Irene Didn’t Speak At First. Just Stood There In The Rain, Coat Stitched To Her Like A Second Skin,

“Mm.” Irene tilted her head slightly, like she was considering whether to answer or how much to give away. Her hand hovered near the tin she’d just nudged back, fingers idling at the edge like they hadn’t quite decided what to do next.

“You’ll get names eventually,” she said. “But names don’t matter as much as habits.”

She shifted her weight, leaning one hip against the shelf. Her voice stayed soft, steady. Not whispering — just quiet in that way people get when they know too much and don’t like wasting breath.

“There’s one who wears gloves all the time. Doesn’t shake hands. Always asks about the fire exit but never uses it.” She glanced toward him, holding his gaze for a second. “Don’t let him sit with his back to the wall.”

Then a shrug, like maybe that was too much detail or not enough. “There’s a woman who comes in once a month to leave something under a seat cushion. You’ll think she’s harmless because she tips too much and smells like cardamom. She’s not.”

She let that hang a moment.

“And if anyone brings their own glassware,” Irene added, “don’t ask what it’s for. Just take your break early.” She didn’t sound afraid. Not even particularly rattled. Just resigned — like she’d been on the wrong end of these people’s stories before and didn’t see the point in sugarcoating it. “You’ll be fine,” she said, after a pause. “You’re already asking the right kind of questions.”

Then, almost like she was remembering something else entirely, her gaze flicked back to the mug in his hands.

“And if it ever feels like the lounge is... watching you? That’s because it is..”

Things that look like people. Half-forgotten debts. He took another sip, trying not to dwell on the fact that it had drawn him in as well. There was little reason in the way he’d stopped on the listing for Obsidian and hadn’t bothered to look elsewhere, and he felt less and less like a person with every passing day, since Jyoti had been put into the ground.

“Somewhere quiet, where they could meet or make deals, I can offer. I’d have to figure out where the previous owner was sourcing the blood...” Jaya said, drumming his fingers on the sides of the mug. It cannot be through legal means, not to an establishment like this. “I... don’t particularly like the idea of serving it in crystal stemware. Both for sanitary purposes and in general.”

Potions-witch or not, Irene was offering him real answers. He’d be a fool to refuse. “Who should I look out for?”

Irene didn’t look up right away.

She just nodded once — a little jerk of her chin — and dragged another fry through the pool of ketchup on her tray. Casual, like it wasn’t anything. Like letting someone close was muscle memory instead of a thing that still made her ribs itch.

But when the other woman settled across from her, tray clinking softly against the table’s metal edge, Irene let herself glance over. Quick. Subtle.

And something tugged.

Not recognition, not fully — but that odd prickle you get when a face lingers in your periphery a second too long, like a dream you almost remembered. There was a kind of unsettled weight around her shoulders, not loud, not dramatic, but familiar in the way Irene had learned to clock in strangers. A restlessness. Like she was trying to fit into skin that didn’t feel like hers yet.

It made Irene’s jaw tighten.

The kind of familiar that made her instinctively brace — not for danger, but for the part of herself that might start hoping for connection before she could stop it.

She didn’t stare. Wouldn’t let herself.

Instead, she dropped her gaze back to her food. Took a sip of her milkshake to buy herself a second. Vanilla and too sweet. It clung to the back of her throat like a childhood she didn’t have.

“Yeah,” she said after a beat, voice quieter now, more of a murmur. “Place fills up fast when the air stops biting.”

The patio was lit in a way that made everything seem a little softer than it probably was — string lights looping lazy over the tables, dogs barking and kids laughing like the world hadn’t tried to chew them up yet. Irene watched a lab mix skid across the pavement chasing a tennis ball and felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not quite. But close.

Her eyes flicked back up, briefly.

“You new to the area?” she asked, not because she cared — or, at least, that’s what she told herself — but because the question hung there anyway. Like it wanted to be spoken.

She popped another fry into her mouth. Chewed slow.

Something about the girl’s presence pressed quiet against the noise in Irene’s chest. Not gone, not even dulled — just… held, maybe. For a moment.

She nudged the tray a little toward the middle. A silent offer. A peacekeeping gesture. Irene didn’t share food. Not usually. But this wasn’t usual.

She still hadn’t asked her name. Didn’t want to ask why she looked like someone from a dream Irene might’ve had once. Didn’t want to know if she’d show up in another one later.

“Try the fries,” she said instead, finally glancing back up — just long enough to meet her eyes. “They’re the only thing here better than the milkshakes.”

A beat.

“And the milkshakes are pretty damn good.”

This is one of the things she's had trouble getting used to since her turning. The hunger, an appetite far bigger than the one she used to have, and for things far heavier than what she used to eat. And as she looked around the crowded place, she lamented once more her new affinity for greasier, heavier food.

But she had needed to get out of the apartment, even if somehow, it felt slightly better, less tight, less suffocating. The walls no longer collapsing on her, the silence no as deafening as it was when she first moved there. She imagined it had to do with a redheaded wolf and the hangout place they've asked her to visit, the wolves that hang around there that can't see beyond her wolf. That don't know of the past life she carried before this.

She thinks of the blonde girl that's a new familiar face around the cafe. And a smile finds her lips all over again, as she looks down at the trail in her hands. But she shakes herself out of it, looks around once more and finds no empty seat.

Sky had almost given up, resigned to sitting somewhere on the floor or go back and asked for it to be packed to go when she catches the girl's voice, and she looks at her with a grown, and surprise in her face. She looks comfortable in her table, but Sky takes the invitation anyway, sitting opposite the other, trying to make herself small. "Thanks... I wasn't expecting this to be so packed."

Irene didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rise to it, didn’t blink. Just stood there in the hum of old fluorescents and bad intent, jaw set, fingers curling loose around the first cartridge like it wasn’t worth the weight of blood it could carry. Her eyes followed the second round as he slid it across, watched his hand, not the grin. And still —still—she didn’t flinch. But her stillness had changed. Not frozen. Tense. Measured. Like someone tiptoeing the brittle edge of a glass floor and trying not to listen for the cracks.

She was walking on eggshells, and they both knew it.

Not because she was afraid of him. Not exactly. Irene had faced worse —things that didn’t smile when they snapped their teeth, things that didn’t bleed red. But Nicolás got under her skin in ways she didn’t like admitting. He talked like he was made of razors and walked like he was waiting to be put down. And worse, he noticed things. Watched her too closely. Talked too loud, too fast, like maybe he was trying to shake something loose from her, just to see what would fall. She hated that she let it get to her. Hated more that she couldn't stay gone —had to come here, because he had the inventory she needed and she couldn't risk eyes on her anywhere else. Wouldn't be just nice if he left her the fuck alone?

Still. If he wanted to poke the bear, she could bare teeth, too.

“Haunted?” she echoed at last, voice low, even. “You think this is haunted?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him, just enough to shift the air —just enough to let him feel the chill running beneath her coat like a wire left live. Her hand didn’t twitch toward a weapon. Didn’t need to. She’d already sized the room, marked every surface, mapped every sharp edge she could use to cut him down. Her stillness was the weapon.

“If I’m haunted, it’s by the thought that the Brotherhood thought you were worth putting on payroll. That someone somewhere signed said, Yes, this one. The human shrapnel with a death wish. Let’s give him keys and teeth and let him loose.”

Her lips barely moved, but her tone sharpened.

“You think I look hunted? You should see what’s on my list.”

She picked up the second cartridge then —slow, steady. Let him feel the disconnect between her tone and the casual, practiced way she handled it. She could read a death in the weight of a bullet. And this one told her enough.

“I came here for supplies, not psychoanalysis. If you want someone to pick through your damage, try a mirror.”

A pause. Then —because he always wanted one last word, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of silence. “And for the record?” Her head tilted slightly, mouth twitching just enough to suggest it could almost be a smile. “You don't fail with flying colors. You fail exactly how we expect you to.”

See? Exotic like “professionalism.” That’s her edge. Beige. Nico barks a laugh through the necklace — sharp, fast, unamused. “God, you’re boring,” he says, chewing the lollipop stick until it splinters. Doesn’t even notice the cut in his cheek from the shard.

Irene’s out here talking like she’s filling out a fucking tax form. Like each word got cleared by legal before leaving her mouth. And for what? To make him feel small? He likes being big. Loud. Messy. The festering wound no one wants to look at. That’s the brand he’s carried for the Brotherhood for years. He’s going to keep carrying it. Inked under the skin, wrapped around bone. They don’t get to have him clean.

“Three strides, no breathing, no bleeding,” he parrots in a singsong voice, off-key on purpose. “You make it sound like a purity test.”

Then, quicksilver, the grin snaps into place—unnatural and all teeth. “But don’t worry, Irene. I fail with flying colors.”

His energy stutters, then spikes—sudden, twitchy. He rocks forward like he might vault the counter just to see if she’d flinch. Doesn’t. God, boring.

What’s the last thing she killed? He wonders. Was it clean? Was it quiet? Did she cry after? He thinks she did. There’s a few sheep in wolves’ clothing around here, and Nico wants to know who’s who. He can smell it on them—fear dressed up as bravado, stitched into leather jackets. The ones who posture too loud, who keep their knives polished but their hands clean. He’s seen it before. Seen what happens when the bluff gets called and their teeth don’t show up. Nico minds monsters—and he minds liars. And if someone’s wearing a predator’s skin without earning it, he’ll be the one to peel it back and see what’s really twitching underneath.

He pushes another cartridge forward and holds it there—fingertips pressing down, not releasing. A tension in his posture like a lit match held near gasoline.

“What are you hunting, Irene?” Eyes wide now. Hungry. Off-balance. “’Cause if it’s not me, why do you look so fucking haunted?"

Irene tolerated the hug like she might tolerate a cat sitting in her lap uninvited—still, unmoving, but with a faintly stunned look in her eye like she wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this. She didn’t return it, not exactly, but she didn’t push Allie away either. Which, for Irene, was saying something.

“Matching energies,” she echoed, dry as ever, but her voice was quieter now. Less like bark, more like rustling leaves. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

She let Allie take the notebook without protest, though her fingers lingered a beat too long before letting it go. Like maybe part of her was tempted to hang onto it, if only to make sure it didn’t end up under the peppermint again. Or the radiators. Or that one cursed drawer that ate things whole.

At the question, though—do you have something like it?—Irene’s expression shifted.

Not visibly. Not much. Just a flicker in the way she blinked, the angle of her shoulders as she turned and started walking back toward the counter. Something closing behind the eyes.

“No,” she said simply. “I’m not a witch.”

It was too smooth. Too practiced. Not even a hitch.

“I just know a thing or two about herbs. Plants. I read a lot.”

The lie settled neatly between them, well-worn and wrapped in just enough truth to pass inspection. It always sounded better when she said it like that —like it wasn’t a big deal. Like the books and the jars and the faint, prickling hum of the walls around them weren’t strung together with old wards and stranger things. Survival, after all, had never been about honesty.

She paused near the counter, reaching to flick off a lamp that had started to buzz again, half-listening to the light catch in Allie’s laughter.

“You should be careful with those kinds of notebooks,” she said, tone light enough to sound like she was joking—though the words had an edge to them, buried deep. “Write the wrong thing down and it might try to make itself true.”

Then, as if to soften it —because Allie was still glowing at her like Irene had hung the stars with her bare hands —she added, “But I guess that’s your kind of magic.”

She gave a short nod toward the journal. “Just make sure it doesn’t end up in the peppermint again.”

        she giggles, a little apologetic, but mostly just tickled with humor. and, anyways, she’s pretty sure irene’s kidding. allie’s never put glitter in the mortars on purpose, but maybe if it’s gotten on her hands … still, her eyes flicker over to them, just to make sure the stone of them isn’t entirely bedazzled. but, before she can fully set her gaze on them, irene’s talking about her little lost thing, and allie remembers why the wind brought her back here.

        her head tilts sheepishly. yes, of course, she’d left something behind again. really, it doesn’t matter so much as long as she keeps coming back to the apothecary, and she always does. if she could hold onto things longer- memories -it wouldn’t matter so much. but it was on her mind and worth a try and she had hope and now, here she is! and here irene is, and she’s found it.  “ oh my gosh, thank you, thank you! you’re the best! ”  she forgets about her quest to keep irene from getting too grumpy with her as her eyes catch hold of the little journal. allie squeals, and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around irene’s shoulders in a brief squeeze, fueled by a rush of affection.  “ you’re so good at finding things, i think that’s why we’re friends. ‘cause we have, like, matching energies. ”  she lets go soon enough, resting back down on the ground, instead of pushed up on her tiptoes, reaching for the clouds.

         allie takes the journal back from where it’s dangling from the tips of irene’s fingers, clutching it gratefully, tender, to her chest. there’s more laughter spilling from her lips.  “ i’m very lucky, but it’s ‘cause of you, silly. ”  she doesn’t believe irene’s threat of keeping it, mostly because there’s nothing in there that’s all that interesting. of course, it’s all interesting to allie, but … everything is.  “ do you have something like it? like, a little book you keep all your magic stuff in? ”

WHO: open to all. WHERE: tūmatarau apothecary

The shop smelled like rosemary and old paper—faint, but enough to catch in your coat and ride home with you. The door creaked open, the chime overhead giving a half-hearted jingle. Wind, maybe. Or someone too late. Irene didn’t look up.

“We closed five minutes ago,” she said, voice flat.

She was bent over a worn-out tablet, the screen casting a cold light across her face. Her thumb drifted down the page —slow, distracted— past rows of items she already knew were running low. She let out a sigh. Not dramatic, not loud. Just tired. The kind you let go of when you're too worn down to hold it in.

Silence followed. Not quite empty, not quite still. The kind of quiet that settles in places where magic hasn’t quite gone to sleep. “Unless it’s urgent,” she said after a moment, slower this time. “And I mean actually urgent. Not I forgot my dreamless tea urgent.”

Irene didn’t roll her eyes — she didn’t give him the satisfaction. That would’ve meant his noise reached her, that his cocktail of smirks and blood-jokes managed to press somewhere beneath her skin. Instead, she let the silence stretch thin and humming, like piano wire drawn taut between them. One sharp note away from slicing skin.

She watched the wobbling cartridge settle, its nose pointing square at her sternum like a dare, and didn’t blink. Let it rest there. Let him imagine it made a difference.

“Cute trick,” she said at last, dry as old paper. “Shame it only works on people who don’t know how many times you’ve missed.”

She took the cartridge off the counter without looking at it, let it spin once on her fingertip before palming it, smooth and precise. That old dancer’s grace — all economy and control, every movement a message. I could ruin you and never lift my voice doing it.

“You mistake the shape of silence for strain,” she continued, her tone dipping low, precise. “Just because I don’t break the glass doesn’t mean I don’t know how. You think I’m one bad day from snapping?” She leaned forward a fraction, voice softening — not sweet, but sharp enough to cut clean. “I’ve been one bad day for other people. More than once. Don’t mistake composure for mercy.”

Then, just to underline it, she smiled. Small. Clinical. The kind of expression you might see on someone flipping through morgue tags.

Her gaze ticked down to the smeared inventory sheet, still smudged with whatever grease-stain bravado passed for his signature.

“You know,” she mused, brushing the corner of the page lightly, “If I wanted a toddler with impulse control issues, I’d raid the daycare wing of the Order’s training program. At least they shit their pants less when they get scared.”

She let the sentence hang there for a beat, sweetened with just enough venom to sting.

“But you—” she gestured vaguely to him, his posture, the chair, the grin stitched into his face like a bad scar — “You’re still chasing your own echo, pretending it’s a monster. Is that what this is now? Playing boogeyman to get someone to look at you? You gonna spook some street witches next? Kick over a hex circle and call it a win?”

Then she straightened — not defensive, not retreating, just done indulging. Jacket cuffs tugged sharp. Voice flat again, bored around the edges.

“You want to hunt together?” she echoed. “Tell me what’s in it for me.”

A pause.

“Besides the obvious disappointment, I mean.”

And then, like a knife slipped between ribs on an inhale, soft, while leaning slightly closer. “Or are you still calling it a hunt when the targets don’t shoot back?”

Nico rolls the lollipop stem against his molars, splits it down the grain with a wet crack, then flicks the splinter into the trashcan like a gauntlet. Irene’s voice is still humming in the air—clean, judicial, taste-tested—so he folds his arms behind his head, tips back on the stool, and yawns. Wide. The kind of yawn that shows spite and maybe the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Lets it hang there, jaw unhinged, until the lights buzz louder than she does.

“God,” he sighs from his necklace into the ceiling, “Irene, they should bottle you and sell you to insomniacs.”

The stool claps down on all four legs. He leans over the counter, elbows wide, grin gone lazy. “Look, I get it. You’re the sharp scalpel, I’m the rusty hacksaw. You do neat incisions, I swing ’til bone dust fogs the room. It’s cute you think the surgeons always walk out cleaner.” He drums a fingertip on the cartridge she’s taken. “Metal’s metal either way. Same death inside.”

His gaze skates to the inventory sheet lying untouched between them, a neat grid of typewritten calibers and order codes. He drags a dirty thumbnail across the column of quantities, leaving a smear that obliterates three numbers. “Oops,” he signs. “There goes the paperwork. Guess legal’s gonna have to clear that, too.”

She’s still statuesque, frost-marble perfect. He studies her stillness—how it strains at the edges like a violin string tuned a half-step too high. “You do haunt, sweetheart,” he says. “Not with ghosts, but with everything you’re holding back. Makes a man wonder what color the spill would be if someone poked the dam.”

His hand snakes under the counter, comes up with another cartridge—this one dull brass, dented near the rim. He balances it on its base, spins it, lets it wobble to a stop pointing at her heart. “Tell you what.” The cartridge disappears again, swallowed by a fist. “You keep pretending my fail-state is predictable, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not one spark away from shattering. Symbiosis, right? Brotherhood loves that word.” He winks, mock conspiratorial. Then the grin sharpens, shark-fin breaking water. “You asked what I’m hunting? Today—splitting headaches shaped like your voice. Tomorrow? Whatever bleeds the loudest. Maybe we tag-team it. First time for everything, yeah?”

Nico tips his head, regarding the lollipop cut blooming red on his cheek. A slow swipe of his tongue—copper, sugar, grin.

"What say you? Want to hunt together?"

Irene

Most admirable quality: She's got a lot of compassion. I think she tries to hide that sometimes, but I try to pay attention when people are reaching out a helping hand to others, and she does it a lot. She's a good person. Most attractive physical feature: Eyes are the window to the soul, right? Hers are really pretty. Most annoying habit: She like to keep things vague and short sometimes when she speaks, and I kind of thrive on details and explanations. Something they would like to do with them: I should really pay her back for bringing me that lunch, so maybe grabbing something to eat together?

//@ireneclermont

jessica alexander

merci de créditer (c) pau.

She didn’t answer at first.

Not with words. Just pressed her face deeper into the familiar line of his shoulder and let the silence hold everything that should’ve broken her by now. He was still warm. Still solid. Still Riven. And that —that was the part that undid her the most. Because even after all the miles and blood and years stretched tight between then and now, even after all the things she’d killed and buried just to keep walking—he still felt like home.

A softer kind of breaking settled in her ribs.

He wasn’t as tall as she remembered. She didn’t have to reach anymore. Didn’t need to go on tiptoe to wrap her arms around him. But somehow, being in his arms made her feel smaller than ever. Not in a way that made her afraid. In a way that made her want to stay. Because if Riven was here, if he was real, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all lost yet.

And then he said that—Try that knife on me.

Her whole body went still.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him, the truth of him, to believe he wasn’t going to vanish. Her eyes searched his like she was trying to see the seams, the trick of it, the thread that would unravel this illusion if she tugged too hard.

But there was no illusion.

Only him.

“I would never,” she said, and her voice cracked right down the center. “No. No, never. You hear me?”

The words trembled out of her like glass under pressure, but the weight behind them was steel. She shook her head once, sharp and certain. “I’d put a bullet in my own skull before I ever hurt you. Don’t you—” Her breath hitched again. “Don’t you say shit like that. Not to me. Not you.”

She closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Then his next question hit her like a cold wind through a cracked door. She huffed a sound —not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. A hollow thing.

“No,” she said, plain and simple. “No. Nothing’s okay.”

Not her mom. Not her dad and certainly not her.

And then, softly, almost dazed, “What do you mean, how did I find you?” Her brows knit, like the question itself hurt. “We live here.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

And the moment she said we, the world righted itself.

The old house. The protective circles. The soundproofing, the wards, the runes scrawled under the windowpanes. She’d kept it all running. For just in case.

She pulled back a little more, enough to take his hand in hers, fingers curling like they used to when she was smaller and braver and full of impossible belief and hope. Just like she used to do when she wanted to drag him away from danger, away from fights he didn’t need to take for her. Back when she still thought he could fix everything with just a smile and a soft hand on her shoulder.

Her voice dropped to something gentler now, touched with something like hope.

“Come with me,” she said. “It’s not far. You’ll be safe there. I don't want them to see you.”

She tugged at his hand again —not demanding, not pulling hard. Just like always. That quiet, steady kind of insistence. A lifeline, knotted in memory.

I can't get to have this.

He wasn't what she remembered. He was no longer gentle and kind— a boy, just as lost as she was, just better at navigating the halls of their haunted house. Who reached to catch her when she stumbled, and stood between her and the dark like it was instinct. A big brother, of sorts. Her shield.

Now he felt like a stranger wearing the skin of someone she used to need.

Would she be disappointed, once she learned the truth? His smile was tight, yet there, just enough to give her something to hold onto. "You can try that knife on me," he said, "See if I’d bleed." Usually ghosts didn't. It was a tease, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite laugh. .

When all the weapons dropped and arms wrapped around each other, Riven remembered the last time he’d held her this close. Back then, she barely reached his chest, going up on her toes. She wasn't little anymore, her head fit neatly against his shoulder, no stretching required. And still, she clung to him like he was the only thing left in the world that could save her. Christ. He couldn’t even save himself, let alone her. "Is everything okay?" No, he supposed not from the way she was shaking in his arms, but the words slipped out anyway, as his hand rose to comb gently through her hair— "How did you find me?"

Irene didn’t slow when the door shimmered open ahead of them — just tightened her grip on Shiv’s hand and stepped through like it cost her nothing. In truth, it did. Every second she stayed, every inch deeper she went into this fractured loop of their mind — it drained her. She wasn’t built for this. Her power lay in action, in the physical, in breaking things and building them back stronger. Minds were too soft. Too loud. The weight of someone else’s ruin pressed behind her eyes like a scream trapped under glass. But for Shiv?

She’d stay as long as it took. No matter how many times.

Even if it cracked her right down the middle.

She wouldn’t let them suffer in here. Wouldn’t leave them stranded inside their own wreckage. Shiv had been the only one who saw her — really saw her — without asking her to be anything more than what she was. Their kindness was quiet, careful. Not soft exactly, but real. That mattered. That always mattered. The world shifted as they passed through the threshold — a breath held between realities — and when she blinked, the desert was gone.

Now there was a beach.

Nighttime. Still, dark, and vast. The stars stretched endless above them, their shimmer soft over the slow-crashing tide. A breeze curled through the air, warm and clean, laced with salt and the faintest echo of wild lavender. The kind she remembered from southern coasts. The kind she hoped Shiv liked.

The sand here didn’t hum with strange magic or loops or teeth. It just was.

Safe.

A little further down the shoreline sat a small house — all weathered wood and crooked windows, roof sloped like it had exhaled. The porch light flickered gently, like someone was already home. Like someone was waiting. Behind it, just beyond the first dune, a bonfire burned low and steady. Not too bright, not too loud. A comfort, not a warning. And beside it — books. Piles of them. Every book she’d ever read. Stolen pages, annotated field manuals, quiet poetry, dumb thrillers from train stations, stories she half-remembered from her mother’s kitchen. All laid out, ready. Something to occupy Shiv while they rested. Something that felt human again.

“I can hold this place,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Shiv, still keeping their hand in hers. “For as long as you need it.”

She meant it.

Whatever toll this dreamspace took on her, she’d pay it twice. Three times. She’d bleed it out if that’s what it took. They reached the porch, and she didn’t let go until she was sure the loop wasn’t pulling anymore. Until the dream quieted.

Then, finally, she looked at them.

Really looked.

Not the handler. Not the mission. Not the broken mind trying to put itself back together — just Shiv. The only one who didn’t flinch when she was cold, or sharp, or impossible to read. The one who always stayed a step behind, steady, no matter how many times she tried to walk alone.

The words from before settled into the air between them.

She exhaled, long and low, eyes flicking away for just a moment — before they returned to Shiv’s face with something almost like warmth in her expression. Almost.

“The file doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care what was in it.” Bright hues met theirs — tired, but still burning. Still Irene. “I’m just… glad you remembered me.” Her voice dipped, gentler than it had been in hours. “If you hadn’t—” She didn’t finish. Just shook her head. “Things could’ve gone badly.”

A beat.

Then—

“You sound like my dad,” she muttered, glancing away again with a half-hearted scoff, the edge of a grin curling at her lips. “Don’t get all soft on me now.”

It lingered — the smile. Brief but real. A crack of sunlight on a long-dry floor.

“I don’t think everyone sees it the way you do,” she added, quieter. “Nico would probably stab me in the back and then complain I bled on his boots.” A shrug. “But… for once, I’m glad I’m a witch.” She shifted, expression flickering with something unreadable. “Are you okay? Is this good? Comfortable enough for now?”

Because that mattered. It had to be his peace. Not hers.

She could feel the parts of Shiv’s mind she wasn’t supposed to be in, the flickering half-formed echoes of what had been lost — and what might be found again. Including her.

Including Thera.

And gods, Irene hated moments.

She hadn’t meant to see anything. That wasn’t what she came for. But minds didn’t exactly play fair, and some scraps came unbidden — laughter too close to lips, glances held a second too long. Thera, brushing dust from Shiv’s coat like it was instinct. It made Irene want to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull.

And gag. Just a little.

Still, she knew what it meant. Connection like that doesn’t vanish. Not fully. Not unless someone makes it vanish. And Irene… she didn’t believe Thera would ever do that to them.

There were ways to bring memory back.

But not tonight.

Not like this.

“Do you remember anything at all? Who did this to you? I —” she paused, exhalding deeply. “—I feel their magic. It's more than —” How could she even put this into words? She couldn't. “More than one witch did this.”

Shiv can only shake their head in confirmation. “Sorry. I’m having a hard time remembering much of anything lately.” It’s a mercy, a miracle that they managed to scrape up their memories of Irene a few moments before she arrived. Half of Shiv’s memories are gone and their mind is quite literally in ruins but gods forbid they lose their impeccable timing.

Do they like the beach? The question sounds ludacris, so much so that Shiv immediately answers absentmindedly. “Sure. A night at the beach sounds bloody lovely right now.” Of course Shiv follows Irene’s lead, both in conversation and on the path through the desert. They're not exactly in the right condition to argue or call shots. And they know that, pride by damned. Apologizing again wasn't going to do anything.

Irene never wastes time and energy on talk. When she does talk, it's important. Shiv is quick to remember that as they piece together the context clues sprinkled in her blunt attitude as the two silently walk hand in hand. 

This Thera is obviously important. ‘Accomplice’ isn’t strong enough to describe someone keeping them alive. Maintaining their physical body most likely. Yet, for what reason? It must be for good reason if this Thera would be glad to see the connection made. Right? There’s too little emotion in Irene’s face and voice to further work off of. That’s the second fact they remember about Irene. Never clear cut feelings out the gate with this one. Always patiently waiting for the right cues, the slightest micro-expression or the tiniest shift in her eyes to speak louder than words.

Shiv can't see either from here. However, her grip on their hand is tight, firm. As if they will crumple or fade away with the slightest breeze and shift in the sand.

“You're not the type that needs tracking. But you went missing anyway.”

She's worried.

They don't have any magic or useful tools to help her. But all Irene seems to need is reassurance, something to let her know they're still here. Touch. Noise. Anything.

Shiv squeezes Irene's hand back. They can do that.

"...I never got around to giving your file back, did I? Other business got in the way. The hurricane especially. Its just..." Shiv scratches their dry throat and swallows hard, "I would have let you burn the damn thing. Witch or nay, you're a good hunter. An even better comrade. No matter what happens, its an honor to be your handler."

"Moreso you confidant. Moreso your friend."