Sunset ^beta

Chapter Text

Harrow arrived twenty minutes early and dressed for a funeral.

Okay, so she was dressed like she was always dressed—black jeans, long sleeves despite the fact they lived in the desert, black boots—but something about the bright lights of Dulcinea’s house and the frankly embarrassing irregularity of Gideon’s heartbeat made the attire seem even more out of place than it usually did.

At least she didn’t wear the glasses. The marks on Harrow’s nose were on full display. Gideon’s eyes caught on those marks and the world slowed down just enough for Gideon to get a fucking grip.

“You’re here,” she said, which was stupid, but at least it came out of her mouth in clear and fully formed words.

“Of course I’m here,” Harrow returned. She shifted and her whole body clinked like she was stuffed full of heavy glass bottles—which she was, sort of. Harrow had a big black bag slung over a shoulder and another hanging from her hand.

The bags jolted Gideon into action. She reached for the one in Harrow’s hand and Harrow let her take it. She let Gideon take the one from her back too. And when Gideon leaned in, Harrow let her press a kiss to the corner of Harrow’s mouth. As Gideon went to pull back, Harrow grabbed her by the shirt and pulled her close again, just long enough to say: “Don’t make this weird, Nav.”

“Yeah, no.” Gideon agreed. It seemed hard to breathe, but when she reached up to pull the collar of her shirt away from her neck, there was nothing there. The collar of her tank top was nowhere near her throat. There was nothing there but the chain around her neck, Harrow’s ring tucked away between her tits. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to...you know. Everyone.”

It was awkward. It was definitely weird. Gideon started to introduce Harrow as her co-worker, then her wife, and then her friend. She stumbled over all three. When Harrow pinched her wrist in a painful attempt to reel Gideon back in, Dulcinea thankfully intervened, except she went with, “Actually, we’ve all already met at one time or another. Welcome back, Harrow. I hope this time you’ll stay for a cup of coffee.” Dulcinea paused, and then her eyes went wide. “After dinner, of course. Though if you’re still here in the morning, please, stay then too!”

That got Harrow all clammed up, stiff as a board and awkward as fuck, so Gideon ushered her into the dining room, helped her set up her bottles, fetched her ice, and then stood back and let Harrow do her thing. This time Harrow’s thing turned out to be lavender infused gin, agave syrup, rosé, white grapefruit, cava brut, citric acid sugar rim, and a garnish of some pink flower sprig that Gideon recognized from Harrow’s back yard fixed to the lip of the glass. After that it was rosemary vodka, dry vermouth, vanilla bean, lavender simple syrup, lemon juice and a twist for garnish. Then spruce tip gin, honey, lemon, bee pollen sugar rim.

Dulcinea watched Harrow’s process from her chair at the table, her head propped in the palms of her hands. Palamedes was in charge of dinner, so he and Camilla watched from the kitchen. Gideon hovered nervously over Harrow’s shoulder, until she saw Harrow tense and knew that Harrow was holding back. If it was just the two of them, Harrow would have already snapped, told Gideon to sit the fuck down already and let her breathe. So Gideon said, “let me know if you need anything,” and then she sat the fuck down and let Harrow breathe.

Dulcinea leaned in toward Gideon. “I’m so into this,” she admitted. She’d beckoned Gideon closer as though it was a secret, but her words came out at normal volume so the whole house heard. Gideon wasn’t sure how to respond to that—Yeah, me too, obviously?—so she just nodded and focused on trying to control the nervous bounce of her knee instead.

Shortly before dinner, Gideon’s phone buzzed twice in quick succession. She pulled it from her pocket just as Harrow turned to Camilla, phone in hand, and said, “Could you remind me where to find the bathroom?”

Gideon looked down at her phone.

Show me your room.

And: Quickly.

Shit. That was—Okay. Okay.

Okay.

Gideon shoved the phone in her pocket and stood, a bit too fast, a bit too abrupt. Dulcinea jumped, startled, and gripped the arms of her wheelchair. “Sorry,” Gideon apologized. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “Be right back!”

The light was off in her room, but there was still enough light from the street coming in through the blinds to see Harrow pacing. She had her thumb in her mouth and was chewing on the nail. She tore off a bit of nail and spit it onto Gideon’s carpet. Okay, gross, but Gideon’s heart was racing! She reached for Harrow, ready for whatever Harrow had planned, whatever sort of physical—

“Sextus is infuriating,” Harrow said, her voice hushed, her arms tense beneath Gideon’s hands. “I kept waiting for him to make his little suggestions and then nothing!”

“That’s why we’re in here?” Gideon asked. “Because Palamedes Sextus didn’t try to alter your drinks? Harrow, I thought you wanted to make out!”

“Make out? Later, Griddle, I—I need to know. Did you tell him not to say anything this time?”

“Shit, Harrow, my freakin’ heart is racing. Feel this.” She took Harrow’s hand and pressed it to her chest, over her heart, over the ring tucked down into her bandeau. She wondered, suddenly, what Harrow had done with her own ring. She wondered if it matched. Most pressingly, she wondered if Harrow realized how much of an ass she looked by choosing that moment to roll her eyes. “Come on, do you feel that?”

“Yes,” Harrow said. “I feel it and it doesn’t seem healthy. You should see a doctor. Now what did you tell Sextus?”

Gideon released Harrow’s hand. Harrow kept it there for a moment longer, like maybe she didn’t realize Gideon was no longer holding her.

“I didn’t tell him not to do anything,” Gideon said, which jolted Harrow back to awareness. She pulled her hand away and began to massage her palm with the fingers of her other hand. Gideon continued: “Maybe there was nothing he thought you should change. There was nothing I thought you should change.”

“You’ll take anything I give you,” Harrow muttered, dismissive.

“Oh yeah? Fuck you,” Gideon said. Except, okay, yes, lately she would! She wanted whatever Harrow was willing to give her because, fuck, that was the point, wasn’t it? That was the only way they’d ever understand how they ended up there. “Actually, I can think of a few more things I’d like you to give me.”

Harrow chewed on her answer for a moment. She couldn’t seem to look at Gideon when she finally spoke.

“This is why we don’t talk, Griddle. It’s never been one of our strengths.”

Harrow was still staring past Gideon and Gideon twisted to look back over her shoulder to see whatever Harrow saw. What Harrow saw seemed to be Gideon’s bed, which was—well, obviously the place they spent the morning after their wedding, and also it was Gideon’s bed. Come the fuck on, Harrow!

“Do you like what you see?” Gideon asked. That got Harrow’s attention back on Gideon’s face. Gideon let out a breath and then folded her arms over her chest. She leaned in as she asked her next question. “What are our strengths, would you say?”

“Asking inappropriate and obvious questions is certainly one of yours.”

“Nice,” Gideon said, brightly. She leaned closer. “Okay, then. Next question. How long have you wanted to get with this bod? Seven weeks? Or are we going on eight years?” Gideon stood back and pinched her chin between her thumb and finger. “Or actually, we do have the option for even longer than that, don’t we...”

Harrow’s jaw looked so tight it might snap off and fall onto the floor. Maybe it’d land next to the bit of Harrow’s fingernail she spit onto Gideon’s carpet, though thinking about that still wasn’t making Gideon want to kiss Harrow any less.

Harrow snapped, but she didn’t do the one thing Gideon hoped she would do. Instead of grabbing for Gideon, she pushed past Gideon and left the room.

Gideon cursed and then called after her: “Harrow!” She cursed again. None of it brought Harrow back, so Gideon scrambled to pull out her phone again and opened her text messages. She typed: cool so based on ur response it’s been longer than 8 years. She followed this up with: 🔥🔥🔥

Gideon read the message back, and then added a 👅 and 💦 at the end, just to really drive Harrow nuts. She hit send and then followed Harrow back to the table where Palamedes was in the process of setting down their plates. Dinner was homemade pasta with some kind of creamy mushroom sauce. It was rich and delicious. Harrow, still in a mood, had no problem telling Palamedes that his mushroom sauce had ‘too much flavor’ and that next time he might ‘consider toning it down.’

“She might be right, Love,” Dulcinea said, politely.

“We’ll consider the suggestion,” Palamedes nodded. Camilla looked like she was trying not to smile. Palamedes refused to look at Cam, kept his eyes on Harrow instead. Gideon knocked her leg against Harrow’s like a petulant child, mad she wasn’t getting her way. Harrow kicked her in return, hard, right in the shin so that Gideon was forced to cough in an attempt to cover her grunt. She deserved that, probably.

All of that to say, dinner was going great!

Afterward, they settled into the living room, full of pasta and buzzed on Harrow’s drinks. Dulcinea, true to her word, had them washing everything down with sips of hot coffee. She and Cam were quick to lay claim to the only two chairs in the living room, which left Palamedes, Gideon and Harrow for the long sofa. Gideon let Harrow choose her location and was surprised when Harrow chose the middle. Once Palamedes shifted away from Dulcinea’s side, he settled to Harrow’s left. Gideon sat down to her right.

Still ramped up from their exchange in the bedroom, Gideon shifted, unsure what to do with herself. She was used to couches and Harrow, but couches and Harrow had associations now in Gideon’s head, and those associations had no place at a first-date-slash-meet-the-parents dinner (Pal and Dulcie were the parents here. Cam was too cool for that), even despite the whole bedroom interlude. Gideon stretched her arm across the back of the sofa, careful not to touch Harrow’s shoulders in the process. She cleared her throat. She took a sip of coffee. She looked across the room toward Camilla and found Camilla already looking back. Camilla raised her eyebrows. Gideon cleared her throat again and looked away. Camilla wasn't that cool.

The truth was, overall, everything really was going fine. Harrow was a little stiff, a little tense, a little Harrow, but overall everyone seemed to be getting along. Not a single attempted murder (beyond how long have you wanted this bod?, and maybe that too much flavor comment). Mostly, Gideon seemed to be the only one having issues with not making things weird. She was a fucking mess. A fucking mess of Harrow outside the Tomb and inside Gideon’s life. A fucking mess of seven weeks married and still no fucking clue how or why.

Gideon sat on the couch beside Harrow and she wondered what the fuck were they doing? How had it even lasted this long? How were they ever going to understand how they ended up married if every attempt ended with them at each others’—

Harrow startled, her entire body jolting just a little. “Oh!”

Mia had arrived on the scene. She glanced up at Harrow, bright green eyes and that little slash of white down her nose, and then she walked past their feet toward Dulcinea’s chair, her tail raised high in the air. Harrow turned toward Gideon and her hand came down to rest on Gideon’s leg. “That’s the cat you made me look at on your phone," she said, stating the obvious.

Gideon, who was finding it impossible to care about the cat she showed off on her phone when the hand of the woman she hated and married anyway was resting on her thigh said: “Unmf”

Mia took her time, but eventually she arrived at her destination (Dulcinea’s lap) and settled in with a little cry of ‘pet me, human slave!’ Dulcinea did as she was told, petting Mia exactly as Mia preferred to be petted. Back on the couch, Harrow left her hand there on Gideon’s leg, halfway up Gideon’s thigh, for a long time after that, in a way that was…well, it wasn't quite how Gideon preferred to be petted, but close enough!

Gideon, therefore, could not recall a single thing said by anyone after that. She recalled that Palamedes was tipsy and talkative. He talked to Harrow at length about something painfully boring, or at least far less interesting than the warmth of Harrow’s palm on Gideon’s thigh. She recalled that Camilla seemed relaxed, and she recalled that Dulcinea looked like she was watching an extremely entertaining romantic comedy, but beyond that, the specifics of the evening were completely lost to Harrow’s touch.

Eventually Harrow removed her hand, but it wasn’t that long before it found its way back again, like the removal was a mistake, like Gideon’s leg was its rightful place, and Gideon’s brain fizzled, short circuited right there on the spot. Harrow didn’t even seem to notice she was doing it, like they’d spent so many afternoons just wrapped up in each other that now Harrow’s hands just gravitated toward Gideon, just touched her like it was a normal Harrow thing to do instead of a hugely significant moment.

Harrow’s hand on Gideon’s thigh meant Gideon probably wouldn’t show up tomorrow to find Harrow standing there with a stack of signed papers. It meant Harrow wasn’t done with Gideon yet. It meant, if Gideon was entirely sober and rational about it, that Harrow probably wouldn't let Gideon go, even if it was what Gideon wanted. It meant that if Gideon decided she wanted to end it all tomorrow, if she told Harrow she did want Harrow to sign the divorce papers right away, Harrow would go to some pretty shitty lengths to make sure Gideon would never get her way.

Or maybe it just meant that Harrow had associations when it came to Gideon and couches now too, maybe she had associations with the sort of conflict they’d created in the bedroom, and those associations were hard to shake, even in polite company.

Maybe it meant absolutely nothing at all.

As the night came to an end, Gideon helped Harrow bag up her bottles, her tins of sugar, and her flowers and leaves, and then she walked Harrow to the front door.

"Hey," Gideon said, once they were standing there, just the two of them. "So have you signed the papers yet?"

Harrow, holding her clinking bags of liquor, looked up at Gideon confused, and then her face smoothed out and she said: "The divorce papers?"

"Yeah. I mean, no rush really, it's just that it's been a week now."

Harrow pressed her lips together as she considered her answer. "Should I sign the papers?"

The thing was—the thing was, Gideon would feel a whole lot better about everything if she knew for sure Harrow wasn't planning to do anything fucky when and if this kissing stuff went sour and came to an end. She'd be able to enjoy Harrow's hand resting on her thigh a whole lot more if she had signed divorce papers in her hands, physical proof that Harrow would let Gideon go without a fight.

"Would you sign the papers? It'd make everything easier when the time comes." Gideon paused. "Like later on. Once we've worked stuff out."

"Of course." Harrow's response sounded a little stiff, but it was an affirmative response, which was more than Gideon expected to get. "That makes sense."

"Okay," Gideon said. She relaxed her shoulders a little. "Cool. Thanks." And then, because divorce papers weren't all she was thinking about while Harrow's hand was on her thigh: “You could stay.” And: “I could show you my room again.”

Harrow shook her head. “Dog.”

“Right,” Gideon nodded. “Duh, of course.” She stumbled. “Um, then I could go back with you, maybe? I can carry your bags.” She reached out to take the one from Harrow’s hand again, but Harrow stepped back to escape her reach.

“Let’s not make things more complicated than they already are,” Harrow suggested. The words were chilly, almost slap-in-the-face cold, but her tone didn’t quite match the words’ temperature, not really. Harrow knew how to do cold, and when she did it, it was absolutely unmistakable.

“Yeah, no, I don’t want that either,” Gideon agreed. “Okay, so I’ll just...see you when I see you, I guess.”

“Tomorrow,” Harrow agreed, and then, a few awkward seconds later, Harrow was gone.

**

“She’s very intense,” Dulcinea observed once they’d finished cleaning up and everyone was settled back in the living room. “So serious. Did you see her at the counter with her bag of special ingredients? And then the way she watched as we tasted each drink. Extraordinary.”

“That’s just how I found her at her bar,” Palamedes agreed.

“It’s breathtaking.” And then Dulcinea shifted her gaze. She pinned Gideon with her eyes. “Imagine all of that passion and focus centered on a person! Imagine the dedication. Oh, don’t blush, Gideon.” (Gideon hadn’t realized she was.) “All I’m trying to say is that now I understand your dilemma completely. If that girl’s focus shifted to me after a few of those drinks, I’d walk her down the aisle too. No offense, my Loves.”

“None taken,” said Palamedes with a nod of his head.

Camilla simply shrugged. She seemed less convinced of Harrow’s allure, probably because she’d seen Harrow stumbling drunk, in badly smudged face paint, and with her tongue sloppily shoved into Gideon’s mouth. Gideon shifted closer to Camilla, sensing solid safety in a storm. Camilla understood the truth.

“I like her,” Palamedes announced, suddenly. “I trust her.”

Gideon laughed so hard she snorted. Hot. “You met Harrow exactly once before tonight and she was this close to actually murdering you.”

Palamedes smiled. “I know.”

“Well, I can’t fucking stand her.”

“Obviously.”

“I take back everything I said when you first came to us with this,” Dulcinea continued. She looked as though she hadn’t paid attention to anything Palamedes or Gideon just said. “This isn’t a particular Gideon Nav sort of situation at all! How could you ever be expected to resist? How did you even survive all of those years, locked together, working side-by-side?”

“The only person Harrow was focused on tonight was Pal. You’re exaggerating all of this,” Gideon said, but her voice caught in her throat when she said it, and she sounded less than sure. She should have walked out that door with Harrow, screw Harrow’s concerns about complications. That would have been less weird than this was becoming.

“I’m not,” Dulcinea shook her head. “There was one point where I swooned just thinking about it all. Cam had to catch me. Don’t get me wrong. I know you weren’t lying all of those years about her being a total bitch, that was obvious too, but the rest! When she summoned you to the bedroom, I was certain that was it. The dinner party had come to an end and we wouldn’t see either of you again until morning.”

Gideon pressed a hand to her forehead, squeezed her eyes shut. “No, we aren’t—this is a fucking mess.”

“No doubt,” Palamedes agreed.

**

Gideon eyed the papers on the coffee table as she absently scratched Dog's big head. Harrow was in the kitchen, busy making her special brand of magic, and Gideon was looking forward to tasting it on Harrow's lips, but until then—she eyed the stack of papers. Dog nudged her hand with a big wet nose and the papers eyed her back. They looked like they hadn't been touched at all since Gideon watched Harrow first set them down. It didn't look like the nose that nudged Gideon's hand had even bothered to investigate their appearance in her home and well within reach.

"What's wrong with you?" Gideon whispered to Dog. "I take you for you-know-whats. I scratch behind your ears. I shoot water into your mouth. All I need you to do in return is to remind Harrow that there are papers sitting right there that she needs to sign."

Dog stared up at her and panted a smile.

Gideon sighed and sat back on the couch. "I get it. You love being owned by Harrow. She's your best friend, right?"

Dog's response to that was a high-pitched little whine of a noise.

Gideon leaned forward again, folded down to hold Dog's head in her hands, to hold Dog back just far enough that she couldn't swipe her tongue over Gideon's mouth, but close enough that they could have a serious spouse-to-dog conversation.

"I'm into Harrow too, okay? I just need to know that Harrow will let me outside without a leash. I need her to let me run away if that's what I need to do. No, that's a bad—fuck, look at us. This isn't your job. You don't have to listen to this. You want a treat?"

Dog's fuzzy eyebrows shifted. Her tail wagged.

"Yeah, okay, let's go to the kitchen." Gideon stood from the couch, just as Harrow emerged with their drinks.

Harrow raised her eyebrows, a silent question, and an expression a bit reminiscent of the one Dog just made at the word treats, like that thing at the beginning of One Hundred and One Dalmatians where all of the people looked just like the dogs they were walking. Except Harrow looked nothing like Dog beyond the face she'd just made. If anyone looked like Dog in this house, it was...no, Gideon was not going to start comparing herself to Harrow's dog again.

Gideon responded to Harrow's unspoken question with a head tilt toward Dog. Harrow stepped aside so that Gideon and Dog could pass. It was the sort of wordless conversation they might have had years ago, in the narrow space behind the bar of the Tomb, the silent communication that took place between two people who were used to sliding past each other in close quarters, to working side by side. It was the sort of moment that Gideon forgot about when she looked back at her six years in the Tomb, because it was overshadowed by the glares and the rejections and the closed doors.

They weren't in the Tomb anymore. It all hit a little different now, standing together in Harrow's house.

The unsigned papers disagreed.

**

Another day and she was spread out on the couch, Harrow over her, Harrow's mouth dropping kisses onto her lips, Harrow's thighs pressed in tight against Gideon's sides. They couldn't last much longer like this. They were too close. The couch was too inviting. Harrow pressed her tongue between Gideon's lips, and Gideon pushed up to meet Harrow's kiss, her entire body thrumming with it. She pushed up with her foot that was still on the floor, desperate to get closer to Harrow. Too desperate. Too close. She reached for the belt around Harrow's waist and then she—

And then she remembered herself, remembered their rules, and she reeled herself back in, fell back against the cushions with a frustrated grunt. She pulled away from Harrow's kiss and shook her head.

"Okay," she said. "Sorry, I'm too—"

Harrow was off of Gideon before Gideon finished the thought. She was off of Gideon in seconds, and by the time Gideon pushed herself up into a sitting position, Harrow was across the room, curled up in the chair, her phone held in her hand. Harrow's mouth looked a little swollen; she was breathing heavy. Gideon watched the rise and fall of Harrow's chest.

The papers watched from the coffee table that separated them.

Seven weeks had passed. Seven weeks of technically married life and what had they learned?

It wasn't nothing. Gideon had learned a few things. Technically, Gideon now had intimate knowledge of Harrow’s mouth and Harrow’s life.

Well, of Harrow’s mouth. She still didn’t know all that much about Harrow’s life. Even the stuff that should be easy, like what were Harrow’s favorite movies? Her favorite books? What did Harrow even like other than the Tomb, concocting drinks, her dog, and maybe Crux, like in some weird paternal temporary-keeper-of-Harrow’s-legacy way?

Gideon ran a hand through her hair and glanced out toward the back yard. The garnish garden was bright and alive out there, rows of well-tended plants in their tiered pots. Okay, so she knew that Harrow liked gardening, apparently, though Harrow wouldn't admit it.

She turned away and blinked until her eyes adjusted back to the dim interior of the house, to the browns and oranges and weird muddy greens.

Harrow did not like interior decorating.

She had the kitchen of a serious alcoholic, except she never actually seemed to drink much of anything in there, just liked to have obscure ingredients on hand in case inspiration struck. As far as Gideon could tell, Harrow existed on potatoes she cooked in the microwave, plain pasta, pancakes with no syrup, oatmeal, pretzels, canned corn, and frozen bagels that honestly tasted like nothing. She had a cupboard full of matzo, even though when Gideon asked, she said she wasn’t Jewish. She just liked it, and she stocked up every spring.

So yeah, if Gideon got hungry while she was there, she ordered a pizza and Harrow very slowly ate one slice. Leftovers were still in the fridge the next day, albeit a few slices had little halfmoon bites missing from them. Gideon ordered pizza a lot, just because she loved seeing that Harrow nibbled the leftovers when she wasn’t there. She loved finishing Harrow’s nibbled slices, biting off those little crescents while she imagined Harrow standing in the dark, illuminated by the light from the fridge in the early hours of the morning, Dog’s tail wagging as she waited for a piece to fall.

Gideon wasn’t a total weirdo though. Yeah, she liked eating the pizza Harrow nibbled, but she also stocked Harrow’s fridge every once in a while. She stocked it with practical things like eggs (she was the only one who cooked them) and milk and fruit and vegetables.

And no, okay, so Gideon never saw Harrow turn on the television, but she spent a lot of time watching youtube on her phone. That was what she was doing now, scrunched up in her chair, her face carefully neutral, though her breathing still seemed a little fast.

Their daily kissing sessions sometimes started lazily, sometimes urgently, but they always ended like this; abruptly, with one of them pulling away, physically retreating, putting actual distance between them. Sometimes that space was only needed for a minute or two. Sometimes it lasted the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes it was like it was now, Harrow curled up in her chair watching youtube documentaries, usually about paranormal stuff, ghost sightings. Sometimes it was religious history or religious cults. Sometimes it was serial killers. When this started, Gideon usually turned her attention to Dog instead, wrestled around on the rug, retreated out back to play fetch, even though it was maybe three running strides for Dog to make it from the fence on one side of the yard to the other.

Occasionally, when they could stand to stay close to each other after the abrupt conclusion of a kissing sess, they watched Harrow’s videos together. This almost always put Gideon to sleep. Gideon pulled Harrow up against her, and it felt strangely familiar, strangely right, and she watched over Harrow’s shoulder, her eyes getting heavier by the second.

Harrow chewed at her fingernails while she watched. She spit little bits of fingernail onto the rug, on Gideon's leg, on anything in her path. That was gross, but it was Harrow. It was the kind of detail that Gideon didn’t know about Harrow before this started, and she revelled in it now, in the fact that Harrow was a gross little weirdo who spit nail detritus all over her own house (and Gideon’s that one time). What the fuck.

Gideon still hadn’t been anywhere in Harrow’s house other than the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, and the back yard. Harrow kept all of the bedroom doors shut, including her own. That was probably good. It was probably good that Gideon’s mental image of Harrow’s home did not include beds. The long orange couch was hard enough to resist.

And there, on the table, were the divorce papers. Still untouched by Harrow, by Dog, by anyone. Gideon touched them now. She checked the last page, just to make sure. There was the scrawl of her name, the signature that made Gideon feel like she never really grew up. It looked the same as it had when Gideon was still in school, messy and childish. The line for Harrow's name was blank.

She sat back on the couch, adjusted her shorts, and tried to ignore the fact that she was still aroused. Thinking about pizza hadn't worked. Fingernails hadn't worked. The divorce papers hadn't worked either. She looked up and found Harrow watching her.

Gideon cleared her throat. It scratched and she wished she hadn't already drained her drink. "You haven't signed yet."

Harrow blinked. She looked down at the table, blinked again. Eventually she looked back up at Gideon. They'd known each other so long, sometimes Gideon thought she should be able to read every face Harrow made, every expression. She couldn't read this one. She looked at the spots on Harrow's nose, the one on her cheek.

"I still need to read through it all," said Harrow.

"Read through it all for what?" Gideon directed her question at Harrow's cheek.

"So that I understand the terms."

"Terms of what?" Gideon asked. She shifted back to Harrow's eyes. Harrow was still looking back. "We've been married less than two months. I don't have anything you would want, and I don't want anything that you have."

Harrow's mouth tightened. "I can think of a few things you want."

That wasn't fair. "You know what I mean."

Harrow seemed to deflate slightly. Her mouth softened. If she was closer, Gideon would have a hard time not kissing her. "I do know, but I need to read through it all to make sure. I haven't had time."

It was another excuse. Gideon let it go.

**

Later, in those early after-work hours of the morning, lying on her bed with Mia cuddled up against her arm, Gideon looked at her phone and saw her still unanswered text messages from the night of the dinner. She considered the screen for a long time, considered her own answer to the question she’d asked Harrow that day, and then typed: at least 3 years for me, since that night in the tomb.

That seemed correct, but it couldn’t actually be the truth, could it? She’d been so twisted up over Harrow for so damn long, but like twisted up (derogatory), not like, marry me, sexy. But then again—Gideon typed: probably longer. feels like i’ve been weird about u forever and then, because that felt too serious, she added: pipsqueak. She hoped Harrow remembered that that had been the tipping point way back when. It didn't fit otherwise, but she couldn't help herself.

She shouldn't send it at all, not until Harrow signed the damn papers. It wasn't like Gideon even wanted a divorce yet. She just wanted to know that Harrow would give it to her if she did.

She pulled the ring out from beneath her shirt, gripped it tight in the palm of her hand. Everything that followed that moment in the hallway at the Mirthraeum after they left Club Nine was a blur to Gideon. She tried to imagine how it might have gone, tried to imagine how the (frankly crazy) decision to get married was made. The last thing she could really remember with any clarity was kissing Harrow against the wall outside Club Nine, laughing at Harrow's response to the buzzing of the phone in Gideon's pocket.

They planned to get breakfast. It was still the middle of the night, but they were in the Mithraeum, in a city that tried its hardest to stay awake, and the buffet was definitely open.

Harrow sat across from Gideon, chin in her hands and stars in her eyes. Gideon wasn't doing anything, really. She was just eating her weight in breakfast food: pancakes and eggs, sausage and bacon and heaps of potatoes. She smiled at Harrow over her potato mountain and Harrow didn't glare or snap. Instead she smiled back. There was a bowl of oatmeal cooling on the table in front of Harrow, untouched, the surface beginning to form a crust.

It was the longest they'd gone since arriving at the Mithraeum without their lips locked in a kiss, and Gideon's eyes kept drifting down toward Harrow’s paint-smeared mouth, toward her jaw and her throat, toward the tie pulled loose around Harrow’s neck. Harrow studied Gideon in return. She watched Gideon’s mouth as she chewed, watched Gideon’s throat as she swallowed. It should have been weird, but somehow it wasn’t. Maybe because Gideon could still remember the taste of Harrow’s tongue, maybe because she remembered now that she preferred it to pancakes and eggs and a mountain of potatoes.

Harrow sat back in her seat. She cleared her throat, and then she laughed, reminding Gideon that this was the new Harrow. This was the Harrow that had blossomed underneath the black lights of Club Nine, watered by vodka and fed on Gideon’s kiss.

“I think the time has come,” Harrow said, suddenly, her voice a little high, her words just slightly slurred, “to tell you everything.”

Gideon swallowed a bite of potato. She barely tasted it. She was transfixed. "Shit," she breathed. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Harrow took a deep breath, looked Gideon in the eye, and gave her everything:

“I think I loved you from the first moment you stepped into the Tomb,” Harrow said. Her words, even through the slight slur, sounded ridiculously heartfelt, a little dreamy. She paused, probably for dramatic effect, to really let her words sink in.

They were sinking in all right.

Gideon ate another bite of breakfast sausage. She swallowed it too soon and felt the lump as it slid down toward her stomach. She watched helplessly, her heart (or maybe just the sausage) in her throat, as Harrow slipped out from her side of the booth.

Harrow fell to her knees beside the bench where Gideon sat, still holding a link of sausage in the end of her fork. Gideon let the fork clatter down into her plate when Harrow reached for her hand. Harrow wrapped Gideon’s hand in hers, clasped their hands together tight, and continued: “The truth is, I love you with my whole rotten heart. Working beside you all of those years, keeping it all to myself—it drove me mad with wanting. The thought of losing you to Bar Cotta or The Languid Lounge was too much for me to bear. You are the best bartender The Locked Tomb has ever had, leagues above Ianthe, and not a day goes by that I don’t regret having driven you away. The truth, Gideon, is that I love you to the exclusion of aught else, even my beloved Crux, even my beloved Tomb. Losing you a second time will most certainly destroy me. Also, in case it wasn’t clear, I’m so very obviously attracted to—

No, that was awful!

Ridiculous and indulgent, terrible even as far as fantasies went. It was just garbage and—

The fact was, they left Club Nine intending to get breakfast and then the next thing Gideon knew, she was hung over and married, but there were hours there. Hours that they filled in one way or another. Hours that led them to A Lasting Memory Wedding Chapel, open 24/7!

If she brought Harrow back to the Mithraeum, maybe they’d find their answers there. If they went together to the Mithraeum, maybe they’d understand what the fuck happened that sent them straight from there to the chapel a few blocks away.

A Lasting Memory. It was actually pretty funny when she stopped to think about it.

If they went together back to the Mithraeum, if they figured out what happened, maybe Harrow would agree to let Gideon go. And maybe then Gideon wouldn't feel like she was insane for wanting to stay.

Harrow picked up her phone on the second ring. “I don’t want to talk, Griddle,” Harrow said and unlike that moment at the door after Dulcinea's dinner party, Harrow’s tone matched her words. Gideon wondered if Harrow had already fallen asleep. Then she stopped wondering, because wondering about Harrow sleeping set Gideon thinking about Harrow’s bedroom. Harrow continued: "The Tomb was packed. I’ve done enough talking tonight for at least another week.”

“Yeah,” Gideon said. “Me too, but I didn’t call to talk. I called because there’s something I think we should try.”

Gideon tried to picture Harrow on the other end of the call, outside of her inner bedroom sanctum. Harrow curled up in the corner of the orange couch with Dog’s fuzzy dog face resting on her ankles.

Harrow made a sound like she was sucking at her teeth. “This doesn’t sound promising. What’s the idea?—it better not be the friendly hate sex you keep coming back to.”

“That’s a good idea, actually, fuck you! We both obviously want it."

"Speak for yourself," Harrow said, and Gideon hoped that Harrow felt her dramatic eye roll through the phone.

"Okay, sure, anyway it’s not that. Will you—just hear me out. I think we should go to the Mithraeum and retrace our steps.”

Harrow was silent for a beat and then said: “You want to go dancing? Now?”

Gideon relaxed, just slightly. Harrow didn’t stomp on the idea immediately. It was a good sign. “No, not dancing, I mean the parts after that, the hard to remember parts. We went dancing and then we went to breakfast, right? I’m guessing we ended up at The White City Buffet.”

“We did,” Harrow agreed, words clipped. “I have the receipt.”

“So we start there, and we see what happens, right? Good call on the receipt, by the way. I didn’t think of that.”

“What do you think that’ll tell us? That you ate your weight in French toast and I ate a muffin?” Those details wouldn’t show on a buffet receipt, which meant Harrow definitely remembered more of the night than Gideon did. (Also meant Gideon’s fantasy reenactment was already way off the mark!)

“You ate a muffin?” Gideon repeated. She found this strangely endearing, but couldn’t quite explain why. She could picture it, Harrow nibbling at the top of a muffin, probably leaving the entire lower half untouched.

Harrow ignored the question and said, “Okay, when?”

“I don’t know,” Gideon said. She was unprepared for Harrow to give in so easily, she hadn’t thought out any of the specifics. “When’s your next night off? Or we could do it earlier, during the afternoon sometime this week.”

“I'll arrange my schedule around yours."

Shit, okay. Right. Of course, Harrow could arrange her own schedule. "I'm off Sunday."

“Midnight, then. We'll meet at the east entrance at midnight on Sunday.”