"Shielder's thinking about joining another team," Vicky says, looking out of our apartment window with a firmly neutral expression in place. It's a beautiful day, perfect for going out, but she asked to eat in. Now I know why.
I pause, fork of steak-filled mac'n'cheese halfway to my mouth, thinking. Then I shrug and bite down. "He's already got a team," I say, the words muffled by the food. "Someone trying to snipe him?"
"Ames, chew with your mouth closed," Vicky says, making a face in disgust. "No one wants to see that. And no. He just started asking about what would happen if he decided to join up with Flashpoint."
I roll my eyes and swallow. "No can do. I have a reputation to maintain. Also, why? " I ask, tilting my head. Sure, New Wave doesn't pay great, but it has a pretty absurd medical package. That, and Flashpoint isn't exactly a big name. Like, I could understand if someone like First Current or Skybreak sent him an invite, but if he had gotten one of those he'd be shouting it from the rooftops.
"Eric's tired of 'listening to his Dad all the time' and 'wants to get out on the front lines,'" Vicky says, adding the air quotes as she turns back to me, lips set and eyes dead. "So, basically he doesn't want to go to college in the fall and wants away from home."
I nod solemnly, taking another bite of food. Mmm, beef in milk. Such a delicious cruelty. "Yes on the former, no on the latter. He shouldn't leave us because we're his family, not because he doesn't want to go to more school."
Vicky drops her head into her hands. "Ames, not everyone's power gives them a seven figure income. He's going to need a day job, and for that he'd going to need a degree. Besides," she adds, looking up at me. "College isn't just for money. You also learn soft skills, like how to read, how to talk to people, how to build a coherent argument, all sorts of valuable things." I sigh, put down my fork, and look Vicky dead in the eye.
"I'm not going to college," I say. "I don't like dealing with fans when I'm trying to work, I don't like doing things I don't want to do, and I'm not going to have the time to work at the hospital and attend classes." We've been having this argument at least once every few months ever since Vicky enrolled, and even with the gaps between each iteration growing larger it's still a pain.
Vicky sighs. "I'm not saying you have to do what I do. What a regular student does. Just sit in on a lecture?" she asks, eyes softening. "I know you already have a job. I know you're happy with where you are. I just," she fumbles for words before giving up and reaching across the table for my hand. "I just want to make sure my sister is going to be okay."
I roll my eyes but reach out to meet Vicky halfway anyway, giving her hand a waggle. "Yeah, yeah, mush mush something something eternal familial love." The words aren't barbed though, and I give Vicky a quick smile. "Still not going to do it, but you can keep asking."
"See, saying things like that makes me doubt the familial love bit," Vicky says, letting go of my hand and leaning back in her chair. "But if I can't appeal to familial love, I guess I'll just have to seduce you," she adds, smirking a little as she leans forward, arms coming under her chest to show off her rather pretty eyes.
I wince, keeping my gaze firmly locked onto her actual eyes. "Vicky, too soon," I say as a small shudder passes through me. "It will always be too soon." Vicky shakes her head apologetically as she sits back up, a little more subdued but still focused.
"Right, forgot. Sorry about that." She sighs. "I just keep thinking about a certain someone who comes over every week, kicks Dean and I out of the apartment for the night, and makes you a lot happier for the next few days..." Vicky trails off, eyeing me meaningfully. I meet her gaze coolly.
"She's a professional escort named Flora Blanca who I pay to throw me to the floor and have me any way she pleases," I say flatly. "Sometimes we switch things around and I cut up my genitals and graft a dick to my groin so I can-"
"Ew ew ew stop!" Vicky says, sticking out her tongue and waving her hands in front of my face. "Why would you even say that? Ugh, I need to bleach that image from my mind."
"Fuck with the best, get fucked like the rest," I say primly, dabbing at my lips with a paper napkin. "That, and you have only yourself to blame. Please don't bring it up again," I say more quietly. I love Vicky to death, but the incest thoughts of yesteryear are not joke material. Not now, maybe not ever.
Vicky nods. "Sorry about that. But seriously, what about Taylor? Wouldn't you like to be able to 'talk shop' with her?" she asks, raising an eyebrow and sipping her water. "Woo her with Shakespearean sonnets and ancient lyric, bring her to her knees with the rhythm of your words. Don't you think it might be nice to show some interest in your girlfriend's hobbies?"
I sigh. "Vicky. It's not happening," I state. "I have a job. I understand what I want and need. I'm not going to stress myself out, spend a ton of cash, and lose way too much of my free time pursuing a degree I'm not going to use because it's the thing that's in right now. Taylor knows that," I say, a goofy grin sliding across my face. "She knows and she doesn't care."
"Earth to Ames," Vicky says. I blink, dropping out of my happy haze, and see Vicky smiling. "She really makes you happy, doesn't she?" she says. I nod, going back to my food.
"Yeah. She really does."
After Rose killed Spree, she was going to be on the Teeth's shit list forever. That was never really in question, and since they're only ever in Boston for two or three months at a time it's usually not an issue. When it is, Rose takes a trip out of town. Easier than getting into a cape fight every week, and it also gives her an excuse to travel around and meet other artists. It's one of the (many) reasons she doesn't do long-term contracts in Boston, just in case she gets a heads up and has to get out of town.
Sometimes we don't get that warning, though.
"Get clear!" Rose shouts, stepping between me and a hail of automatic fire, a half dome of bone expanding rapidly from her arm to shield both of us, the barrier rattling like a wooden roof in a hurricane as the garden around us gets destroyed by the fusillade. "I can't fight them and keep you safe at the same time!"
"I'd love to, but I can't outrun bullets!" I snap as I try to imagine a map of the park we're at in my head. I can handle a few normal gangbangers armed with knives and pipes. A low Brute rating from being in literally perfect condition and a few years of martial arts training is a surprisingly good defense against generic thugs. Capes are usually scarier than me in a straight up fight, but against them all I have to do is buy enough time for one of the two high-rated Movers I know to respond to my distress call.
Thugs with automatic weapons, who know how to aim, backed up by a parahuman who knows what they're doing? Way out of my weight class.
"Come on out, cunt munchers!" a voice screams, accompanied by a metallic hissing sound. Taylor jerks her arm back, dome remaining solid and separate. A moment later it shudders, a horrible grinding noise coming from it as it starts dissolving into dust, invisible saws tearing into it and slowly wearing away our cover.
"Climb on," Rose mutters, kneeling down next to me. I wordlessly scramble onto her, arms around her neck and legs in her hands. Bone crawls over me, thick enough and heavy enough to stop a bullet, and Rose assumes a runner's stance. "ETA on Vicky?" she asks.
"She said three minutes," I say, looking up. "That was two minutes ago."
The shield shudders one more time, cracking ominously, and Rose starts running, legs working in tandem with limbs of bone so numerous I can't keep track of them all, spraying flak all around us as we tear up dirt and dash through flower beds. I tighten my arms as the gunfire starts up again, bullets whizzing past us like the most dangerous hornets of all time. They're shooting short, controlled bursts, the kind that are actually accurate and not just a great way to kill a crowd of people. It means that we're not just dealing with rank and file idiots.
I feel an impact on my lower right side, a bit of blunt force trauma that completely knocks the air out of me. Stings like a bitch, but I've been shot before. This feels more like a baseball bat than a bullet, painful but definitely not fatal.
A blast of fuckme/fuckyou hits me, and judging by the sudden shock of spikes on Taylor's shoulders she feels it too. I look up just in time to see Vicky drop out of the sky, bullets screaming in behind her. She stops just short of the ground, firmly in cover behind a fountain and wearing her serious face, the furrowed brows sharply at odds with the cheerful yellow sundress she's wearing. Rose promptly angles our mad dash towards her, sliding into relative safely behind the structure. Another metallic hissing sound starts and the stone begins shuddering.
"Rasp, a Blaster/Shaker who can destroy up to half of whatever she hits with those blasts of hers," Vicky says, words spilling from her lips thick and fast as she gives us both a quick once-over. Rose shatters the armor off of me, one hand going to my side, but I bat it away, shaking my head and giving her a look. "Doesn't shoot fast and she can only have one shot active at a time, but it destroys anything and everything," Victoria finishes. "Game plan is to get Ames out of here and wait for backup."
"Agreed," I say before looking to Rose. "You heard about the back up, right?" The Protectorate doesn't have the best response time, but they're also not slow. Definitely not slow enough for Rose to justify fighting a group of top tier mooks and a cape with an offensive ability that breaks anything.
Rose hisses violently, armor transforming away from it's plant theme into something angular and aquatic, like the bones of a fish from the Marianas Trench.
"The Protectorate's more than welcome to take what's left of them in," she growls, peeking over the lip of the fountain at the group of Teeth soldiers who are currently taking cover behind trees as they send potshots our way. I bunch my jaw, wanting to argue, but the fountain's almost half gone already.
We're out of time.
Vicky holds out her arms wordlessly, and I promptly settle into them, bridal-style. We've long since figured out that this is the best way to take advantage of her durability and strength, and PHO doesn't care almost at all anymore. Vicky crouches for a moment, then kicks off the ground, the sudden acceleration making me tear up and close my eyes against the wind pressure.
I still hate flying with Vicky.
A few more angry hornets whizz by but none of them hit either of us. Our angle changes, from straight up to an arc, and eventually Vicky stops moving, coming to stop that feels natural enough that I know she's standing, not floating.
"Nearby rooftop, covered from most lines of fire," she says quickly, putting me down as I rub my eyes clear. "I'm going back to assist." She turns back in the direction of the battle and floats up into the air, rapidly disappearing into the sky. I suppress a flash of frustration at my lack of agency and head to the edge of the building, looking down at the park-come battlefield.
The gunfire has stopped, and I can see Teeth members slowly moving towards the sad remains of the fountain, water leaking out from half a dozen different holes in the bowl. The cape is a woman dressed in body armor covered with rusty hacksaw blades, hands raised threateningly as her grunts scan the area around her. Rose is nowhere to be seen, and I strain my eyes searching for a flash of white, trying to figure out where she is. If I were a Changer with almost hilariously bad anger problems presented with a group of targets, where would I-
The ground underneath the cape erupts, dirt flying everywhere and sending the thugs stumbling. I see the cape fall forward, body somehow wrong in a way I can't make out from here. I hear shouting and the poppoppop of distant gunfire as the five thugs try to open up on Rose, who's suddenly appeared in the middle of their formation. I'm not sure if she's just shrugging the bullets off or if they're not hitting her, but Rose doesn't stop moving, an impossibly fast twist of sharp edges and points passing near each thug and leaving them writhing on the ground in her wake.
I look at what used to be a pristine garden, one of the few green spaces left in Boston. Now it's torn up, emerald lawns marred by scars of black earth, flower beds jagged and ruined by Rasp's blasts and Rose's flak alike.
I see Vicky descend, slowly and carefully. I think she says something, because Rose gestures at the cape on the ground in front of her, and I see Vicky visibly shudder. I squint at the grounded cape, who's rolling around on the ground, writhing in pain. She still looks wrong, her body too slim to be human. Vicky said Blaster/Shaker, not Changer, so what-
My mouth goes dry as I put the pieces together.
Blaster/Shaker. One with an absolute offense. The Teeth are pretty good at playing dead, and if Rose just knocked her out Rasp could probably escape a lot of different restraints. Rose's solution?
Cut off her arms, then cap them with bone. Can't break out of cuffs if you don't have to wear any, and this way she won't bleed out.
Rose walks up behind Vicky and wraps her arms around her. Shortly after that the two of them fly towards me in a straight line.
I step back from the edge of the roof, tracking the two of them as they move. Once they touchdown, Rose starts walking over to me, her armor once more floral and serene, though still spotted with blood.
"Are you okay?" she asks, a hand extended towards me, halting, hesitant. I look at it, then up at her. "I felt your armor get hit," she clarifies, stepping forward into arms reach. "I didn't feel it shatter, but I don't want to take chances. Ames, are you okay?" she asks, deadly serious.
I think about it. Five people are bleeding behind her. Five people are bleeding, one is going to be permanently crippled without parahuman assistance, and Rose is worried about a hit that she knows didn't actually land.
I force a smile and bop her on the head. "Rose, I'm an honorary doctor," I say, the words coming out a little higher pitched than I wanted. "I'm good. Now then, let's go talk to the white hats about what happened," I say, pointing back towards the park. There aren't any PRT trucks there yet, but it's only a matter of time. That, and leaving a bunch of bleeding thugs unsupervised is probably a bad idea.
This time I fly back with Rose, her wings more than enough to get us across the empty sky. As we glide, I think about the potential fallout of this situation. Rose is going to get off scot free for the mooks, and since Rasp attacked first Rose could probably argue that using sub-lethal force alone was more than she deserved. Sure, there will be some hard statements made, but at the end of the day disarming a woman is basically just going to be a thing Rose did, and everyone is going to move on.
I mean, it makes sense. Rose pays taxes, doesn't commit crimes unless provoked, and the ones she does commit are basically excused by the extenuating circumstance of 'powers.' Making a big deal of this, trying to get her to seriously tone back the amount of force she uses, especially against the Teeth, would be both a waste of time and send the wrong message to all the other law-abiding capes.
I see the logic of the PRT, but that doesn't change the absolute action that Rose did. She mutilated a woman not because it was the only option, but because it was the most expedient. The one that cost Rose herself the least. I don't even think Rose thinks she's in the wrong here, or that the level of violence she personally considers acceptable is leagues further than most people be willing to go. I don't think she realizes that she didn't have to kill Spree, that the ensuing feud between her and the Teeth isn't normal or okay.
Rose just sees someone trying to hurt what is hers, and stabs whatever the threat is until it stops doing that.
It's probably a good thing that Taylor isn't a hero.
I yawn, kicking down the stand for my bike and dismounting in two somewhat sloppy motions. I get oddly tired whenever I get sent off shift early, but drinking coffee past one keeps me up too late so really I just need to find something to be busy with.
"Hello, and welcome to .e," the hostess says. She's dressed in a black button up and slacks, both embroidered with white vines curling around the limbs, and a bone daffodil pokes out over her left ear. "Might I ask what you're here for?" she says tentatively, smiling cautiously. I scan the room and see the sign for the White Rose autograph schedule. Last one was at two fifteen and it's nearly three now, so I've just missed her. She's probably working on a commision or something, which means that she needs some alone time.
"I'll have a private room, a margherita sandwich, and tell Rose that Amy's waiting for her," I say, returning the smile and giving her a small wave. "No need to guide me, I know my own way up," I add as I step towards the back of the shop.
The rogue life has been good to Rose. After establishing herself as an artist in her own right, she started searching for talent, for people she could use to get to the next level of exclusivity, scouting everyone from professional oil painters with classical educations and resumes as long as my arm to grad students fresh out of school, looking to make it big on their first gig. Most were either idiots, not the right fit, or didn't want to give up their current positions to work with her. A few stayed though, and as the money started rolling in Rose started getting a reputation as a talent magnet. Then she decided to diversify.
Now I have to slip between half a dozen elegant white tables topped by glass with bone flowers suspended within, each seating a customer and a sales person. The walls are positively covered with artwork, everything from Rose's sculptures to paper and pencil sketches, all nominally under the theme of 'flowers.' The rack of blooms ("Made fresh daily, never exactly the same twice!") is already empty, and I shake my head as I push open the door to the stairs. I do the mental math. The government taxes the hell out of parahuman products, but Rose just sold probably not even half an hour's work for upwards of a few thousand dollars. Sure, market saturation is a thing, and when tourist season dies down she'll be back to waiting for people to ask for commissions, but still.
It's a lot of money.
One flight of stairs later and I'm faced with a corridor, five doors set into the hallway. Rose tends to reserve these for capes who want to meet in their civ ID's, but large businesses also hold meetings in them from time to time. In general, it's far more expensive than a similar quality rendezvous elsewhere, but she's also famous for not letting people mess with her customers. Short of getting an escort from the Protectorate, it's one of the most secure meetings people can organize.
I push into the first right hand door, a small, lightly decorated room with a dark wood table and a pair of comfortable-looking chairs. I pull the closest out, settle down, and whip out my phone, scrolling through PHO as I wait.
About halfway through a Brazier/Bandersnatch shipfic (a Protectorate/cannibal villain pairing from Chicago that's surprisingly popular given the serial-killer nature of the latter) I hear a buzz from the door. "Come on in," I shout, dropping my phone into its pocket in my robes as I turn around in my chair.
Rose walks in dressed in her 'work' uniform of leaf-patterned armor and skull mask, a pair of mirrored lenses curling around the side of her head to present an inhuman visage.
She's also carrying a plate with my sandwich.
"What do I have to do to get that food?" I ask seductively, looking her dead in the mask.
Rose sighs, placing the plate gently in front of me as she walks by, settling into the chair across from me. "Nothing," she says flatly. "You ordered it and the staff have standing orders that heroes eat free."
"Free, you say?" I ask, picking up the melt and biting into it. Mmm, cheese and vegetables.
"Only the first plate," she warns, more frosty than usual. "Don't push it." I stop chewing and look at her.
Rose is leaning forward on the table, head lolling and limbs stiff in a way that tells me she's using her power to hold herself up. That she's refusing to fall, even when all she wants to do is lay down and rest.
I put the sandwich down. "Rose, what's wrong?"
Rose sighs, staring a hole in the table. "I saw Emma today."
I stare. Speechless.
Taylor crosses her arms, shifting her gaze from the table to the ceiling. "Emma Barnes. The one who made me trigger." She delivers the words without rancor. Without fear. Without any sort of emotion, really. "The one who I basically haven't thought about outside my sessions with Dave in I-don't-know how long. She just walked into the shop, bubbly, laughing, cheery as can be. I kept signing papers, books, journals, whatever, but I also didn't stop looking at her out of the corner of my eye. She was walking with some guy, no idea who, built like a house. A boyfriend, I think. They were talking about some professor, some class, just regular college stuff." Taylor shakes her head. "I kept watching her, and as she was browsing through the aisles I realized I could kill her. An accident, a sphere slipping off a shelf onto her neck, a jagged side suddenly appearing in the right place and-" she cuts herself off, shaking her head. "I could've killed her, and I didn't."
After a moment, I ask, "Why not?"
Taylor looks off to the side, mask infuriatingly unreadable. "Even if I didn't get caught, it wouldn't be worth the legal trouble, the bad publicity, the effort of cleaning the blood off the tiles, the hit to sales from having a dead body in my store, any of it. Emma was a horrible person. Might still be. She's not my problem, though," Taylor says, and there's a quaver in her voice that tells me that saying that cost her something. "I have bigger concerns, bigger worries, than getting back at a girl who makes no sense to me. What would be the point?" Taylor looks back at me, mask sinking beneath her skin, revealing her face. "I just couldn't bring myself to care enough about revenge."
I look at her for a long moment.
Taylor wasn't the most attractive girl when we first met, and I don't think she'd've disagreed back then, either. Small breasts, stick limbs, a mouth outsized for her face, a laundry list of 'just wait to grow up' features. Even now her mouth is a little large for her face, her chest and hips a little too slim to be conventionally attractive. What she has going for her now though is an odd sort of youth, a cleanness to her skin that airbrushed models wish they could fake. I'm not sure how much of it is good genetics and how much is her power constantly healing her outer layers back to perfect health whenever she gets deep into a fight, but it's better than anything I've seen outside of a Tinker's workshop.
She's also grown confident. Not the awkward sort of arrogance that low-tier Brutes often develop, but the confidence of someone who has a job and knows how to do it. I see it in the older doctors, the ones who've had a patient die because of their decision, even if they made the the right one at the time, and in the capes who've been in the game for long enough to know how to bite off exactly as much as they can chew and no more. It gives her a presence, a personal gravitational field that draws in anyone fascinated by people, inescapable as the scent of pollen in a greenhouse.
Right now, she doesn't look shaken. She doesn't look like she's just seen one of the worst people I've ever had the misfortune to hear about, who gave her quite literally the worst day of her life, and let her go without so much as a muttered word. She doesn't look half as angry as I am, relaxing back in her chair while I'm bouncing my leg in an attempt to burn off even a tiny part of the furious energy in my body.
She just looks tired.
I get up, slowly, and pad across the room. Taylor looks up, clear-eyed and curious. I stand next to her, looking down. She raises an eyebrow, still armored save for her head.
"Yes?" she asks. I roll my eyes and turn around, dropping into her lap and eliciting a yelp of surprise, taking the impact of bone on the back of my thighs silently. I lean into her, moulding into the armor, and I feel it thinning in response. I hum contentedly as her arms slip around me, a warmth that we usually reserve for behind closed doors.
"Let's have sex tonight," I say.
The text was short. Just three words.
i need you
Taylor is anal about English. She was like that before she started college, and it only got worse when she started actually writing. Nowadays I can't even say 'ain't' without getting a pair of narrowed eyes. She's even put a jar in her kitchen labeled 'Abuse of the English Language' and tries to fine anyone who doesn't words good in her earshot. I've played along, but Vicky straight-up refuses to eat dinner at her apartment, scared off by the housewarming party where the ten people invited collectively paid a month's rent. Since she's nowhere near as hard up as before, it's used as a 'Tay wants a new book' fund, complete with a hit list taped to the side.
If she misses a capital, some bad shit has happened.
That's why I broke three speeding laws, ran seven lights, and nearly murdered more pedestrians than I want to count driving across town in the middle of my shift. Why I didn't bother to park my bike properly and left it for whichever meter maid is brave enough to ticket Isidis. Why I take the stairs and sprint up all twelve floors because the elevators aren't going to be fast enough.
I knock three times on the door, restraining myself, resisting the urge to pound at it until the wood gives away. I take three deep breaths, trying to get myself under control, trying to pretend like I haven't panicked, like I'm not desperate to get inside and make sure that the one good thing that I rely on to get through the roughest-
"It's unlocked."
I slowly push open the door, heart in my throat. "Hey you," I whisper, slipping off my shoes. The lights are off and the blinds are drawn, but the glow from the hallway streams in from behind me, providing just enough illumination to make out the outlines of a lot of vines, thorned and angry, tangling through the room. "Rough day?" I'm flying blind here. Rose gets stabby when she's angry, Taylor gets morose, and Tay breaks down. Not sure which one I'm dealing with yet.
"You could say that," Taylor says quietly, fury seeping out of each syllable. The vines rustle as they shift around, indistinct motion in the darkness. Rose for now then.
I nod, slowly stepping forward past the threshold. "Do you want to talk?" I ask, equally quiet. Give ground, make her feel in control. I feel lighter vines below my feet, soft, flexible, and terrifyingly dangerous. The door closes behind me, locking shut, leaving me alone in the dark. I feel something nudge into my right hand, then slide between my fingers, a blood-warm squeeze of my hands. Probably not her real hand, but the gesture is there.
"Yes," Taylor answers. The bone wrapping my hand tugs lightly towards the bedroom and I follow it, muscle memory and trust substituting for sight, the mesh receding away from my feet. Something clicks as I walk forward, and a slight air pressure change brushing across my skin tells me that I've stepped through a doorway. Another click and the faint breeze stops.
I can see the room in my head. Blackout curtains on the windows, a dresser against the far wall with a small wardrobe next to it, both little more than three quarters of the way full. A different box, one we keep locked most of the time, sits at the foot of the bed. The bed's a simple thing, large enough for two people and plenty of space, covered in skull and crossbone sheets we got her as a joke that somehow stuck and an eclectic collection of pillows and blankets.
I can't see any of that now. Just black.
Being blind is not a Rose thing.
I get guided to the side of the bed, slowly sitting down onto the mattress. The bone in my hand recedes, sinking into something until I feel bare skin. Her bare skin. Normally, humans have calluses, creases, something to interrupt you as you run your hands along them. Not Taylor. Her hands are smoother than a child's, softer than an infant's, but with toned muscle rather than rolls of fat underneath. It's literally unlike anyone else I've ever met and never fails to fascinate me.
I start caressing her, tracing small circles on her palm, savoring the touch.
She's shaking.
"Hey, Amy."
I hum. "Hey."
Tay or Taylor, Tay or Taylor?
I'm not sure how long we stay there, my fingers playing with hers, marveling at the feel of them, trying to tell by touch if I need to make a move.
"I fucked up," she says quietly.
Tay it is.
I don't speak. Instead, I drop her hand to my stomach, sliding it to rest under my shirt. Once I'm sure it won't pull away, I peel off my jacket, something that's not quite calm and not quite purpose filling me.
Tay needs help. Everything else flows from there.
"You know that one indie guy? Swordsong? The one that liked to mutilate gangbangers? He came to work today," Taylor says, still quiet. I toss my shirt towards where the laundry hamper is, then lay down on the bed, shimmying out of my pants. When things get bad at the hospital, Rose is there to provide silent reassurance to Rose goes quiet for too long during an Endbringer fight, Isidis asks for a break. Give and take, one person who we can each trust unconditionally.
"He came to work and told me that if I was going to sit by and watch crime happen, then he'd force me to act. That he'd show me that-" the rest gets cut off by a hiccup. I slowly move across the bed, almost naked, never breaking contact. When Amy needs someone to complain to about family, about Isidis, about anything, Taylor is there. When Taylor needs to rant about college, about her employees, or just silently seethe with another person to witness it, Amy is there. A burden shared is a burden halved, but the other half doesn't get offloaded. It just disappears.
"He tried to fight me. In my shop," Taylor says, monotone and dull. I put my arms around her, one sliding beneath her side and the other under her other arm. "He put a knife to the neck of one of the twins, told me that I couldn't save her if I didn't take action. That I needed to actually go out and hero and fight and make a stand against the gangs tearing the city apart and he said it all with such a smug grin on his face and with such a happy voice that I fucking tore his eyes out!" she shouts, curling forward, rage surging out of her like a wave hitting a stormbreaker. "He tried to walk into my domain and tell me what do like he's some sort of hot shit and had the fucking answers to everything! I've killed more capes than years he's patrolled, and he thinks that I'm wrong? Fuck him!" Taylor shouts, hand squeezing mine tight enough to hurt. I can feel the pressure of needles under her skin, of armor, of bone waiting to explode outwards. "I fucking tore his eyes out, cut off his right hand, threw his sorry ass out the front fucking door, and left him for the PRT!"
I let her calm down in my arms, chest and shoulders heaving, still too dark to make anything out, gently caressing her flank, her stomach. Waiting.
When Ames fucks up, Tay is there to give her a punishment. To remind her that only one person gets to punish Ames, and that's Tay, and that's only in very specific situations, and that she has to stop getting stuck in self-destructive loops.
When Tay fucks up, Ames is there to remind her that someone loves her very, very much. To remind her that things are never as bad as she thinks, that this too shall pass, and that there is goodness in the world, no small part of which is due to her personally.
"And the PRT came and told me they needed to talk," she whispers, back to monotone. "They told me that this was too far. That they were worried that my actions would be used by other capes to justify defending their territory more violently. Ames, what do I do?" she asks and this time I can't miss the sobs, the scent of salt wafting off her face as she turns her head to look at me in the dark. "Ames, I fucked up. I went too far and now they're going to take me to court and throw me in prison and that's going to be the end of .e and John will never want to talk to me again and everything's gone to shit, shit, shit-"
I silence her with a kiss. Her mouth opens quickly, easily, instinctively, inviting me in. I oblige, tasting her faint mint toothpaste and so much of her, slightly like sweet tarts without sugar. I quickly lose control of our battle for dominance as a growl works its way up her throat, sending shivers down my spine.
Rose is one of the most dangerous capes in any city she happens to be in. Taylor is too quiet for her own good and stubborn enough to walk on a broken bone for miles. Tay is a mess of pillow-biting eroticisim, self-doubt, and a love so fragile it makes me cry to think about it.
I love it all. All of the unnameable her beside me, consuming me, kissing me. And if a few late-night calls are the price to pay for being in Tay's life, so be it.
After too short a time, Tay gently pulls away, out of breath.
"Ames-"
"No," I whisper, kissing her again, shorter this time, teasing, pulling at her lower lip with my teeth as I lift my head, drawing a hiss from her at the impudence, at the challenge to her authority. "It's going to be okay. I promise." My hands move, one higher, one lower, and Taylor whines, hunted, nervous. It's the good kind of nervous though, one we've both learned after many nights of practice.
"You're working yourself up. Trying to answer the world with bone and fury and nothing else. Listen to me," I whisper into her ear as I feel her warm under my hands, blood rising under her skin as she trembles. "And relax."
I sigh and drop lower in the tub as the hot water slowly loosens my muscles, trusting Tay to keep my head above water. I hear her shift under me, moving my head to rest against her chest, arms slipping under my breasts. I smile contentedly, rolling my head from side to side, enjoying the softness behind my head. Tay clicks her tongue.
"Stop that," Tay says, and I can hear the blush in her voice.
I make a show of mulling it over before dropping my head to the side, cheek resting against a rather firm nub. "Make me," I tease, eyes closed, waiting for a reaction. Taylor's usually not good for more than one round, but that 'usually' has been becoming less usual as time goes on.
"I just did," Tay says, amusement seeping into her voice. "You can ask for more later." Damn. One more attempt to extend the fun?
"What if I want more now?" I ask, dropping some purr into my voice as I tilt my head up at her, putting on my bedroom eyes.
Tay looks back down, expression falling. "Ames," she says quietly and my growing heat subsides as shame takes its place. "Rules."
"Sorry," I say, turning away, trying to hide the regret in my voice. Ask once, then not again. One of the few things that I forget from time to time. After a moment, Tay's free hand starts tracing patterns on my thigh, light and soothing. Forgiveness.
"So am I," Tay says, still quiet. "I know you can go harder. That you want to. I just... can't."
"It's alright," I say, one hand going down to find hers, lacing our fingers together. "When you're ready." I feel a slight pressure on my head, hear the subtle smack of lips, and we go back to soaking.
It took a while for Tay to get comfortable enough to talk about sex. Longer still for her to try anything on the 'spicier' side of things, and by the time we zeroed in on what she did and didn't want to do I was about a day away from taking up one of the nurses on her standing offer. On New Year's Eve though, things finally came together.
Our first time was weird. That's the best way I can put it. Second time, too. Tay's into muscles, and it took a while to make sure that she was also into girls. For those first few nights, it was a matter of learning what she enjoyed. There were a lot of embarrassing moments, a lot of failed experiments. Once we started figuring things out though...
Something clasps around my hands, firm and unyielding, and I look down. Tay's caught them, holding them inside the water, only a few inches away from satisfaction. "You're thinking dirty thoughts again," she whispers, close enough to my ear that I feel her breath, and I feel a little spark of jittery energy shoot down my spine. "Stop that." God, I love it when she whispers and I can't see her.
"Yes ma'am," I reply, tense with anticipation. Slowly, Taylor guides my hands to the bottles of hair care product resting on the floor beside the tub.
"Shampoo time," she says, easing me up, a smile in her voice, this time innocent rather than sultry. I sigh, disappointed and defeated, then obediently sit up. Our limbs slide against each other, water shifting and sometimes spilling out of the tub as we switch positions, Tay's rear between my legs and her head decidedly higher on my chest than mine was on hers. I squirt out a generous amount of shampoo and begin the long, arduous process of treating Tay's hair.
For a while we relax, my hands falling into old patterns and motions. I secretly shoot the clock on the counter a look. Eleven. Too late for Tay to go back home. She'll be spending the night here again, then. Not that I mind. Pushing back the awkward conversation in front of the door is never a bad thing
My fingers slow as I think about the morning. The uncomfortable sort-of conversations we have at the door, the unspoken question of seeing one another again, always just shy of certain. Finding excuses to stay, a forgotten garment, one that was supposed to be here anyway but maybe Tay should take it back, anything for a few more moments.
My fingers stop. A girl living with the Dallon sisters. If she's not a cape, no one is. A risk to her identity, one that she might not take. Asking jeopardizes everything we have, and gains what? My girlfriend here every night, here to kiss, to speak to, to laugh with, to read with. I'd get to listen to her wax poetic about English in a way that I don't understand but love to hear, a mysterious smile or an exasperated eye roll only just a pun away, the aching loneliness of an empty apartment a little less omnipresent when Vicky goes out on a date night with Dean because maybe I can have my own date night without planning it weeks in advance...
"Ames?" Tay asks, a note of worry creeping into her voice.
"You should move in," I say casually, staring at the peach-tiled wall. Taylor stiffens under my fingers, jerking a little. I add a little pressure to her hair, easing her head back down. "I mean, you don't have to, but think about it. The commute back to your place is a pain, we're not that much farther from your shop, and I'm pretty sure splitting rent three ways would be cheaper than leasing a place yourself," I clarify, heart beating hard enough that I'm sure Tay can hear it. "It could also mean more stuff like this, but if you don't want to that's also cool. Just a little more time together, a little less travel, and a bit more-"
"Ames," Tay says, stopping me. I drop my head. Tay's looking up at me, a small smile on her face.
"If Vicky's okay with it, I'd be happy to," she says, and I feel her hand on my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Oh," I say in a soft voice, facts and emotional appeals and appeals to security slipping from my mind. "Alright then."
That was easy.
I feel something giddy bubble up inside.
"Good," Tay says, looking forward again. After a moment, she looks up. "Fingers?" she asks and I realize my hands are frozen still.
"Right," I say, going back to massaging Tay's scalp, spacing out a little as I think about the weight of her words.
Tay's moving in. I know that Vicky's planning on moving out at some point to live with Dean, that sharing a place is a thing a lot of couples do. It's also a thing a lot of capes do, because chancing your civ ID with a random roommate is a terrible idea. This isn't that unusual.
Tay's moving in. On the one hand, this might mean more sex. It's definitely going to mean more dates, cuddles, and contact. She still has college and .e, I still have work, and we both have caping, but still. More time in proximity can't be a bad thing. On the other hand, it could also mean less sex, less drive to make the most out of the hours we can steal together. Vicky might get a little more aggressive with securing her own private time. Mental note: convince Vicky to move in with Dean sooner.
Tay's moving in. I feel my fingers pause again.
I'm going to need to change some things.
Laundry. All of it needs to be washed, and I need to start doing it at least twice as frequently, cleaning too. I need to learn how to cook so Tay doesn't end up making everything, wean myself off take-out (and even if I don't, I also need to tell them to start leaving stuff at the door), get some domino masks to scatter around the house for just-in-case situations-
"Ames," Tay says. I start, registering the green eyes staring into mine. I lean back a little, a nervous smile coming to my face.
"Yeah?" I whisper.
"Relax," she says, leaning in for a kiss.
