The strong, sharp sunlight from bare tens of millions of miles away filters through the bars of Yassen's window, but only just; casting harsh splotches across the room. She's awake, but only in the vaguest sense—consciousness half buried beneath an instinctual depiction of a theorem drilled into her from the time she was old enough to babble. Not that she did much babbling—in part because it was not afforded to her.

The sudden clang of metal on metal jerks her from her floating half lucidity, and her head hits the back of her chair, bone jewellery rattling.

There's only one explanation for the noise; and Yassen scowls; shuts her book with barely restrained irritation, and rises, stalking across the room and to the open door.

"What," she says, "did I tell you about using constructs to practice your form?"

Ian Naoi, cavalier primary, and perpetual thorn in her side, grins. Her face is speckled with bone dust, and her paint, which Yassen had made her put on earlier in harsh exactitude, once depicting a passable Reverence To New Marrow, has become smeared and barely resembles a skull. Yassen's lips twist; an instinctual snarl rising beneath her teeth, and she strides over, seizing the other's face with one hand.

"As a punishment for ignoring my orders," Yassen hisses, fingers digging into the flesh of Naoi's jaw, bone to bone, "I'm ordering you to fix your miserable excuse for respectful presentation."

"Woah, there, your Bonelyness," Ian says, smirking , now, "wouldn't want someone to get the wrong idea."

Yassen nearly howls at her; the sound building up in her spine and trachea before she aborts it, quick as a crumbling construct, and reminds herself that berating Ian will do no more than draw the attention of the others, as far down the corridor as they may be—or, even worse, Naoi might enjoy it.

Instead, she digs her fingers into the flesh of the impertinent, idiotic, decorum-flouting excuse for a cavalier primary; until her fingers ache, leaving deep red indentations against the pale flesh, spaced close enough they look almost like tooth marks; and suddenly, not for the first time, Yassen wonders at sinking her teeth into Ian's flesh; biting hard enough to hit bone.

Ian looks down at her—damn her height—through long lashes; expression still so Saints damned cheerful. "At least let me put my rapier away," she says; and it's only then that Yassen remembers the silvered metal, its crude yet efficient grip ensconced in Naoi's hand, long, calloused fingers half obscured by the attempt at filigree that springs up as a meagre excuse for a guard. It was the best she could give her, Yassen thinks, bitterly. The Ninth's coffers are an empty grave.

"Fine," Yassen snaps; and steps back half a pace, instinctively running her fingers over her knuckle-beads in an attempt to banish the lingering sensation of the other's skin.

Ian slips the rapier into place at her waist, and then, when Yassen gives her a flat look, says, "Necros first."

Yassen scowls; a gash across her face, stretching inky black paint; but, unable to find a good reason to force her cavalier ahead—it makes more sense to have someone at her back, unfortunately—takes the lead.

Naoi's room, branching off from her own, is a near mirror of Yassen's, if somewhat smaller, and messier—Ian's somehow managed to leave all four articles of clothing she possesses beyond the hooded, sleeveless, loose-legged ensemble she's currently wearing, strewn across the bed, armchair, floor, and the tiny dresser in such a way that one would think she had been raised by mindless constructs—thought, Yassen considers, that is not too far off the mark. Not that it excuses it.

"Paint," she says, sharply, when Naoi waits a moment too long; and then, when the idiot still doesn't move, snarls, "do I have to do everything myself?" and strides, quickly, to where she can can feel the faint aura of the ground bone paste in the top drawer of the dresser.

Ian lets out a sound like a Ninth prisoner flung down from the highest levels without a lifesuit and suffering rapid frostbite. "Hoped you couldn't find that," she grumbles, and then, sighing like a rattling of Ninth nuns' prayer beads, holds out a hand. "Well, give it here."

Yassen bares her teeth. "You'll ruin it," she says, tartly. "I'll do it for you."

"Absolutely not," says Naoi; backing away.

Unfortunately, eighteen years of living in Drearburh with Yassen have not managed to sink into her bones the knowledge that a necromancer's attack will not necessarily come from the front. Yassen takes a moment to despair over this—but not much. A second later, the bones sunk into the walls as sconces are leaping to her command, stretching and elongating until two skeletal hands slam Ian against the wall.

She struggles, cursing hard enough to make even Hebes' slowly disintegrating brows to fall off. Yassen ignores her and opens the small tin of paint, split down the middle, one half whiter than a tendon, the other black as necrotic tissue. Dipping a finger into the white half, Yassen makes quick work of setting the foundations for a proper Shamed Revenant, and then wipes her fingers on the fabric of Naoi's shirt to clean them before starting on the black.

"Oh, fuck you," Ian says, with vehemence. "That shit's harder to get out than blood." And then, perhaps realising that it was intentional, tries to bite Yassen's fingers when they dip down to paint her upper lip.

"Bite me, and I'll force bone powder up your nasal cavities and make it blossom in your brain," Yassen hisses, snatching her fingers away.

"Then you'd have to find another cavalier primary on short notice," Ian says, mulishly. "You could let Crawan have a stab at it."

This time, Yassen's jerk is full-body; and the sets of infant ulnar bones of her primary set of earrings clack together. "I'd sooner cut my arm off," she says. "You're a terrible cavalier, but Crawan can barely hold steel straight."

That's a lie in a truth—Crawan really is that terrible. Why Hebes ever allowed her to train is a mystery—they may be dangerously low on those even preliminarily capable of a cavalier's duties, but resorting to Crawan seems bitter edged desperation that sets her teeth on edge. Ian, though—

To say her form and carriage are a living, breathing work of art would be understatement. Yassen had only seems scraps of it prior to the blasted House Reunion nonsense, but now, after watching her best the Fifth and Eighth cavs, it's worse than she could have imagined in her wildest nightmares. Ian is breathtaking .

Vaguely, she registers having drawn the final slash of black on Ian's cheek; but her hand hovers.

Ian's eyes lock on hers; no longer irritated but irritatingly understanding; and she raises a hand; palm pressing Yassen's hand against her cheek; leaving into it as much as she's able, restrained to the wall as she is.

"All you had to do was ask, Yas," she murmurs; gentle as a blade between the ribs. Yassen wonders, suddenly, if she'll be bleeding, should she pull her palm from where it's cupping Ian's jaw.

"I..." She swallows; cartilage solidifying to bone; barely able to choke out the words. "I ask too much already."

Ian blinks at her; eyes suddenly sharp and hard. "Since when has that stopped you, Divinosta?" It's a reprehension—but not, Yassen realises, after a beat, for her actions—rather, for her lack thereof.

"For you—?" Yassen stumbles over the syllables, "perhaps now."

The look Ian treats her to is one of unbridled frustration. "I'm not some fragile theorem," she snaps. "I can full well defend myself from you. Do your worst, Yas. I'll come out the other end just fine." She tilts her chin defiantly; the white paint barely hiding the blossoming bruises along her jaw. Her upper lip is black; a line of it beneath her eyelids. Her eyes burn hot.

Yassen, with no other recourse, kisses her; carefully. It would be a shame to ruin hard work.

Ian smiles against it as if she's just won some inexplicable game. When Yassen pulls away, she says, "I wonder what Triginta would say about this."

" She can keep her protocol obsessed metacarpals out of the Reverend Daughter's business," Yassen says primly. The skeletal hands pinning Ian's shoulders to the wall fell to the floor at some point, but she can't bring herself to care. Her hand is still pressed to the unbruised side of her cavalier's jaw.

Ian laughs, low and steady, the sound vibrating, and kisses her again.

A/N: regarding names in this fic, here's some notes:

- divinosta is russian for ninety and naoi is irish for nine—i chose the languages the respective forenames came from and kept with the naming traditions established in the locked tomb books
- hebes is blunt—one derivation of blunt is from middle english "blunt" or "blont" meaning "dull" and hebes is latin for "dull, dim, sluggish, stupid, blunt, languid" (can you tell i don't like blunt?)
- crawan is old english for crow, as crowley derives partially from old english "cra-we" (crow)
- triginta is latin for thirty. triginta's forename is julia, of rothman fame—i feel like the third house would suit her