The door creaked shut behind Caitlyn. It creaked but didn't click.
The absence of the reassuring sound sent her hip nudging the door with added force.
The door creaked again, but still no sound of the latch engaging came.
It was because there wasn't one. The recollection sent a small huff from her already panting lungs.
Panting because it was a five floor walk-up. Arms laden with the final box, she allowed the sad, off-centered, dented, dinged, and flaking solid wood door to rebel for a moment.
She swore not to judge a book by its cover. If she did, surely this door would have been just the omen to send her hightailing back topside. Instead she considered it an 'adjustment'. It would be the first of many.
But Caitlyn was a quick study: trial and error showed the door could close but only with a firm push and quick flick of the deadbolt.
A deadbolt that was coated in rust and had screw heads stripped of their identity.
If that wasn't disconcerting enough, the yellowing and discoloring of age on the wooden surfaces was another notch against the hinged beast. In fact, most of the flat was marked with age, wear, tear, and in need of a deep clean. Perhaps that was too nice: perhaps obliterating the apartment was the most merciful thing.
Caitlyn's nose scrunched while her fingers rubbed away the crusty residue left behind by the deadbolt. It was in shambles, but wiping it from the earth was hardly the right solution.
Eyes narrowed on the bolt; the door; the tree. That's what it was: a tree, and Caitlyn couldn't let a tree distract her. She needed to focus on the forest. So no, she wouldn't judge the flat by its door, or deteriorating finishes, or poorly performing utilities or-
She shook her thoughts from the distraction; from the trees. They weren't reasons to flee: they were just adjustments; new ways of living; new habits.
That's what the whole morning was: one new disaster that became one new habit-forming experience after another.
It was easy to pick out the flaws of her new world: smaller windows, creaky floors, a bedroom with just enough space for a bed and standing room at the end, blinds unreliably tacked to the warping wood frames, and a smell that Caitlyn couldn't quite put her finger on. A laundry list of fixes would keep Vander busy for days ranging from a leaky tap in the kitchen, no hot water from the bathroom sink, a window that wouldn't open, a wood floorboard that comically flipped up if the edge was stepped on, a light switch that mysteriously didn't turn anything on, and a stain on the ceiling that looked like evidence of a lurking leak.
Yes, it was easy to pick out the scuffs and dings and cracks in the surface of what would be frowned upon in her family's immaculate estate. If she let herself dwell on that for too long, it'd certainly drive her mad, and that was hardly a productive use of her time.
So instead she focused on the positives; on the slight differences that made this seemingly out of character leap appear more practical - reasonable from the unreasonable: there was the close proximity to the university, the southern-facing windows that guaranteed rays of sunlight even in the overcast city of Zaun, the perfectly sized living room that fit a small couch and her study desk, and, perhaps most importantly, the fact it was all her own.
All of six hours had elapsed since the view of her parents offering hesitant waves faded from the rearview mirror of a clunky rental. She'd been due to meet Vander mid-morning, so she planned two hours for the short one hour drive into Zaun - the Lanes, to be exact. It was an area she'd known in name only until signing a twelve-month lease a week earlier.
The transition wasn't hard to notice: clean, immaculate pavement gave way to cobblestone, then to potholes, then to nothing at all; wide, sunlit streets narrowed to less than a car's width. A sharp scratch then clatter of a side mirror was evidence enough of that.
Zaun was everything and nothing like she expected: claustrophobic yet expansive; dirty yet colorful; repugnant yet filled with more character than Piltover's high street.
Her decision came nearly too late. After sleepless nights, pro/con lists, and a literal map that collaged her floor with all the possible outcomes, successes, and failures, she chose Zaun University's Law School over the region's top five schools. It was single-handedly the riskiest thing she'd ever done in her twenty-two years.
Before this she'd followed the rules; the expectations; the advice of her parents. Top grades and scores secured first choice for her undergraduate degree, and she followed along when her mother insisted on doling out the tuition money for four pricey years at the prestigious University of Piltover. Expectations of high honors were had by her mother, and tireless nights, planless weekends, and a nonexistent social-calendar made them happen.
Well, nearly nonexistent. The incoming buzz on her cell was the perfect reminder of what and who she'd let persuade her down the occasionally social outing.
"You change your mind yet?" came the familiarly light-hearted tone on the other end of the line, an hour away, likely lounging in a sun room with a mimosa in hand.
"Hello, to you, too, Mel."
"Is that a yes?"
"Just finished moving everything in, actually," Caitlyn replied, smirking at the indignant scoff from her best friend.
"So you're saying you haven't ditched your stuff on the side of the road and rolled into a bar yet?"
"Nope."
"Are you being held hostage? Do you need me to rescue you? Blink twice for yes."
Caitlyn restrained an eye roll, slotting the phone against her cheek and shoulder before digging into the nearest box.
"Did you need something?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact-"
"And don't say-"
"-I need my Sun-"
"-Sunday fun-"
"-day funday gal pal, yes."
"It's Saturday."
"Which means the situation is serious," Mel sighed dramatically. "You've really put me in a bind. I might have to grab drinks with Jayce - Jayce, you hear me?."
"I'm sure you'll manage."
"Oh, darling, are you sure I can't come sweep you back home? It's hardly been a day and I'm completely lost without your know-it-all brain filling my every waking moment with boringly neurotic thoughts."
"I miss you, too."
"Let me come visit."
"We've discussed this."
They had. Multiple times over multiple bottles of wine. Mel could come visit after the first month of class once Caitlyn had settled into her studying nest and was in need of being dragged back into society for a girl's night out.
"But you weren't serious about that."
"I was."
She really was. She was on every occasion Mel had groaned about the lonely life she'd live without Caitlyn at her side.
"I hope your place has a draft and you catch a cold."
She didn't, and Caitlyn knew that.
"I'm going to finish unpacking now."
"Fine," Mel whined. "But call me the instant you can't take it any longer and I'll be there in half a second dragging your skinny ass topside mumbling 'I told you so' the entire way, you hear me?"
"I do."
"Love you, babe."
Caitlyn hummed in response, letting the click on the other side echo for a moment before she tossed the phone onto the couch and focused on the half-empty box before her.
Mel Merdarda was the lone thread that grounded Caitlyn through the worst nights of studying. Her best friend had moved to Piltover when Caitlyn was six, and they'd been inseparable ever since - much to Cassandra's dismay. She was the ally who Caitlyn whispered her darkest secrets to. By age ten, Mel knew her better than she knew herself. It was mutual affection.
There were other friends - Jayce, for example - who had been long-time family friends, but Jayce was nearly ten years her senior. Fun to tease and constantly curious, he was like the brother she'd never had.
It only occurred to her two years after her parents invested in his start-up that she realized how Jayce was considered 'attractive'.
'Hot' and 'jaw-dropping' and 'something to sink your teeth into' were the dark secrets Mel whispered about him in Caitlyn's ear for years, but the chiseled, boyish grin never struck her that way. While Mel fantasized about their future children's names, Caitlyn's eye was caught on piercing green eyes, a laughter that radiated the sun itself, and legs that went for days.
A confused three months later, she finally confessed her hidden feelings to Mel who smiled warmly, patted her arm, and confessed she'd known for years. Both were news to Caitlyn.
She sat with it for another two years of pining and focused studies before confessing to her parents that the men they were not-so-subtly bringing home for dinner weren't her type. In hindsight it was a silly thing to be worried about, and a moment of mother-daughter bonding when Cassandra shared her own teenage escapades after a particularly boozy dinner three months after that.
But unlike Mel's curiosity which drove her from relationship to relationship and social outing to social outing, Caitlyn remained happily content and complacent in her studies. It was a constant sticking point in their friendship that Mel would spend their college Friday nights regaling tales of her latest suitor while Caitlyn's contribution was tied to the latest legal journal and the growing debate between legal realism and legal positivism in the community.
Mel would come charging through the door, buzzed from her afternoon happy hour and bottle of wine half empty, demanding Caitlyn halt her studying and join her for a night out. It always ended the same way: Caitlyn would reject her advancements and they'd inevitably find themselves sprawled on the couch nursing the remainder of the bottle before Mel would sniff out the hard stuff down the hall.
On a handful of occasions it led to curious explorations, but it never went past kid-friendly lip locking and certainly never crept below clothes. Curiosity, proximity, and trust made for great experimentation. So did the drop-dead gorgeous way Mel's eyes glimmered mischievously after her third drink. Breathless and cheeks flushed, they'd inevitably come crashing back to the surface and untangle from the couch glowing with the light of a forgotten movies. Mel would grin knowingly while Caitlyn tamed the locks of hair that became tangled in the moment.
It was an unspoken occurrence. The duo rarely acknowledged it, but not out of regret - simply out of not needing to. Everything that needed said had appeared in the chapped, bruised lips that stung for hours after. There was nothing but mutual respect for the other: Mel for her outrageously extroverted personality capable of remembering every detail of every person she crossed down to the street they grew up on and their cat's name. Like Caitlyn, she came from wealth, but with a slight chip on her shoulder for the way her parents shipped her off to boarding school at a young age. It was different from Caitlyn's experience because at least the boarding school she attended was just outside Piltover. Mel attended the same school but her home was thousands of miles away. Holidays were spent at the Kiramman estate, and as much as Caitlyn's mother scoffed at the 'aimlessness' of Mel's choices, she loved the girl like a daughter.
It was difficult to convince Mel of the same.
The reason was because of a particularly contentious winter break after their junior year of undergrad. Mel and Caitlyn were back in Piltover for the weeks between fall and spring term, and Mel had aged into alcohol. Caitlyn, three months younger, had not. It made for quite a mess when Cassandra and Tobias Kiramman returned from the opera to discover Caitlyn neck-deep in the toilet and Mel's hands wrapping firmly around strands of indigo hair.
Mel was asked to find alternate lodging for the last two weeks of break. It was a happenstance that Mel to this day said was fate knocking on her door. Why? Because her bunkmate was none other than Jayce Talis.
A round of unsuccessful fundraising required his lofty two-bedroom bachelor pad to take up a roommate. If Mel had died and gone to heaven, even that wouldn't have been as perfect as the scenario that sent her and her bags into the spare bedroom. A single wall separated her from her future husband, and she was less than suppressed in her excitement.
Until her third night.
"Why is everyone gay in this city?" She scoffed, tossing an olive-less toothpick into her glass of downed vesper.
"Isn't that supposed to come with a lemon peel?" Caitlyn asked, glancing up from her girthy copy of Family Court Practice.
"Are you here to help or criticize?"
"Sorry," Caitlyn offered with all the conviction of someone who had spent the last four years casually suggesting Jayce's eyes didn't play for Mel's team.
Mel sighed into the arrival of another drink, drowning her sorrows and dreams for the night. And the following night. And the following night. Denial was a cruel mistress, Caitlyn supposed.
A smirk broke over Caitlyn's lips at the memory. Somewhere between alphabetizing her books and re-situating her desk she'd fallen into the pool of memories. An anchor; an ally; a comrade in arms. These were the things Mel was to Caitlyn. A rarity, really. Caitlyn knew many people, but she considered only a handful to be friends. Mel was more than that, and it was her first grown-up adventure without her right-hand woman. No more was her best friend down the hall, in the next room, or hovering over her shoulder, sloshing a bottle conspiratorially. No longer would Caitlyn be interrupted from the endless cups of coffee, or books and papers pouring over the edges of a secluded table in the library with the bright, radiant, if only a little pushy, personality.
But that couldn't distract her. Hell, Mel usually was the distraction. Yes, she would miss it, but their lives had hit a fork in the road: Mel was topside, working for Piltover's financial office handling some of the city's most classified information while rubbing elbows with the 'most brainlessly dull but powerful personalities' she'd ever met.
Mel's words, of course. It was a stepping stone to get where she really wanted: public office.
"So what if I learn all the dirty little secrets in the process - it can't hurt a girl?" Mel had shrugged, failing miserably at hiding a smirk.
If Mel could condition herself to love the nine to five office life, surely Caitlyn could adapt to life outside Piltover. She could do this. Her entire life had been training to reach this moment; to become, not just any lawyer, but a lawyer who fought for real justice.
Even in her brain the authenticity of that conviction fell flat. She'd grown up surrounded by powerful legal experts: her mother was one of seven partners who carried more sway than elected officials. Caitlyn jokingly dangled this fact over Mel's ambitions.
"Good thing I've got Cassandra's successor in my pocket then," she had replied coolly with a suggestive wink.
The retort melted away Caitlyn's teasing spirit for three reasons: the first was that Caitlyn didn't consider herself anywhere close to the high-caliber attorney she'd sat with at dinner parties. The second was that it would mean swallowing the truth of Piltover's seedy underbelly: it was run by money-lined pockets. The third was that Caitlyn had no interest in that kind of law.
Years of exposure, internships, and stories prepared Caitlyn for the world of corporate law. It was the easy path, but it was also caked in moral ambiguity. Her mother's partners waved off such suggestions, but the cryptic whispers and side-eyes were easy to decipher: for the right dollar, even the most-stand-up lawyers would happily turn a blind eye and offer advice to backstab, undercut, or disadvantage an enemy.
It was this world Caitlyn wanted to flee. She didn't consider these people evil, but their decisions weren't ones she could stomach. From a young age she'd been groomed to inherit Cassandra's position, and it broke Cassandra Kiramman's heart the day Caitlyn confessed disinterest in that field of study.
Three months of heated discussions, glares of disappointment, and tears of betrayal later her mother finally, begrudgingly lamented the truth: Caitlyn was choosing a third-rate school to destroy the Kiramman legacy and rebel against her parents for offering such opportunity on a silver platter.
Cassandra's words, of course.
"Honestly, Caitlyn, it feels like you don't appreciate the tireless years, financial burden, and work we've put into the future you're discarding like last year's Lavringo*."
She hadn't left her parents on bad terms - just dismissive ones from her mother and unspoken glances of empathy from her father.
Regardless, she wasn't about to let this opportunity go to waste, and she certainly wasn't about to let herself fail and return, tail between her legs, to her parents' knowing and disapproving looks. They'd been vocal about her school choice; it wasn't an ivy league; it wouldn't propel her into a position worthy of the Kiramman crest; even the Kiramman name couldn't pull her up from the bootstraps she'd saddled herself with. Now it was up to her.
Worse, her mother wailed, was that it wasn't even the best state school: it was Zaun University, a school known for its second highest drop-out rate in the country and for a Law School that ranked dead last in a review published surveying the biggest law firms in the region.
It was all politics though, and political sway wasn't something a Kiramman buckled to.
But Caitlyn wasn't afraid of a challenge. Some of the most aggressive ideas were coming out of Zaun University's Law School. The ideas weren't picked up and published in reputable journals, but they were profound nonetheless. In a world where the written word defined the future of generations, the progressive interpretations coming out of ZU were unfounded and inspiring.
And that was at the core of ZU's Law School's mission statement. It was where ideas could go against the grain, challenge the norm, and propose a way of thinking that wasn't tied to the dollars and cents of a business. It was part of the reason annual budgets were flimsy and questionable, but it was also the place to guarantee she'd be utterly unhirable in Piltover come graduation.
Unless.
Unless she was uncompromising in her studies and research and publishing; unless she was able to establish that ZU could perform at the same caliber as the University of Piltovers; unless she was able to excel above and beyond her ivy-league peers.
And to excel she would have to work - hard. Working hard required diligence; attention; the ability to compartmentalize and prioritize her studies; unparalleled focus.
These were things she did well.
Focus had never been an issue for Caitlyn Kiramman, and she'd set up her apartment to excel even further: no television, modest living quarters, a library of legal books taking up every available surface, and an app that Jayce had written to limit her social media access to ten minutes a day.
Yes, as long as she didn't lose sight of her goal she'd be set. As long as she-
A knock pulled her eyes from the book bindings she'd been organizing in alphabetical order and toward the solid-wood door that rattled against its frame. The knock sent a flake of paint from the grain.
She wasn't expecting visitors - not that she'd have any to expect. She'd barely acquainted herself with anything much less with anyone since arriving that morning.
She placed the book she was holding back onto the stack of others and walked slowly, if only slightly hesitantly, to the door. Fingers unclasped the slider chain and unlatched the bolt lock before twisting the handle open. Her shoulders stiffened at the stranger standing across from her.
"Hello?"
"I'm here about the window."
"The window?" Caitlyn asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the woman leaning casually against her door frame. There was something both compelling and intimidating about the woman: a ruffle of hair carelessly falling over her eyes; a dirty toothpick rolling disgustingly between her pale, scarred lips; a tattoo of the number six in roman numerals over her freckled cheek. She was dressed in red overalls stained with paint and what Caitlyn hoped was just dirt. The white shirt beneath the layers of tattered fabric was just as worn: the sleeves had clearly been torn, ripped, or eaten off, leaving frayed fabric and threads hanging at the edges. Beneath that were bulging biceps that sent Caitlyn's heart stammering and lungs inhale unexpectedly.
"It's still stuck, right?"
"I, yes, but-" Caitlyn began, tearing her eyes from the frayed fabric that tangled and swayed and lay against bare arms that, even in a relaxed state, looked sculpted by gods and-
"Sometimes the guys paint right over the frame; should be a quick fix," the woman replied, a screwdriver appearing from her pocket, twirling dangerously between her fingers. The sight drove Caitlyn's arm across the door, blocking the woman's attempt to infiltrate her new home.
It was irrational and carried more confidence than Caitlyn could possibly muster.
She had never visited Zaun for more than an afternoon, and even then most trips were school-related and tightly planned to limit any 'dangerous excursions'. But she knew of the stories; of the tricks that could get people conned, mugged, or worse. She wasn't about to let her time in Zaun end less than a day after she arrived.
"You're not Vander."
"Well spotted." the woman said, her arms crossing with an impatience that set Caitlyn's teeth on edge. Was that true? Or was it intrigue? Crossed, the muscles looked more defined; more refined; more-
The toothpick was plucked from the woman's mouth and rolled carelessly between her fingers. It made Caitlyn's lip curl in revulsion. Muscles or not, the thought of the germ-ridden birch twig was just the distraction she needed.
Her mother had warned her that Zaunites were difficult people, and she'd naively hoped that her earlier encounter with Vander - a friendly, warm, caring muscle of a man - would be a trend that proved Cassandra Kiramman wrong. This second greeting - pushy, dumb, and unhelpful - was what Caitlyn had hoped to avoid.
It was another habit she wasn't used to.
"But he… I… where is he?"
"How should I know?"
Caitlyn stared blankly, unable to formulate an articulate response that wouldn't sound offensive. She didn't like judging people's motivation, intelligence, or personality without scientific observation, but it was clear that Zaun would be different. Zaun was dangerous if not handled with a careful, vigilant eye.
So it was this vigilant eye that formed an opinion of the woman across from her: this Zaunite was confident, couldn't be bothered with pleasantries, and, if left unchecked, was undoubtedly a trouble-maker. A trouble-maker Caitlyn didn't want in her home without explanation no matter how much her tossel of hair, attractively confident demeanor, or casual display of musculature argued otherwise.
So she used her vigilante eye and stared, unmoving at the armed stranger seeking entrance into her new home. A long moment was spent in a stalemate of wills, and Caitlyn wasn't about to let herself fold against her first confrontation in the city known for the worst kind of scheming.
Finally the woman relented, a victory that Caitlyn celebrated silently: "Vander doesn't service the units," she answered with a huff of restlessness.
"Doesn't service-? But he said to call if I needed anything."
"Yes. You call him, and he sends me. That's how things work."
"And you are?"
"Vi."
"Vi?"
"Yep, so, you gonna let me in, Cupcake or-?"
"Cu-cupcake?" Caitlyn exhaled in astonishment. All of her defenses fell to bits at the unexpected identifier. It sounded like a nickname. Did this Vi just give her a nickname? Was it a joke? Tongue in cheek? "Did you just - did you just… cupcake?"
"Is that a yes or no? Because I've got other things to do today."
"Yes, I-I… but what exactly are your credentials?"
If Vi took offense, it came in the form of a dismissive chuckle and a hand brushing back the untidy fringe to reveal the most piercing grey eyes Caitlyn had ever seen. It was disarming, and Caitlyn didn't approve if only because it made her tongue go dumb. She'd need to get better at dealing with Zaunites.
"I'm the property manager."
"You? Y-you're - you are the manager of the - the property manager?"
Why were words suddenly so hard to form? Why was Vi still staring at her? That was a dumb question; of course people make eye contact in conversation.
"Yep."
Why was she smirking? And why was it so distracting?
"And, uhm, and how many properties do you manage?"
"Just the ones I live in."
The grey warmed, and Caitlyn felt her mouth go dry.
Just the ones she lives in.
It took far too long for Caitlyn's typically studious brain to register what Vi was saying. When it finally clicked, she felt the question tumble from her mouth before she could stop it: "You live here?"
Vi nodded, glancing past Caitlyn into the apartment beyond. "Now you gonna let me in, Cupcake, or should we just let that window stay stuck?"
Words were lost and replaced with a mute shuffling of feet, the creak of a door widening, and a hand beckoning Vi into her home. Vi made it two steps before-
"Shoes off, please."
Vi's foot floated a hair above the faded, chipping, aged wood floor, and Caitlyn couldn't help the flushed embarrassment that inflamed her cheeks.
"You're worried about this staying clean? This floor. Right here," she asked, glancing at the warped planks surrounded by warped trim and warped walls. An eyebrow quirked up to match the corner of her mouth fighting to contain a grin.
Vi was right. The floors were in terrible shape, and she would undoubtedly need to invest in, well something to get it to a level Caitlyn would approve of. But that wasn't the point. It was the principle of the thing. Besides, she was a Kiramman after all, and Kirammans didn't lose their conviction.
"I… yes, please. If you wouldn't mind."
The look on Vi's face suggested she very much did mind, but a quick sigh of frustration was the only sound elicited. Caitlyn took it as a victory.
There was a confidence in the way Vi sauntered over to the window. It was a confidence that convinced Caitlyn her window was in good hands; that the task would be completed in no time and a fresh breeze could finally clear out the musk and age that clung to the flat. After the fifteenth minute of the metal prodding at layers of paint though, she began to question how applicable that confidence was. By the twentieth minute, Vi huffed in frustration and disappeared from her flat altogether before returning ten minutes later with a boxcutter.
By the thirty-fifth minute it was fair to say that it was taking far more than just a screwdriver and far longer than a minute to wrangle the paint encrusted window free.
By the fortieth minute Caitlyn didn't mind; Vi worked silently save for the occasional curse aimed at the window. Caitlyn, for her part, remained a safe distance from the property manager, slowly unpacking the kitchen goods and trying desperately to remain focused on the bubble wrap protecting her plateware. Unfortunately, her wandering eyes had other ideas, and she found herself shooting furtive glances at Vi.
Whether it was fortunate or not that Vi didn't seem to notice, Caitlyn couldn't decide. She didn't often make it a habit to gawk, but this Zaunite was becoming an exception. She tried to convince herself it was because she didn't trust the stranger; that Vi was a Zaunite, and Zaunites were known pick-pocketers, thieves, and scammers. Or because she didn't want her window damaged beyond repair. Or because she found herself questioning this property manager's qualifications.
Her eyes tracked Vi's movements for security. Yes. Security.
Because she was so close to… to… her favorite reading chair. Without a weary eye and sharp supervision, surely the property manager might swipe it. The live-in property manager. The live-in property manager hired to keep the building and its tenants safe and running smoothly.
It made no rational sense, but it was better than the truth which was quite simple: Vi was impossibly handsome. Caitlyn had seen overalls maybe once in her life as a school girl in daycare and thought they were atrocious. Now though, she couldn't help but log them as a new favorite.
Yes, Vi was confident, that was for sure. Perhaps a bit too confident and brazen and toned and… Caitlyn blinked, forcing her gaze back to the unpacked box of books.
It didn't take long to determine the culprit: paint. Except it wasn't a single coat of paint. It was layers and layers and years and years of it shellacked on top of each other. Flakes of it were peeled off carelessly and collected on the wood floor around Vi's socked feet. The mess stirred a retort in Caitlyn, but that was cut off when her eyes caught sight of Vi's socks: mismatched, one with a hole in the big toe, and both patterned with unexpectedly adorable critters.
"Are those ducks?"
"Eyes are up here, Cupcake."
Caitlyn hated the ease of Vi's retort. It made her unsettled and frustrated that her own tongue wasn't as practiced. The insecurity sent her lips pressed tightly together and her attention back on the box of plates.
A minute passed. Then another. Then a glance was chanced. Then another.
Finally a grunt of victory came both too late and too soon.
It was followed by old wood groaning open. Caitlyn raced to the newly opened window and took a grateful breath of air. That grateful breath quickly became regret, and she immediately felt her stomach churn and her gag reflex threaten to send her breakfast back up and onto the floor. The stench was horrid and nothing like the fresh air from her bedroom window back home.
Fingers compulsively squeezed her nose in an effort to rid it of the putrid aroma. It reminded her of a landfill if a landfill were exhausted through a rancid bathroom, spritzed with an unkept bar, and tumble-dried with the mangiest socks imaginable.
"What is that stench?" she gasped, her free hand gripping to slide the window shut. Another creak and groan whined through the tiny flat before the hustle and bustle of noise was shut out.
"What stench?"
Caitlyn glanced between the window and the property manager. Vi stared back, her expression unreadable. She couldn't decipher it. She'd hoped for something obvious like a grin, or a laugh, or the punchline to a joke, because there was no world when anyone with a functioning nose could ignore the cloud of odor forcing Caitlyn to blink back tears and struggle to keep her breakfast.
"The… that… I… can you not smell it?" She felt her tongue fumble in an effort not to sound offensive. Yes, she was used to the finer things in life, but surely even this smell couldn't go unnoticed.
"Smells like fresh air to me."
"It… I-I don't… What d-do you-"
"Want me to open it again?" Vi asked, her fingers curling around the frame at the ready.
"No, no, thank you," Caitlyn rushed, all but leaping across the space to keep the window firmly shut. "I… that was plenty, thank you."
Caitlyn was many things: smart, analytical, and had the memory of an elephant. She could distinguish the tiniest nuance in a legal paper better than most. Her uncanny attention to detail made her a spectacular studier and even better paralegal during her summer work.
But if there was one thing Caitlyn wasn't, it was good at jokes. She was far too rational to let amusement distract her from examining a situation critically. Perhaps that was why it took her so long to register the twinkle in the pair of grey eyes or the slow, mischievous lift of an eyebrow, or the squint of disbelief from the property manager.
She'd picked up these tiny, subtle changes, yes, but they hardly computed into 'joke'.
Until now.
"Oh… You're messing with me."
"Got it in one."
It made Caitlyn scowl.
"I don't think that's how it works. If I had gotten it in one, surely then your joke wouldn't have worked?"
"I guess?" Vi replied, her eyebrow raising in thought.
"Because then of course that means perhaps your joke wasn't any good."
"Or you aren't the right audience for humor," Vi replied, pocketing the tools and carelessly brushing the paint chips on the floor.
Caitlyn bit her tongue at both, favoring positive diplomatic relations. "Yes, perhaps."
"Oh, you're going to be a fun one, Cupcake."
"But you just insulted me."
Vi smirked, and Caitlyn felt herself miss another punchline.
"Not many of your kind around here," Vi explained cryptically.
"Because I'm not from here?"
When Caitlyn's scowl didn't fade, Vi conceded more: "too many oldies clogging up the stairs and offering me burnt biscuits. You though? You'll do just nicely."
"And why is that?"
"Well, for one, you're easily rattled."
"Easily rattled? I am not."
"Oh, so you always get this flush and dumb around everyone?"
"I-I don't-"
"It's a good thing, because the second selling point is that you're hot, Cupcake. It makes this whole arrangement better on the eyes."
"This arrangement?" Caitlyn asked, feeling an unexpected wave of warmth at Vi's candidness.
"You know," Vi smirked again, taking one, two, three steps into Caitlyn's personal space. "The one where you stand all pretty and boss me around."
"I don't really think… I just-"
"Don't ruin the moment, Cupcake," Vi winked, somehow already at the door; somehow already wearing her shoes; somehow grinning in a way that made Caitlyn's composure frazzle into a state of unintelligible sounds.
She tried. She really did, but words failed. They failed when Vi paused at the door to give her a chance to speak.
They failed when Vi's eyebrow crooked in laughter.
They failed when the door closed and didn't latch behind the property manager.
a/n: *Merle Lavringo, a yordle designer based in Damascia that makes one dress a year, you probably haven't heard of it shout-out to TheHomelyBadger for this nugget
This fandom is already so rich with fluffy delicious fics, but I thought I'd throw my hat into the ring. While I don't normally do fluff, these two deserve a waterfall of it. Besides, what better duo to give it a try on?
