is her annoying, scatterbrained, insufferable, stupidly obstinate best friend allowed to sound so sincere? She holds a little tighter and doesn't let go before she answers.
"Yes. I'm fine."
"Don't lie."
Kel makes a huffing sound – her kind of laugh. "I'm not. I wasn't here when it happened." Lies, lies, lies. "I'm not injured." Less of a lie. "I'm just... a little stunned. I promise. Roald's alright – everyone's alright." That fits much more easily in her mouth; but then, the truth always has.
"Alright. If you say so." Neal moves to rest his head on her shoulder, and wheezes a self deprecating laugh. "Gods, my head is killing me."
"Good thing it's so thick. Must have cushioned the impact."
"Cruel." But she can feel him smiling. For now, it's enough.
It feels like ten years since she's showered, or simply stopped her forward momentum at all. As the hot water (just sort of scalding) cascades through her hair, Kel presses her head against the tiled wall and closes her eyes. Not thinking sounds so nice right about now; she finished cleaning a while ago – this is indulgent and childish but she stays and lets the hot water soak her all the way through. And doesn't think.
Voices drift in from the living room. They're not loud enough to be heard clearly over the rush of the shower head and through a closed door, but Kel can just detect the ambiguous murmur of sound. The television, probably. Despite her best intentions, the corner of her mouth flutters up as she imagines the excuses Neal will give for capitulating and forgoing his books for, as he says, less intellectual pursuits. Kel's not sure what the big deal is – she's been well aware of his love of Wiltshire Manor for a long time. And it's not like he has much pride to spare. But if he wants to keep that secret, she'll let him.
Toweling off is mercilessly awful. The shower's steam did not manage to warm all of the bathroom, and the shock of cold air outside the tub enough to set her off shivering. She uses all three available towels to soak up every droplet on her body, then changes into clothes in a time that would put any world record to shame.
Stupid, broken heating, she grouses to herself, shaking the last of the water from her hair before stepping into her slippers and moving into the living room.
There's no way to avoid the living room; a tiny hallway (the length of which is about two strides) provides a little cover, but there are no direct routes to either bedroom. Neal will complain, of course, that she's coming back in when he's fine, look at me I'm the absolute picture of health! So it's nice to have the excuse of necessity on her side if she really needs to defend herself.
She has her protests all prepared, but when she crosses the threshold to the common space Neal does not notice her. Neal doesn't notice her because he's not alone. Immediately, Kel's hackles raise; the feeling she gets in the pit of her stomach as The Protector rises to the surface – my home, my safe space. If she doesn't live up to her name, if she doesn't protect, then what good is she? If all she does is lure giants onto campus and send lives spiraling into chaos as she dresses up and plays hero –
"Hey! You didn't drown!"
Neal's voice is so unexpectedly light that Kel stops dead in her mental tracks and actually looks at what's going on in her living room. Her roommate is in the same position, propped up against a veritable mountain of pillows with a stack of books and his laptop on the coffee table next to him. The white of the bandages stand out too undeniably in the half darkness of the room, but Kel forces herself to not stare at them.
That's when she sees Dom.
In the span of a single breath, her entire expression brightens and the tension leaves her posture. She carefully, languidly, makes her way to the armchair opposite the pair of cousins and settles herself quietly in the seat.
"Good observation," she replies mildly, and Dom laughs.
"Yeah, maybe you didn't entirely scramble those brains of yours, Meathead." He reaches out to mess up Neal's hair (gently, Kel notes) and Neal takes a halfhearted swipe at him.
"First of all, anatomically incorrect. We all only have the one brain. And second – I believe we established that if you're going to keep using that nickname indiscriminately, in public no less!, you're going to have to put a sir in the front. Due respect, and all that."
Dom laughs again, a warm and breezy noise, and drops against the back cushions, both arms slinging up to rest on the back of the couch. "Public, really? You do remember that Kel's known about it for like, two years, right?"
"Besides the point!"
"Sure, sure." He elbows Neal in his good shoulder before turning to Kel. "So, how are you holding up?"
"I'm fine." I'm tired of being asked that. She keeps that last thought to herself. It's not about Dom – in fact, it's a little easier to bear when it's Dom asking. But that's not saying much, considering how aggravating it is for Kel to see that everyone around her is ignoring the fact that she's the fine one. Roald's injured, Neal's laid up, Owen's – well, Owen might seem alright, but he'd been on the front lines of the action. It's hard to imagine that he got off entirely unaffected.
Besides, fine or not, these kinds of things – the saving things, the ruining things, are Kel's job.
But neither Dom nor Neal is aware of that fact, so she resigns herself to playing along. It feels like a lie and it pulses in agony under her breastbone, but she's doing this for them. For everyone. For Corus. Even if she makes mistakes, even if people get hurt, doesn't she still have the responsibility to get back up and get back out there?
"She keeps saying that word," Neal pipes up, "I don't think she knows what it means."
"Nice one," Dom replies.
"Hmm? Nice what?"
Dom groans, tipping his head back. "I'll chalk that up to the head injury, Meathead."
All Neal says in reply is a quiet, "Rude."
"I'm really fine," Kel insists. "I wasn't there."
"Which means absolutely nothing." Neal has that look in his eye – the one that never fails to elicit an aggravated sigh from Kel. "It doesn't explain the freak outs today, or why you looked totally shell shocked when you got to the library."
Kel half expects Dom to say something, but when she glances at him he has an inscrutable expression on his face that she doesn't recognize: lips pressed firmly together, eyes a little dim and looking straight forward. He's not going to rescue her. He's also not going to interrupt.
"I was shell shocked because our campus just got destroyed, Neal. Owen was panicky, and Roald was hurt. None of us could find you. I think those are pretty logical reasons for looking not my best."
Credit where credit is due: Neal does look somewhat mollified by her reasons. He's never been one to be swayed by her logic, and while that strikes her as at least a little suspicious, Kel lets it go when Neal catches his second wind.
"Alright, fine. Aberrant circumstances – but this is the only time you get to use that excuse, Mindelan. Understand me?"
"Absolutely," she says, knowing full well that this will not be the last time she uses that excuse. Out of necessity, yes, but the fact that she won't admit she knows is that today's attack was not an exception. Not with the unpossessed giant's disappearance, not with Papillion's silence, not with things shifting between The Protector and Chevalier.
How long can she keep everyone in the dark? How long can she get away with this?
"And that doesn't account for this morning," Neal adds pointedly.
"Bad dream, remember?"
"Alright." Dom's final interceding has Kel breathing a silent sigh of relief. For all his faults, Neal is more observant than most give him credit for. He's exercised his brain plenty with useless facts and lists of varying, horrifying, lengths. It leaves him primed to see and discover the things that he really shouldn't be getting involved in. "Let's all agree that today was weird and leave it at that, yeah?"
"An excellent plan," Kel replies before Neal can interrupt and protest that no, he has something more to say.
"My genius intellect and razor sharp acumen are woefully unappreciated in this world," he moans. Dom cuffs him again, still just as gently.
"Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock. Kel, c'mon into the kitchen, I have to show you the pills I got." Then, back to Neal, "They gave you the good stuff, buddy, so no worries on anything."
Neal grumbles something unintelligible as Kel picks herself up from the chair and follows Dom into the kitchen off the living room. In better lighting, Kel can fully see the sharp angles and characteristic nose and warm eyes that make Dom, Dom. But she can also see the signs of weariness that have crept in, creating fine little lines above his cheekbones and beside the corners of his mouth. Were they from today? Or have they been growing over the time she hasn't seen him?
Dom's already talking, placing little bottles and bags in a line on the counter. "It's not too complicated – I already explained it to Meathead, and he promised he'll take them. Which usually means jack all coming from him, but he's not so bad at taking care himself. Just in case, you should probably know what he's on."
Kel nods, gaze flickering towards the row of bottles. Her stomach does another little flip of – consternation or worry or guilt, or whatever it is. Back at school, the paramedic hadn't made it sound so... much. Some medication, some rest – that's it.
Not that any of it should have been necessary in the first place, if she'd done her job right.
"It looks like a lot but it really isn't."
Had she spoken out loud? Kel blinks up at Dom, but he's reading the labels, thoroughly absorbed in making sure he's giving her the right instructions.
"Okay, these first two are antibiotics. One's for the burn, the other for the slice. Each one needs to be taken twice a day, with food, and they're a killer on the stomach. So – y'know, fun times ahead for you guys. These," he shakes another bottle, "Are, uh, some long name I can't pronounce. The doctor said they were for the concussion. I mean, for after the concussion, because apparently even when it goes away it doesn't feel great. He starts them tomorrow, after his pupils start dilating again. This one's anti nausea, so just if he needs it. And then the good stuff!" Dom grins as he plucks a little white bottle from the end of lineup. "Painkillers! When I say good stuff, I mean good for you, by the way. They're heavy duty, they'll knock 'im right out, so if you ever need a break from the whining, slip him one."
When she finally looks back at him, Dom winks. It's that overly lascivious thing he does – that he's always done whenever she looks a little too put out. It forcefully reminds her of holidays spent with the Queenscove family, nuclear and extended: both Thanks Feasts and even one memorable Yule when Anders was out of town and the thought of going home was just – a little too much.
"Alright," Kel replies, locking any surge of emotion deep in her throat, forcing it somewhere where it couldn't even see the surface, let alone breech it. She sees the flicker in Dom's eye just in time, and continues before he can get a word out.
"Thank you for coming over."
He looks like he's about to say something, jaw ticking and throat moving, but after a second of silence he nods and gently pats her shoulder – two taps, then drops his hand.
"Sure thing. I couldn't believe how intense that attack was today. It was kind of surreal – I know I shouldn't say it, but I'm sort of... glad I was off work today. Not that I wouldn't want to help! But if I was in uniform, I couldn't have taken time off."
Kel nods, understanding. Being a Provost's officer is not the most lenient of positions. She wonders what about the field has attracted so many Queenscoves and Masbolles and other relatives into its ranks. "I know what you mean. And for the record, I'm glad too."
For a moment, Dom studies her, eyes steady and unreadable. Then they crinkle at the corners and he chuckles, stepping close to nudge her shoulder with his own. "Hey. You look like someone cancelled your Yule. Why the long face?"
She huffs, only a little indignant. "Destruction, perhaps?"
"You know it wasn't all that bad, right? What happened?"
That is not what she thought he'd say. She must not be doing well at hiding the shock – or it's something he feels he has to say – because he presses swiftly on.
"The worst that happened were cuts and bruises. I checked in with the station, asked about the reports. No deaths, not even overnight hospitalizations. Just some bumps and broken statues. That stuff's easy to fix."
"But what if next time it's not so easy to fix?"
Gods damn it, she needs to train. The question tumbles from her lips before she can assess it: before she can stop it altogether. Still, while she didn't hold herself firmly when asking, she resolves to remain steadfast now, meeting Dom's gaze and holding her ground. If she asked the question, regardless of whether or not it was a slip up, she might as well stand by it.
" – You think there's going to be a next time?"
"You don't?"
Her rebuttal does sound a little childish, but Dom rubs his chin thoughtfully all the same, then shrugs. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we all got a little too used to how things used to be – bad guys showing up, spouting their nonsense, then getting their asses handed to them by the Duo. Heh," he chuckles dimly, looking skyward (or, as it is, ceilingward), "That's a little strange, come to think of it. Getting used to bad guys at all. But I guess it just goes to show you how resilient we are. Collectively speaking."
His voice grows more contemplative and quiet as he goes on, weaving a spell of silence and wonder. And then it's gone when Dom laughs, bumping against her again and heading back to the living room.
"So don't look so glum, Squire. We'll all weather this."
She finally, finally, smiles at the ages old nickname, and under the guise of reading the pill bottles she watches Dom cross back to the couch and settle himself down, shoving Neal gently to the side to make more room. They squabble for a few moments, Dom pretending to check his temperature and Neal flapping his arms in a very convincing impression of a chicken. It ends with both of them laughing – really laughing, the warm kind that lights up emerald and bright blue eyes alike. Sitting there in the semi darkness, lit only by warm indoor bulbs, they look too similar. Something about the slopes of their noses and the way their mouths quirk to the same side when they smile, and with the revelation comes a pang of something that captures her heart and wrenches it to the side.
They look like brothers.
The noises from the living room peter into nothing, and through the quiet Neal's hushed words are just loud enough that, when she strains, she hears them perfectly.
"I am sorry, you know," he murmurs. From the corner of her eye, Kel sees him staring at his hands. "I didn't mean to – you know I try to stay safe, right?"
Dom sucks in a little breath, which is more audible for its absence of sound, and replies, "I know. It's okay, I know. You've always been a good kid. For a Meathead, I mean."
"Mmm, you're definitely mean."
Unbidden, Kel's hand moves to the coin hanging around her neck, underneath her shirt, and for the first time that day she feels that the ground under her feet has finally come to a stop. She knows what to do.
Knowing what to do and actually doing it, it turns out, are very different things. An hour after Dom leaves and the sun has fully sunk beyond the horizon, and Kel has done nothing but pace, pull at and rearrange pillows, and cluck disapprovingly at Neal when he tries to move.
("I'm not dying, Mother, I just smacked my head!"
"Then you agree you need to sit and rest, Nana.")
Watching over her pig headed roommate to make sure he doesn't accidentally kill himself by rolling off the couch gives her the perfect excuse not to call Chevalier. It's exactly the kind of enabling atmosphere that she doesn't need, and by now Kel's getting a little sick of her indecision. And of Neal's antsyness.
So a little after nine she gets up, pulls on a jacket, gives Neal his antibiotic and water, and tells him that she's going out.
"If you roll off of this sofa, Queenscove –"
"You'll resurrect me just to kill me. I understand. Go, go. And can you please be careful?"
There's something a little more pointed in his voice than his usual whine, and Kel doesn't need him to explain himself on that front.
"I promise."
Corus' nightly chill stirs all of her senses and clears away the cobwebs that have collected in her mind over the course of the day. Out here, where the shadows are as familiar as her own bedroom is, she comes a little back to life. Reanimated, refreshed, and with newfound resolve, Kel ducks into an alley and pulls her coin from around her neck. A little tug on the Miraculous' energy breaks the seal, and the coin glimmers before releasing a pool of light that forms into a ghostly looking sparrow no bigger than the size of her palm.
It's beautifully translucent, seemingly made of light or spun from spider silk until the bird flutters down and touches the skin of her palm. Once contact is made, the sparrow seems to fill with color from the inside out, like some invisible hand is pouring paint in. Phantasmic blue gives way to rich browns, reds, and whites, and within a single moment the bird of light is a plump sparrow, flecked with playful spots and sporting a white plume of feathers on the top of its head.
"Hello, Crown," Kel greets quietly.
Crown chirps a melodic tune, and Kel hears her Miraculous' words in her mind, Hello, Keladry.
"I'm sorry to disturb your rest, but I –"
Crown opens her mouth before Kel is done speaking, but instead of the friendly peeping, a high pitched bell like sound issues from her beak. A beat passes –
"Crown, connect us."
A circle of light appears just above Crown's head, flat and parallel to the ground like a plate or a table. No image flashes above it, but that's not uncommon. They don't usually use any sort of imaging when they call each other. But it's a damned coincidence that Chevalier's calling her the very moment she finally gathers her courage to reach out to him.
It's a natural thing to draw on her Miraculous to Glamor her voice, disguising it for the sake of the conversation; she does it without thinking, even though she wouldn't hear the difference either way.
"Well, this is a surprise," she says, masking residual worry with her carefully constructed tone of evenness. "Glad to know you're still alive and kicking."
"Ha, funny."
Whoosh, all the air leaves her lungs in an unexpected heave. It's one thing to trust your partner, or even to know that they're calling. It's another thing entirely to hear their voice – to hear the difference a few hours has made. Her latest memory of him is seeing his sprawled out, crumpled form looking to all the world like a corpse. Now there's no hitch in his voice, no strain.
"Chev. You can't heal yourself. You told me that."
"You're right. But I also told you I'm sturdy. Big stuff isn't so big when it hits me. I'll explain – when we're not – like this..."
So he hadn't been lying.
"I've always been pretty humorous," she replies. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"So quick to forget, My Lady? That's not very becoming of a Protector, you know. I had a feeling you wouldn't want to patrol tonight –"
"You got that right."
"But I still need to give you the information I owe you."
They are still on the same wavelength, she notes with satisfaction. "I didn't forget. What did you find?"
"Nothing that we would have noticed on our own, I'm afraid. Good thing you picked up on the fact that something wasn't right. Apparently, there's been an increase of emergency calls to report fake kidnappings."
"Wh – What?" She doesn't have enough time to be stunned by the information she definitely hadn't been expecting. He's already rushing to explain.
"Well, sort of. They're calling them fake. In the past few days, the Provost's office, and other emergency service offices, have gotten supposed missing persons reports. Only when they've gone to investigate, there aren't any usual markers. No signs of struggle, no physical evidence, nothing. So they've been marking them down as false reports."
"Fake... kidnappings? So, where are the victims?"
"You always were the sharp one." He says this without a hint of irony, then laughs when she sighs audibly. "Oh hush and take a compliment. That's the thing – everyone's are still missing. The Guard isn't shoving it under the rug, but they have nothing to go on. It's like a bunch of people just up and left their whole lives behind. At the same time."
"Oh." Oh doesn't begin to cover what Kel's feeling, but wading through the mess of worry and confusion and getting straight to the tactics will take a little more than a minute and a phone call. Chevalier gives her time, lets her parse through what she needs to while he waits silently.
"I – I don't know what this means," she finally admits, even more quietly. So quiet that he might not even hear her. "We have this clue, and how strangely calm the city's been... and that out of place that attack was before. Plus, we're going to have to deal with things escalating while we wait to see how the pieces get put together."
"You think things are going to escalate?"
"I do." She's even more firm now than she was with Dom. "That wasn't a coincidence. Chev I – I couldn't find the guy after the akuma was destroyed."
" – What?" He breathes. So he had fallen unconscious for a moment as she was leaving. "That's never happened before. It takes more than a second for the possession to wear off. And no one runs. They can't run, not for a while. And they – not from us, they wouldn't run from us."
"No, they wouldn't." It's not just reassurance. They have worked their asses off to sew the seeds of goodwill amongst the population of Corus. Chevalier had initially come up with the idea. Kel hadn't seen the importance, until the Guard had given them a free pass when they caught the pair sneaking out of the Gran Procession Palace museum, citing the fact that they were doing good work, keeping the city safe, keep it up. When she'd pressed Chevalier on his knowing that would work, he'd scoffed and cited "every superhero cartoon and comic ever made, obviously."
"They wouldn't run from us. We need to consider the possibility that these disappearance and that victim's are related. And that they both might have to do with the intensity of the attack today."
"Agreed. So – not patrol tonight, right?"
She blows a raspberry, effectively silencing the request. "Please. I'm still not convinced that you're even able to stand up yet."
"I take offense to that! I'm fine!"
"So you say. I'll catch you later, alright?"
"Can you at least promise not to go out saving the city without me?"
She actually wants to lie this time, but that's not what partners do. "You know I can't promise that. If I hear something, or sense something..."
"Birdie –"
"I can't let anyone else get hurt, Gershom. Not again."
He pauses, takes a breath. "That – it wasn't your fault, what happened today. You couldn't have known how much damage that thing was going to cause."
"But I could have been faster. I could have been stronger – better." She doesn't realize until she's stopped speaking how much that simple fact has been clawing at her, ensnaring her, refusing to let go. When she takes another breath, it's like her lungs can expand a little farther. Yes, she should have done more, and acknowledging that doesn't change how shaken everyone is. But it's something she hasn't been able to admit out loud. Admit to anyone but her partner – the absolutely only person that can understand what she means.
"No way," he says, and there's a heavy kind of strength in his voice. It's grounding and entrancing all at once. (Is that the Glamor? She wonders. Or is that just him?) "Just – I know you're not going to stop thinking like that, but can you try? You do so much good for this city, you fight so hard, you've saved so many people. You've protected everyone and everything and some weirdly strong akuma knocking down a building doesn't change a damn thing. Do you understand me?"
It's not fair – it's not. He sounds so sincere that his words find her fleshy, soft parts and dig right in until she feels like she can't even breathe. Kel's thankful that, Glamor or no, they're not broadcasting in a way that he can see her drop her face into her hands and suck in air until she feels steady again.
There is no way that she can reply to all that. It's – there's no way. So she lets seconds creep by in silence before saying, "Get some rest, Chevalier. I'll see you soon."
"Birdie –"
She hangs up.
( - - )
Her resolve has not faltered, but a few other things have. When she gets back, Neal is still in his spot on the couch, looking world weary and long suffering. So nothing's changed there, and for that Kel is glad. She sits with him for a while, absently watching whatever episode of Wiltshire Manor's he's queued up, and even listens to him complain about the anachronisms and inaccuracies. She dutifully teases him when Alice and Evelyn break up for what he claims is the third time and he gets misty eyed.
No way.
Chevalier had been so earnest in that moment: a tiny, unwavering light in the fog slowly descending on Corus. She can't quite shake that she could have done more; if she doesn't hold herself to a high standard, how will she ever get done what she has to? The city needs her at her best, and if she doesn't confront her mistakes then how will she make sure that everyone stays safe? How will she live up to the legacy that she's inherited?
But maybe there's something to be said for not getting too firmly stuck in the past. Today was strange, to be sure, and almost frightening in its own way. She can't let this happen again – she still has to be a better partner, a better fighter, a better leader. But she also didn't create these akuma. She didn't set loose a path of destruction on the city; if she can lower her head and plow forward, taking down her enemies and looking for work to do, then she might make it to the other side in one piece.
She might even do some good.
"Oi," Neal says after the episode winds to a close. "You need to sleep, Mother."
Kel dips her head towards him at the nickname, quirking an eyebrow. "I have to keep you awake."
"Oh please, not that line. I am in my twenties, I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself awake, Dearest."
"You need to set your alarm to go off every two hours, and I need to ask you questions each time," she replies matter of factly.
"Kel, c'mon."
"I'm going to go get more blankets. I'll set myself up in the armchair. If I don't get up, wake me."
"Kel!"
But she's already gone, slipping into the bathroom to get to the linen closet. Her fingers wrap around machine warmed comforters, the soft ones they haven't used in ages, and breathing in the scent of clinically clean fabric softener steadies her heart.
This was a storm, and a rocky one at that. However, if she's going to take another step, she'll have to shed her guilt and worry and focus on doing something productive. Whether that's figuring out Papillion's plan or solving the mystery of the disappearances or even just making sure that her secret identity remains secret, she can't do anything if she's paralyzed by emotions tangled up in things beyond her control. She's here and alive and that is enough to keep pushing forward. One step at a time, she will use her legs, pick herself up, and walk.
For now, that walking takes her back to the living room. Neal sighs and protests fruitlessly when she sets up the alarms on her phones, and in response Kel drops her extra pillow right on the top of his head. He tries to make a comment about it, but they can both hear the laughter leaking out from behind each word and it undermines any attempt he had at achieving righteous indignation.
Seemingly resigned, Neal takes the pillow and the blanket and babbles a string of increasingly incoherent noises of protestation as he drifts directly into sleep. Once he's gone, Kel uses the privacy of the room to test out a smile. It feels a little weak and strained, and she lets it go after only a few seconds. Sleep evades her as much as it ensnares Neal, and she finds herself playing with the edge of the blanket as bits and pieces of her day play across her thoughts.
"Hey. You look like someone cancelled your Yule. Why the long face?"
" – You think there's going to be a next time?"
"You think things are going to escalate?"
"Birdie –"
The echoed voices and missing pieces chase her into a less than restful sleep.
