Chapter Text
1
Mary smells gunpowder, acrid and soothing, and she can’t tell if it’s her or the perpetual smell of the car. Almost as if it has settled into the leather seats, mingling with the distinct stench of iron that seems to cling to the girls of the order. It’s nothing she isn’t used to. Gunpowder tended to follow her, clung to her clothing, and buried deep into fingernails despite how much she scrubbed. It hangs oppressively in the vehicle’s cab as her fingers trace over the cool metal of a pistol’s barrel resting in the glove compartment. Over the rough handle that protrudes from her boot, the hard plastic of a holster at her hip.
“They haven’t moved since the last time you checked them,” the girl beside her says, Shannon, if Mary could remember correctly.
“I’m just checking,” Mary starts.
“Yes, like you did five minutes ago.”
Her eyes follow the curve of the dashboard, tracing slight cracks in the upholstery where they spider into oblivion. Pale fingers gently grasp the leather steering wheel, leading towards Shannon, whom Mary had only watched from afar. Seeing her across the training field, sitting amongst their sisters with an ease she could never understand.
“What was it that Claire told us,” Mary asks as she follows the brown leather of Shannon’s jacket, her best attempt at civilian clothes, “Keep track of your gear, right?”
There’s a sigh, “Sister Claire was talking in general, not doing it every ten minutes.”
She’s pretty, Mary must admit that. Imposing coated in the cool light of the streetlamp above, shadows highlighting the curve of a jaw. It’s the first time in a while that Mary can see her hair, immaculately tied back. She’s all sharp curves and hard lines as she sits leaning against the seat.
“Is it ten minutes or five?”
“What?” Shannon asks, a muscle working along her jaw, her attention still on the street.
“You said five minutes then ten minutes. Which is it?”
“What does it matter,” she replies, fingers tightening slightly against the steering wheel as a couple stumbles past them. Giggling amongst themselves, Mary tracks them as they pass. Watches the way one of them pulls the other into a brief kiss as they work their way across the slightly uneven sidewalk.
“It matters,” Mary starts as she leans down, heat dial rough against the pad of her thumb. A slight groan as the heater kicks into life, “Because I’ve been stuck in this car with you for the past hour, and you haven’t spoken a word until now.”
An eyebrow lifts at that comment, a reaction. Mary will take that.
“I have nothing to say, that’s why,” Shannon responds, attention shifting from yellow dotted lines on asphalt towards some distant spot.
She knows she should follow her gaze, track the path of sight to whatever point Shannon has fixated on. Instead, she suddenly discovers the way cheekbones curve underneath flesh, almost like a pathway toward those eyes. The way flesh crinkled underneath the shift of an eyebrow, the ghost of a wrinkle on her forehead. There’s a slight brushing of freckles, faint yet noticeable, across the bridge of Shannon’s nose.
“You’re staring,” there’s a casualty to it that causes Mary to shift her gaze from her face.
“Do you ever smile?” Mary asks before she can think.
The answer comes back quick with a slight twitch of Shannon’s mouth, “For the right person, now let me ask you a question.”
“Go for it.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“For the right person,” Mary breathes, breath catching in her throat as she watches Shannon lean forward—corded muscle flexing underneath the slight movement. Slender fingers turning the dial back to rest perfectly between the dark blue and red. How would those fingers feel against her skin?
Shannon hums, low enough to tear through Mary, hand warm where it lands on her knee. The denim of her jeans is doing nothing to stop it from radiating across raised skin. She can’t breathe as she watches her thumb ghost along the dark fabric. How easy it would be for her to drag her hand across Mary’s thigh to give her what she suddenly craves.
“Mary,” Shannon calls, still coated in low musk, and her name shocks her from her thoughts. She’s made eye contact with her, dark eyes unrelenting in their determination, “That’s your name, right?”
She swallows and nods, no longer trusting her voice.
“I thought so, I’ve seen you around,” Shannon says, her hand growing firm against where it rests on the bone.
“So, you’ve seen me,” Mary replies, attempting to ignore how her stomach burns. A steady and familiar throb building, synching with her heartbeat. A small smile forms on Shannon’s lips, briefly there as if it would disappear as soon it arrived.
“Yes, enough to know of you,” the other woman starts, smile gone. Her hand drags across the cool fabric. It takes everything in Mary to keep her hips from following, leather groaning as her hand attempts to find security. There’s gentle pressure around the bone. “I need you to stop talking, think you can do that for me?”
“Yes,” She confirms, the word ripping from her chest before she can process the request.
“Good, thank you.”
Heat follows Shannon’s hand as she pulls away from Mary. A sudden cold filtering through her body, across the plane of her body, threatening to douse the sudden heat. Tendons flex as her hand returns to its spot on the leather wheel, the other resting against her cheekbone. Her attention turned back across the street.
Mary feels the carpet underneath her boots as she adjusts. It’s oddly grounding as she shudders a breath. Gunpowder and iron rush in, a reminder of the mission. Her heat throbs again with each movement. Fingers ghost across the cool metal of pistol handles as she reverts to checking. One, two, three firearms.
“Mary,” her name sighed, curving, and floating like smoke from a barrel.
“Shannon.”
“What did I ask?”
Her eyes burn against the curve of Mary’s torso, and she can feel them drag themselves across the plane of her sweater, finally landing on her hand wrapped around the pistol’s grip. Her fingers twitch against the metal before gradually unwrapping them.
Another breath pulls itself from her lungs.
“Right,” Mary says, leather squeaking underneath her, “Sorry.”
Shannon grunts in response, and it threatens to bring Mary to her knees. Silence falls between them, slightly awkward as it grows without conversation. It’s an old friend, silence, sitting amongst individuals in a mutual absence. She’s used to this kind of silence.
A twitch breaks her line of thought. Shannon’s moved, alert with every fiber of her being. It’s small, barely noticeable, the way her hand drops from her chin, her leaning forward. Her eyes caught on something in the distance locked onto two individuals emerging from the heavy door. Facial features challenging to make out in the darkness.
“Shannon,” Mary starts, her hand drifting down towards the holster at her hip. She manages to stop herself before it reaches it.
“Yes?”
“Is that them?” she asks, focusing on the pair as they clear the steps, turning towards a nearby car.
“Yes,” Shannon answers, a hand tightening against the steering wheel again. A car engine turns over in the distance.
“What’s your plan?”
“Follow what we were told,” Shannon replies, her eyes following the vehicle as it pulls from the sidewalk. A strand of hair falls forward, out of the braid, dropping across her forehead as she follows past them. Her hand moves and Mary can feel the car engine turn over and Shannon shift gears.
“Mary?”
“Yes?”
“Give me your pistol,” Shannon orders, her hand held aloft towards her.
Mary obeys.
2
She burns. A gradual sweltering heat threatens to steal the air in her lungs, a nerve pulsating in frustration beneath two vertebrae. It’s the closest thing to hell she has known. Her hand tightens around the tool, the other searching and finding support in the van’s compartment. Another pulse emerges, sending the wrench clattering out of her hand and landing on the concrete underneath the engine.
“You shitty motherfucker,” Mary growls, watching the steel glint in the afternoon light. A crack resonates throughout the garage as she pulls her hands from the van’s bowels.
It’s less oppressive away from the compartment, no longer sweltering. She relishes the way her lungs expand, allowing fresh air to rush in.
“You’ve got the wrong person if that’s who you’re looking for,” a voice begins, Shannon, “Because that’s not a name I respond to.”
She smiles at that, her head turning slightly in acknowledgment. Fabric is rough against her hands as she reaches out and grasps ahold of a towel, oil turning tan fabric into dark spots. Mary tucks it into her back pocket.
“I’d be concerned if that was a name you responded to,” Mary responds, stepping towards the tool kit a few feet away from her. She reaches it and squats down, muscles pulling taunt at the movement. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to watch the show.”
Metal glints in cascading sunlight as she pulls open the rough fabric, some pieces glowing with exposure. Each spot filled with its corresponding pieces; an occasional tool scattered across the bottom of the bag. They’re cool underneath her hands, a welcome relief considering her working conditions. Its threads are rough as she hooks a finger into a wrench socket, the wrench solid in her other hand. Footsteps approach, and something cold lands on her shoulder.
Water, or rather more accurately, a plastic water bottle, rests against the curve of her collarbone.
“I’ve also been here long enough to know you look miserable,” Shannon says, tapping the bottle against the protruding bone. Condensation pools against her skin as it slips from the bottle. “You need a break.”
Mary follows the weak plastic towards fingers, traces tendons, to familiar dark blue sleeves. Water drips from the curve of Shannon’s palm.
“What is this?”
“It’s water,” Shannon answers, her voice lighter with a presumable smile.
There’s a squeak of her sole against the concert as Mary shifts, wrench socket securing into place. Her fingers wrap tentatively around the bottle, gently tugging at it. Oil smears briefly across the label, staining white lettering.
“Thank you,” Mary starts, placing the tool against the cloth bag. The water bottle’s seal breaks with a swift twist of her hand, “But why?”
“Because you look horrible.”
Water burns as she brings it to her lips. It’s soothing the way it runs down her throat. Settling heavy against the solid, separate heat blossoming in her stomach. Mary pulls it away and turns her attention upwards.
Shannon hasn’t moved from her position on Mary's right side. Her shadow cascades across the crouching woman, providing shade and distorting in the afternoon light. A sudden dark blue spot in the plane of golden light, light that seems to exude from her as much as it encompasses. There’s no denying that she’s beautiful. Dark blue fabric clinging to the curve of shoulder muscles, hinting at the steady curve of stomach muscle, wimple covering dirty blonde hair.
She stares with all the reverence of the apostles.
“I like the new look,” Mary says, mentally kicking herself at the words.
She was right about the small smile across Shannon’s lips, the kind she was beginning to associate with the woman across from her. It’s hard to distinguish distinct features at this angle, but that smile isn’t hard to miss. “What, this old thing?”
There’s a joke buried beneath that comment, tangled in sweetness, honey, steel, and blood, and Mary wants nothing more than to unravel it. She wants to pull it from the gentle ribbing to examine it in the light. Instead, Mary becomes aware of how dry her throat is despite the water and mutters, “Yeah, it looks nice on you.”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”
Her fingers twitch around the water bottle, crinkling the plastic, “I said, it looks nice on you.”
Mary’s certain that Shannon’s smile grows at that, revealing a small dimple, “Just nice?”
“What? Do you want me to tell you that you look good?” Mary asks, standing despite the slight warning her knees give her. It’s steady in response, especially in the realization that standing brings her closer to Shannon.
“Actually,” her voice soaks itself in musk, “Yes, I do.”
“Fine,” Mary sighs, “You look good, happy?”
“Oh, I’m ecstatic,” Shannon chides.
“I’m certain you are,” she whispers, her eyes finding Shannon’s. And it takes all the self-discipline beaten in her to keep herself from stopping and avoid becoming enraptured by those eyes staring at Mary. She reaches out and gently taps her shoulder with her knuckles as she moves past her. “What can I help you with, Shan?”
“And who says I need something,” her voice wavers with the word, hardly discrete.
Mary tries not to; really, she does, but she chuckles. Her hands find the van’s metal, a chip of paint breaking underneath it. “As much as I appreciate the water, I’m not prone to believe that you came all the way out here to give me water. What’s up, Shan?”
Her footsteps echo across concrete and metal as Shannon follows Mary towards the van, her current project. She stops short of the vehicle itself, preferring the space between them. All her authority and crafted confidence disappears in the moment, almost as if washed away with the water bottle.
“Because training got done early,” Shannon begins, clasping her hands over the stitched cross, “And I was curious about what you do.”
Vulnerability. Mary’s aware of it exuding from Shannon. Secret, silent, and hidden, but it’s a start.
She hums, “Careful there, Shan. I just might start to think you enjoy my company.”
A small smile forms, crumbling all attempts of a confident façade. It takes the last pillar from underneath Mary as well. Her hand tightens against the warm metal, her final defense to prevent her from crossing the space between them. To take the sharp curve of her jaw in her hands and kiss the woman.
Mary holds fast.
“Of course, I do,” Shannon responds, a certain warmth clinging to it. And Mary wants nothing more than to keep it there, to stay suspended in her presence.
“Well,” she starts, inclining her head upwards, taking in the inlays of the hood. Her attention turns towards the woman near her. “I could use the help, only if you’re willing to help, that is, think you could do that?”
The smile grows, “I think I can.”
“Come here,” Mary breathes, “I’ll show you what I’m working on.”
3
She’s underneath her. Shannon, who is warm and solid, is underneath her. Surprisingly soft underneath all the harsh curves and lines. One hand warm and pressed firmly against the small of Mary’s back. The other wrapped around her skull's base, intertwining between strands of hair.
Shannon’s breath had evened out thirty minutes ago if the blinking red dots were to be trusted. A subtle rise and fall, a gentle rocking of Mary’s head. Accompanying the strong, pulsating heartbeat that interlaces with her own. Mixing to confirm that Shannon was alive, that she was there. It had not been a dream.
Limbs tangle together; to where it was difficult to determine where she left off, and Shannon began. Smooth skin peppered with risen sections. They’re strewn across each other, an unabated display.
Her hand tightens around the cloth of Shannon’s sweatshirt, the fabric rough against her fingertips. It smells faintly of incense to it. Mur and coal clinging to the fabric, no, no, it clung to her. A scent that she was beginning to associate with the woman underneath instead of an act of devotion. Everything she did was in devotion to her.
These days, the only proper thing to do is to pay devotion to Shannon. Mary found herself waiting with bated breath to hear every word she spoke, to view every movement, and to covet their interactions. Igniting and stoking a fire deep within her core. Their touches and conversations hold a reverence for them.
Mary turns her gaze away from the blinking clock and instead turns it upwards towards Shannon. Eyebrows, usually pinched together, now relaxed. She seems finally at peace, almost as if this was the first time she slept in weeks. Mouth parted slightly, face cast towards the window.
An ethereal glow stretches across the room, the sheets, and the blue-green quilt. Finding purchase on the sole thing worthy of light, Shannon’s face. Cast in this dingy yellow light, she is divine, like the halos Mary had seen depicted on stained glass.
It’s softer than she expects, the skin taut across her jawbone, her fingertips breaking the uniform of light. Shadows contouring across the curvature of cheekbones and cartilage. Lips delicate against the brush of Mary’s thumb.
This was Shannon. Shannon, whom she had wanted for so long, was finally hers. At least for now, at this moment, she’s here.
4
“I got you something,” Shannon starts, warmth spreading from where her lips brush against Mary’s temple. She follows it as it pulls away from her. The creak of a metal chair wakes her, pulling her from the warmth of rest.
Mary hums in acknowledgment.
Her pupils don’t strain in the gentle yellow hue of lamplight. Scratch marks draw themselves across the stale grey table, pointing towards the woman beside her. She lets them guide her towards the steaming cup in Shannon’s hands. Tracing taunt veins across the plane of her hands until they disappear under the dark fabric. Somewhere in the depths of the apartment, the radiator sputters to life, humming along to some forgotten tune.
“I spoke with the father,” Shannon offers to silence.
“What’d he say?” Mary asks, the chair creaking underneath her as she leans back.
“They’re sending someone in the morning to get us.”
A grunt escapes from deep in Mary’s chest. She’s aware of the implications of unspoken words hanging grotesquely between them. Aware of the way Shannon tenses at the noise, small and minuet, barely noticeable.
“Mary,” Shannon speaks, there’s a gentleness to her words as her hand clears the space between them, “What’s wrong?”
Knuckles are beginning to bruise, a deep purple spreading underneath the skin—a purple reminiscent of blood pooling in a corpse. The image of Shannon on a slab, purple underneath her, eyes permanently staring reemerges. She’s alive and dead, a walking ghost of an image and wholly alive next to her.
Rough fingers coax her hand open, and she doesn’t try to control herself as she pulls her hand away. The chair scrapes against wood as she recoils back.
“Mary,” Shannon repeats, concern thick on her vocal cords. A purple hand reaching out again, those hands that had beaten against flesh. Her fingers are warm as they catch Mary’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
And she can’t breathe as the blossoming bruise across Shannon’s neck flashes. Dark fabric gives way to dark tissue. A reminder of the mercenary’s hands clamped around her throat. A realization of how close they had come.
“You don’t think,” Mary gasps and regrets it the second it leaves her lips, “You don’t think, and you run headfirst into danger.”
There’s a slight break in Shannon’s face. The slight twitch of her upper lip, her eyebrows furrowing as the words set in. Her eyes are wet. And Mary can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, and those eyes make it worse. Fingers tighten as she turns away, lungs burning as breath rips from muscle. Her body screams, it’s too warm, and she can’t stop pulling away from those hands.
“This was a mistake,” Mary breathes as she turns, “We shouldn’t do this, I can’t-”
“You can’t do what,” Shannon starts, steel embedding itself in her voice, “What exactly can’t you do, Mary.”
Muscles and tendons smolder underneath her skin; relief. That’s all she wants. It’s all she desires. Her hand reaches out and finds the coolness of the chair. A sob breaks free from deep within her chest.
“I can’t lose you,” she whispers, barely audible over the roar of her heartbeat, “I can’t watch you throw yourself into danger.” As she continues, metal groans and fabric shifts, “I can’t watch you become a martyr.”
“Mary,” Shannon gently calls, and a hand settles on her scapula. It’s warm and gentle, and her heart bursts, “Turn around, please.” Shannon thumbs at taunt muscles, tracing absentmindedly into the tissue, her breath warm against her skin. She’s solid, and Mary wants to collapse into her. She wants to be lied to, coaxed into fancy, and believe whatever Shannon utters. Her lips are delicate as they trail the path left by her fingers.
Another breath shudders from Mary’s throat.
“Turn around, please, let me see you.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“I have you.”
“Shan.”
“I know, I have you,” it’s a whisper, a promise.
If words could kill, she would have died and been resurrected a thousand times by the lips that work their way across tissue. Mary understands how someone could become a martyr. The desire to prove your devotion by lying before them, sacrificing at the promise of becoming immortalized in their presence.
Another sob emerges from her chest.
Mary lets the searing hand work itself across the plane of her lower back, across the swell of her hip, hooking around the crest. It’s the familiarity or gentleness, whichever, that allows Shannon to guide her around. Lips float across the protruding cervical vertebra, onto her mandible, landing on her forehead. Her thumb pad rough against the line of her cheekbone. She feels whole.
“I’m here,” Shannon repeats, her hand settling into the mandible’s curve, thumb working across her cheek, “Talk to me.”
She’s close enough to see the faint freckles that dust the curve of cheekbones. To see the darkening bruise under her right eye and those eyes with their wetness. There’s a faint smell of coffee, an acidity as familiar as the girl across from her.
“I can’t lose you,” Mary whispers, “We came too close, and I won’t lose you.”
“And you won’t,” Shannon reassures, her hand intertwining with Mary’s as she brings it up. The fabric of her shirt soft against her skin where their hands rested over the center of her chest, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Her confidence settles across her mind, penetrating her skin to rest against marrow. Self-assurance seeps from her pores and Mary loves and abhors her simultaneously. She craves to believe that she won’t become a martyr. Yet the memory clings to her, the sensation of stone underneath her cheek as she was thrown to the ground. Looking up to see Shannon held aloft by a mercenary, his hands clasped around her throat—that sudden realization, frigid metal against her heart, of complete, unadulterated love.
“You can’t promise that.”
There’s a ghost of a smile on Shannon’s lips, “You won’t lose me.”
“I love you,” Mary exhales as the words dislodged from her chest wall, flinging themselves into the space between them, “I’m sorry, and I would take it back if I could, but I can’t, and I’m sorry.”
Lips brush against her forehead, barely present.
“Can I kiss you?”
Mary nods, and there’s desperation in her movement. That consistent motion of Shannon, vibrating underneath the surface, electricity smoldering sinew crashing against her. A familiar taste of acidity and electricity, strangely bitter.
“I love you,” Shannon whispers, barely audible over Mary’s heartbeat and their breath. Those words settle into her, slow and steady and full. They cement themselves into her, absolute divinity.
“Sister Shannon,” there’s a new voice, low and smolder, and distinctly not theirs.
A sudden, unexpected gap between them appears as Shannon pulls away, Mary following the path she left. Her fingers barely clinging to hers, an index finger hooked around a thumb. No longer Shan, now Sister Shannon, and she’s reeling from everything.
“Lilith, can I help you?” steel rushes back into her voice, a thin defense.
“I heard something and wanted to make sure everything was okay,” the new voice, Lilith, answers. Her dark eyes surveying them, and Mary wants to writhe underneath that gaze, “Which it appears to be.”
She’s new to the order, a recruit whose name had been on everyone’s lips. The next installment of the Villaumbrosias slow march towards death in the name of legacy. Lilith, whose all-sharp curves, and dark lines jutting out, constantly assessing with those dark eyes. Clinging to a goal currently lodged in another woman’s back.
“Everything’s fine, thank you,” Shannon calls, index finger moving as others wrap around Mary’s palm where the table obscures it. There’s a gentleness to the way she squeezes, a silent reassurance; for that, she’s grateful.
“Okay,” Lilith’s gone as rapidly as she had appeared, the door swinging shut behind her.
“Fuck,” Mary mutters as the door latches.
She tastes honey as Shannon kisses her again, gentle, quick. Her forehead resting against hers, “I’m sorry, I’ll go to talk to her,” Shannon starts, and Mary can feel the warmth of her breath, “Try to explain.”
“Try to explain that what she saw wasn’t what she thought it was. I don’t think she’s that naïve, Shan.”
“I can try,” Shannon replies, then presses another kiss to Mary’s lips, “I’ll be back, okay?”
Fingers gently squeeze her hand, a fleeting reassurance, and Mary watches Shannon move around the table. She hears the door handle click and is left in the pale light of the room, reeling underneath her words.
5
“Remind me,” Mary starts, steam appearing with an exhale, breath visible in the cool air of the early morning. Beneath her in the courtyard, a handful of girls stretch in a line. Dark fabric transforming them into ink blotches among the white stones. Stiff, awkward blotches that move hastily or remain hesitant despite instructions, “Why it’s Lilith instead of you?”
Two distinct forms approach the group, their footsteps echoing against the courtyard. The harsh angles, dark shape, and rigid spine of Lilith alongside the slightly shorter form of the Warrior Nun.
A crack revibrates from Shannon’s vertebra, her voice slightly muffled, “Because she needs practice training recruits.”
“She gets enough of that as it is, or has she not made her quota for making recruits cry?”
The form next to her shifts at the comment, and Mary glances over to see Shannon peering at her over biceps. Muscles prominent as she leans forward, tendons twitching at the movement, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Don’t be cruel,” she says, bringing her leg up over her thigh, “Tell me what they’re doing, please?”
The blotches arrange themselves directly across the mat from the sisters. A near-perfect line of steam and girls with Lilith brooding next to Melanie as she speaks. They had arrived two weeks ago, Shannon and herself picking them up and unceremoniously depositing them on the steps of Cats’ Cradle. Most unaware and unassuming of the implications, gapping at the gated courtyard. All except for one girl, Beatrice, who had grabbed her bag and muttered a thank you.
Beatrice, who was precise in her interactions, always had a polite smile, and a curated perfectionism that Mary saw through. The girl who seemed at home with her forms and whose prowess had her name on her sister’s lips. There was no hiding the way Suzzane’s eyes had lit up seeing her dominate the other girls. Nor was there hiding the way the girl would stare at Shannon and her when she thought no one was looking.
“Melanie’s speaking,” Mary answers, “But you never answered my question.”
“Because you aren’t done telling me what’s happening,” Shannon’s turned away, smooth skin peeking from underneath blue fabric. Strategic bruises lay scattered across the trapezoid, combining with faint scars to commemorate a memory. Mary had traced those scars a thousand times in the morning light, connecting them with sunspots to culminate in a latticework of divinity. A smile sneaks into her voice, “You certainly aren’t doing anything if you’re staring at me.”
Steam flares as Mary exhales, turning her attention back to the courtyard. Beneath them, Lilith steps forward onto the mat and the end of the line recoils. She steps forward, realizing Lilith’s scanning. There’s a slight flick of her wrist followed through by her head tilting, and the alert figure of Beatrice steps up.
“Lilith’s picked a victim.”
“Who?”
“Beatrice.”
There’s a sound of recognition, guttural, sweet, Shannon, “This should be good.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“In a little bit,” Shannon answers, rising from her place on the stone of the ramparts. She’s warm as she steps next to Mary, “But we have a match to watch first, be patient, yeah?”
It takes everything within her, all her restraint, to prevent her from taking the hands resting against the pale brick. Instead, she lets herself lean towards the rolling heat. She lets herself rest her hands next to Shannon, her pinky brushing against a curving thumb. It’s enough and comforting.
Beneath them, Beatrice and Lilith are circling each other. Lilith, with her ease, silent, nearly unreadable, still except for the gentle turn of her head. Beatrice seemingly attempting to gain an understanding of the woman before her. A new development in a woman who tended to favor defensive tactics.
In the end, it’s Lilith who moves first. An onslaught of attacks, most of which manage to land in some regard. There’s an opening, a brief window in Lilith’s guard, that Beatrice grabs ahold of and sends a sidekick into the solid plane of her abdomen. It shocks her, and really it shouldn’t but it does all the same.
“Who do you have bets on,” Mary asks, her eyes briefly glancing at the slightly flushed Shannon.
A small wrinkle appears at the cocking of an eyebrow, ghosting over the side of her temple, “Lilith.”
Beatrice moves quickly, ducking underneath a punch and landing a decent hit against Lilith’s chest. She’s rewarded with a jab against her abdomen, not enough to do damage but Mary knows it’ll bruise. There’s a methodically to Lilith’s fighting style with recruits if you watch her enough. She’s surprisingly gentle in her own way.
“Ten bucks that Beatrice is going to make it harder for her.”
The ghost of a smile returns to Shannon’s lips, “Deal.”
Steel settles into Lilith’s spine as Beatrice steps back, settling into a stance. It’s Lilith who brings up two fingers, signals for her opponent to approach. A bait most of the girls would’ve taken but, Beatrice holds firm in her stance. Lilith approaches, and Beatrice blocks, sliding slightly against the attacks. She slides underneath a jab, a back fist against the solid plane of Lilith’s back.
It’s that movement that seals her fate as Lilith regains her composure, sliding into a stance. Arms wrapping steadily underneath a mandible, tucking into the curve of Beatrice’s neck. It ends as quickly as it began, two solid taps against Lilith’s forearm, and she releases.
“Well,” Shannon sighs, her thumb reaching out to touch Mary, “I guess you owe me ten bucks, yeah?”
Mary smiles at those words, easy and simple, everything Shannon has become to her, “That is debatable, but we’ll see what I can do.” She watches Beatrice bow and move across the dark mat to join the line. Lilith remains, a dark spot nearly blending in with the rest. Her eyes are cast up and Mary’s certain she can feel her eyes on them. She doesn’t care, “Shannon?”
A hum greets her.
“You never answered my question.”
Her thumb hooks around the solid flesh of the other woman’s pinky. It’s solid, more present than that of the stone beneath her. There’s a tension to the movement.
“We need to talk,” Shannon replies.
Ice shoots through her chest at the words as if a knife has plunged itself into her heart. It’s irrational. She becomes aware of that coolness coursing through her arteries, across her torso, settling heavy within her stomach. Anticipation and anxiety carving their way through her body.
“Mary,” it’s softer than before and Shannon approaches. Fingers gently turning over her hand, lacing themselves over her palm, callouses rough against knuckles. It’s comforting.
“Why do I have a feeling I won’t like this,” she says to Shannon or the universe, maybe to a god who seems to ignore her. A god who exudes from the walls of the cradle, avoiding her until she was next to her lover. So, Mary lets her stand there, allowing a false sense of security to wash over them. There’s a faint smell of cider wood with each movement. Shannon’s absentmindedly drawing patterns into the back of her hand.
“Because you won’t.”
“Tell me,” Mary breathes.
The hand tightens around bone and tendons at the words.
“I’m next.”
A cold knife cuts at fraying strings that hold her heart aloft. It’s warmer than she’d expected, the heartbreak that ravages through her. The only thing she can think of is bleeding out, the rapid and bright atrial spray.
Except she’s clean and whole. No broken skin nor blood split upon the stone beneath them. There’s no iron clinging to her tongue.
“No,” Mary growls, ripping from the void that sits in her chest.
“Mary,” a warning and an attempt at comfort wrapped in one horrible word.
“You told me you wouldn’t leave me.”
“I have no choice but to,” Shannon whispers. She’s gentle as she brings Mary’s hand towards her chest, a familiar practice, where it rests against dark fabric. Mary can feel her heartbeat underneath their hands, solid, steady.
Somewhere beneath them, there’s a distant thud.
Mary has never been subtle, always preferring the direct route. Shannon’s sternum is solid underneath their hands as she presses against it, forcing them to step back. Anger settles into bone, resting in the visceral fluid of joints.
Her hand finds Shannon’s hip, “You promised me.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
Devotion has always held a price. Mary knows and understands this. It’s the knowledge of losing the thing worthy of devotion that tears through her.
She wonders if St. Peter had felt this.
The stone is solid against them as Shannon contacts a pillar. And she would kiss her if things were different; something deep within her desires for that. She wants to reach up, grasp her jaw, and kiss her. If only that would be enough to convince her, but Mary knows the devotion Shannon holds won’t be held at bay by a kiss. Instead, she let go. Untangling her fingers from Shannon’s grip, dropping her hand from the curve of her hip. Her gaze turns up to Shannon’s face, and she tries to ignore the way her eyes are wet.
“Fine.”
6
Blood coats Mary, sticky where it lays on her jaw. She can taste the iron on her lips, the way it sneaks onto her tongue and cements itself. A familiar taste. She’s not afraid, it’s not hers, in many ways that should terrify her more than it does. Yet, there’s a steadiness to her thoughts and her movements. She’s acutely aware of the fact that if she does display them, if she loses that pillar, there will be nothing left of her.
Instead, Mary clings to the woman in her arms. One hand cradled Shannon’s head against the curve of her neck, the other wrapped across familiar hips, fingers clasped around protruding bone. Ignores the pain crawling across the plane of her back, the sting of a bite mark, and warm, sticky blood that colligates in the dip of her collarbone.
Shannon’s screams had turned to incoherent babbles, warm breath against the flesh of her neck. Tears sting slightly as they drip into bitten muscles. Limp against the solidness of her body.
Mary’s hand drags over the spinal column, counting vertebrae, dreading each moment of it. Scar tissue meets her fingers, a perfect circle coated in blood, completely unnatural in the plane of her back. There’s a low moan that escapes Shannon at the movement; Mary is quick to place a kiss on her crown.
She can feel their eyes on her, heavy and present. The saints staring from their seated places on altars, Father Vincent and Mother Supereon. There’s blood on Mother Supereon’s hands where they clasp the head of her cane. Vincet remains spotless as he stands next to her. Above her, the surgeon stands there, the instrument hanging loosely in her grasp. There’s blood coating her forearms, and Mary wonders if she looks the same.
But she doesn’t care, no longer cares that they see them tangled together. There’s nothing to hide or keep secret now that the halo rests between Shannon’s shoulder blades. So, she clings to her, presses her lips to her forehead, and attempts to keep her just hers.
Shannon, who is no longer just hers.