Patching Her Up 2: Scar

CLAYMORE-fanfic. Miria has a weakness, but that's ok, so does Galatea.
(Galatea/Miria)


This is the second installment in my series of short stories called "Patching Her Up".

Read Patching Her Up 2: Scar

Disclaimer: Claymore belongs to Yagi Norihiro as far as I know, and certainly not this little dragon.
This story is based on the idea that Galatea ended up in Pieta with the others in the anime (and that things turned out a bit better, I suppose), and has of course absolutely nothing to do with the manga (which I have not read). It might even fit a little bit with my Claymore series that begins in “Paths of Silver”... if you squint.

My “Patching Her Up” series is just a series of short stories unrelated to one another, from different fandoms, that have a certain theme in common. Each part is a stand-alone and a one-shot.






Patching Her Up 2: Scar
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson







”That hurts!” The whiny complaint was one Miria could scarcely believe she was hearing, at least not from the person she was currently crouching in front of.

“If you don’t wriggle around so much it would be over faster, and it wouldn’t hurt as much.” She explained with some patience, even if it was starting to wear a bit by now. Miria was a warrior and a leader, not a healer... how had she ended up doing this?

Oh, yes. That’s right. Galatea.

The tall, proud, often superior and, even Miria had to admit it, somewhat regal warrior had turned silver eyes on Miria and pouted. Pouted. At Miria.

So she had caved like a house of cards, and accepted the unwanted nursing duty which really should have fallen to one of the other girls, one of the girls more suited for these things. But oh no, when Galatea wants something, she usually gets it.

Of course, Miria could relate. She wouldn’t be keen on letting the younger girls that all looked up to her, looked to Miria for leadership and guidance, see her injured if she could help it, either. If injured, Miria would try to patch herself up as best she could. Enhanced healing had its perks, thankfully.

“You have the hands and gentle touch of a fisherwoman.” Galatea sniped, sniffing slightly and twitching in place once again. Miria sighed.

She had been wholly unprepared for this whiny and sulky side of ‘prince’ Galatea, a warrior as stoic and unflinching as the best of them normally. But as she had followed Galatea to a secluded room to get to work on the rather nasty gash that ran mid-thigh to calf on one of the woman’s unusually long legs, she soon found herself having to fight what seemed to be an overgrown and twitchy two-year-old for every stitch.

“Known a lot of those, have you?” Miria asked archly, pursing her lips and raising an eyebrow at prince pouty, knowing exactly what the answer would be. “Fisherwomen’s hands, that is.”

The transformation was instantaneous. With a rather self-satisfied smirk, the flirty woman whom had all the younger girls blushing as she walked by was back, oozing charm as she gave Miria a suggestive look.

“My fair share, why?” The whine was replaced by a sultry tone as Galatea leaned forward to bat her eyes at Miria in a rather outrageous move that would just look silly on anyone else. “You know I’m irresistible.”

Miria just grunted a little in response and refused to look at Galatea, far to busy multitasking; patting herself on the back mentally for distracting her difficult patient so easily, mentally shaking her head at Galatea for being oh so very predictable, and of course continuing stitching up the long pale leg in front of her while the woman held still.

“Why, Strawberry...” Galatea flirted, her smile far too smug but an honestly exited gleam in her eyes. “Are you jealous?”

Miria wondered idly why exactly it was that while Galatea seemed to be just naturally an outrageous flirt, and would indeed practice her charms on any woman within earshot sometimes, the taller woman had zeroed in on her. Galatea was particularly insistent, not to mention persistent, with Miria, no matter how little response she was given. It had quite frankly confused the hell out of Miria to begin with.

“Mmmmaybe.” She hummed, hiding a smile. While she still wasn’t sure what Galatea was really after, she had changed tactics with the woman and found, to her delight, that whenever Miria would flirt right back the poised and self-assured Galatea tended to flounder like a schoolboy. Sometimes she worried that she might perhaps have become somewhat twisted herself, to take such pleasure in making the other woman blush over her.

“R-really?” Immediately Galatea sat up straighter, the sly womanizer in her visibly having to struggle not to break out into a silly but delighted grin at Miria’s response. Eagerly she leaned even more forward. “Those others meant nothing, you’re the only one for me, Miri...ow!”

Miria’s elation was short-lived as the movement jostled the leg she was working on, and reminded her patient that she was displeased with the world currently.

“Honestly, Galatea...” Miria sighed again and carefully wiped a little bit of blood away from the wound. “I’m almost done, if you could just hold still for a little while longer I’ll have you all wrapped up.”

The pout was back, and while Miria tried not to she couldn’t help but soften at the sight of it.

“I don’t know why you’re having such a hard time with this anyway.” She chided gently, not entirely aware that she was caressing the leg under her hands comfortingly between the few remaining stitches. “You didn’t make a sound when that Awakened one sliced your leg open.”

In fact Galatea hadn’t so much as twitched as far as Miria could tell. Normally the attack wouldn’t have connected, but it had been a bad place and a bad situation, and if not for Galatea one of the younger girls would have been cut in half instead. It was quite the noble thing to do, really, and of course Galatea had been admired for it afterwards.

“In fact, if you hate being stitched so much, why don’t you at least try to enhance your healing?” Galatea was a warrior whose abilities were offensive rather than defensive, and as such her powers were not focused towards the physical. Still, by raising the yoma levels in herself she could probably heal much of the injury on her own, if not all of it.

“I don’t want to be ugly.” Was the quiet and reluctant answer. Galatea looked away, and after a moment of silence she continued. “Especially not in front of you.”

“Oh.”

Miria was unsure of what to say to the quiet admission, much less how to feel. Strangely her cheeks warmed and she couldn’t make herself look at Galatea anymore, focusing instead on tying off the stitches and gently wiping them down.

Reaching for the bandages she started with a slender pale foot and slowly worked upwards.

“Will there be a... scar?”

The question was so quiet that Miria did a double take to make sure Galatea had spoken. She eyed the long line of small and neat stitches she had carefully made sure to make, despite Galatea being difficult, and tried to understand why it would matter to creatures like them.

“I... don’t think so?” She offered, hesitantly, not having enough of a healer’s sense to be able to give any real assurances but well aware of their enhanced healing nonetheless. Suddenly thinking of the many scars on her own body she frowned, uncertain. “Does that matter?”

The squirming was back, even though Miria was merely finishing bandaging up, however absently.

“I don’t want to be ugly...” Galatea repeated quietly in a mutter. “...for you.”

Swallowing an unexpected lump in her throat, Miria focused on tying of the top of the bandages. While Galatea could sometimes appear to be a bit more vain than one would expect from a warrior of their kind, Miria was sure that underneath her uniform Galatea had the same tortured and gut-wrenching appearance as they all did, so what did a scar or two more matter? And yet, looking closely at the tall woman it was plain to see that Galatea did not have scars or other blemishes on any part of her body readily visible. Not like the rest of them.

Not like Miria herself. She felt a touch of regret suddenly for all the battles that had left their mark on her, but quickly shook off such whimsical thoughts.

“Don’t worry, Galatea.” She patted the bandaged knee gently before rising. “Short of you loosing yourself, that would never happen.”

She moved about putting away the supplies and the soiled cloth, taking a moment to give Galatea time to compose herself and Miria herself the chance to chase away strange thoughts she had no business dwelling over. She was already moving towards the door when Galatea’s voice stopped her.

“What...” The pout now on the tall woman’s lips were a playful one, but Miria still felt curiously powerless to resist it. “...no reward for being a good girl?”

A short laugh erupted from Miria before she could control herself.

Wrestling her expression under control she adopted a playfully thoughtful expression as she turned around and walked the few steps back towards Galatea, who was grinning at her, apparently quite pleased with herself. Miria tapped her lips as if in thought.

“Hmm... I guess...” She wondered briefly if she had been overtaken by some kind of madness, to even consider what she knew she was going to do. But the grin on Galatea’s face as she prepared to hop down from the high perch she had been sitting on until now made Miria feel a bit reckless, and giddy. “If you had really been a good girl...”

No-one could really match Miria when it came to speed.

Before Galatea had even realized that she had moved, Miria was already standing in between long legs, grabbing that flawlessly beautiful face with both hands, and placed what was meant to be a chaste kiss on the other woman’s lips.

Only, while it started out chaste, once the stunned and immobile Galatea made a small noise of surprise, chaste became far less so... even without Galatea’s participation.

Sucking a full lower lip into her mouth to give it a playful lick before finally stepping back, a bit breathless herself from the rather unexpected turn of events, Miria quickly leaned in to whisper into a slightly pink ear in as sultry a voice she could muster.

“Just imagine if you had really been a good girl.”

Then, barely containing a laugh that threatened to bubble up, the suddenly quite happy Miria all but skipped out of the room, not really caring if any of the younger warriors would see her grinning like a fool as she did so.

She didn’t get far before a whimper followed by a noisy scrambling reached her ears. Several fair heads peeked out into the corridor to gawk, amazed, between the now chuckling Miria and the open door through which Galatea was seen stumbling across the floor.

Possessed by some evil impulse Miria called over her shoulder to the wide-eyed and blushing Galatea. “Don’t forget to put on some pants before you come out here... baby.”

With a gasp and a yelp Galatea disappeared from sight, followed by an impossibly loud crash as she slid right into some furniture, upending it. The spectacle drew even more fair-headed young girls to the hallway, and a chorus of gasps and whispered speculation followed them.

Miria walked along, humming to herself and generally unusually happy with the world at large. Touching her lips she grinned widely at a tiny patch of blue sky among the grey that was visible through a window as she passed it by.

It was shaping up to be a fine day in Pieta.

Patching Her Up 1: Thought

NOIR-fanfic. Sometimes even the most skillful of assassins get hurt. Or worried.
(Mireille/Kirika)


This is the first installment in my series of short stories called "Patching Her Up".

Read Patching Her Up 1: Thought

Disclaimer: All things Noir belong to Bee Train and probably others, perhaps even to Raimi/Tapert by now, but at any rate I’m just borrowing.

My “Patching Her Up” series is just a series of short stories unrelated to one another, from different fandoms, that have a certain theme in common. Each part is a stand-alone and a one-shot.






Patching Her Up 1: Thought
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson







”How stupid!” She scolds as she cleans various cuts and bruises. “You’re supposed to be a professional. This is a rookie thing to do, and you know it.”

She knows she is a bit less than gentle as she patches her young partner up, but the girl remains passive, not complaining the treatment. Those dark eyes follow her movements with an intensity that for some unnerving reason makes Mireille feel ashamed.

“Look, I know that in the kind of fights that we end up in it is hard, if not impossible, to escape without injury all the time, but...” She wills herself to calm though her voice still reveals both her exasperation and irritation over the situation. She grabs the bandages. “Its all fine and well to do whatever necessary to live through the moment, but if you do it at the cost of your ability to fight, then you’re as good as dead already.”

She sighs and meet dark eyes with an unusually open expression of concern in her own.

“You yanked your right arm right out of the socket, and your left hand is sprained to the point you couldn’t get it to close around a gun, much less pull a trigger. You came damn close to breaking something, you know?” She stilled her ministrations, merely sitting on the floor in front of the girl on the bed, bandages forgotten in her hand. “What were you going to do if there had been anyone else there? Attack them with your teeth? Or maybe your feet?”

The dark head tilts and brows knit. She sighs again, from a strange surge of affection this time. She can tell that the younger girl is giving serious thought to what was mostly sarcasm on her part.

“You’re actually thinking about it, aren’t you?” She asks, a smile twitching briefly at the corner of her lips. The girl nods.

“Well...” She murmurs, reluctant to admit it but honest enough to know it to be true. “If anyone could manage to kill opponents with just the use of her teeth or toes, it would be you.” Mireille can’t even imagine how, but then again, she wouldn’t have imagined killing someone with their own sunglasses or the wheels of a toy car either.

Another thought intrudes, another memory, and her expression darkens. The words slip past her lips before she had given them leave to escape. “You, and maybe Chloe, of course.”

Another thoughtful look on the young face before her, and another small nod.

Mireille grinds her teeth together and tries to clamp down on her temper. She is angry and she doesn’t want to take any closer look at why.

“Yes, of course. Chloe, the perfect killer.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, and she stretches the fabric of the bandages with a touch more ferociousness than is strictly called for. Kirika merely watches, silently as ever. “Just... perfect.”

“Why did you do it, anyway?” Avoiding dark eyes now to finally begin the bandaging that should already be finished. “I know you know better.”

“You.”

The simple answer in that quiet voice is startling enough that she freezes for a moment before looking up, blinking in confusion.

“You were in danger. I had to protect you.” Unspoken was the part where Kirika would do so even at the cost of her own health or safety, and never think twice of it.

Feeling strangely flustered Mireille tries to focus on the arm in front of her. She isn’t sure of how to react, but after a moment angered offence is just easier to take than the all-encompassing confusion and almost adolescent shyness. She growls.

“Because I’m not a perfect killer like Chloe, is that it?” Her voice is brittle with resentment and anger, but most of all with the jealousy she carefully avoids acknowledging to herself. “I may not be versed in how to kill using random toys or tiny blades, but I am far from defenceless. I need no babysitter.”

“We are partners, equal partners.” Bitter words in some ways, as she in the beginning had thought herself the senior, more experienced and more skilled of the two of them. “Unless...” She hesitates, the words tasting like blood in her mouth. “You don’t feel you can trust your back to someone that doesn’t have that skill?”

It is the only way she can ask if Kirika would have preferred Chloe as her partner, and she hates the fact that she has given in to her insecurities and asked almost as much as she fears the answer.

“Chloe...” The quiet voice begins, contemplatively, as brown eyes no longer looks at Mireille but into the distance. That small but important change causes a painful pressure in the blonde’s chest even before Kirika speaks. “I... like Chloe.”

She cannot breathe. All the air has left the room in an instant.

“I would trust Chloe to have my back if we were in a fight.”

Images of just that, the two oh so very lethal girls fighting back-to-back in a crowd of assassins, dance on the inside of Mireille’s eyelids as she closes her eyes for the briefest of moments. Angrily she opens them again, forcing away the memories of that one important and painful moment where she had first realized that there was another that not only challenged her place at Kirika’s side, but perhaps was better suited for it than she could ever be. Kirika and Chloe had been flawless together. Perfect.

“I would kill for Chloe.” Kirika is rather matter of fact, and now her eyes focus back on Mireille’s with a different kind of intensity, a different kind of expression than usual. She smiles, that tiny, sweet and surprisingly innocent-looking smile of hers.

“I would, however, not die for Chloe.”

Dark eyes bore into Mireille’s, their meaning clear. She gasps.

“Oh.” She mutters quietly, feeling surprisingly shy and aware that she has started to blush rather badly. Of course. To people like them, to be willing to kill for someone wasn’t a particularly big deal, but to be willing to die for someone... that was far more significant.

Try though she does Mireille cannot keep herself from smiling slightly, a smile unusually bashful for her in fact, as she wraps up the bandaging with a far more gentle touch than before. As she finishes fastening the edges of it on Kirika’s upper arm, her gaze slides upward to find brown eyes staring unwaveringly back at her.

That is right. She ducks her head slightly to hide the smile until she can get it better under control. Kirika is always watching her.

Always, unwaveringly.

A gentle if not entirely intentional caress of the bandaged arm as she stands up, and Mireille meets Kirika’s gaze with an unusually warm and affectionate one of her own. She reaches out to briefly run her fingers through short dark hair. The younger girl does not protest the gesture, only smiles slightly and continues to meet Mireille’s eyes.

Yes, that is right. Kirika had been watching Mireille from the start and never once looked away.

With a little thrill in her heart it begins to dawn upon Mireille that somewhere along the line of their dark and blood-soaked acquaintance... she has started to look right back.

Silvana pt2 End

Noir-fanfic. And life goes on for the darkness and the untouchable one.
(Silvana/Chloe)

Read Silvana pt2 End

Disclaimers in part 1. Spoiler warning for much of the show and the ending in particular.





SILVANA pt2 End
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson






The children that, free from any restrictions of the adult world, would happily greet Silvana and show her their sweet and guileless faces as she watched them play took to Chloe with enthusiasm. All it took was a smile from the girl as she helped return a lost toy and the young children seemed to decide that she was one of their own, eagerly coming running after the both of them when they were out walking in the fields to play with Chloe.

It shocked her the first time she heard herself laugh at the children’s antics with Chloe, a sound so foreign to her life before that point that Silvana could not remember when last she had laughed. Chloe’s response, her bright smile and sun-flushed face sent something to flutter in Silvana’s chest, and she wondered if this was normal, what an ordinary woman might feel. After that day she would find many occasions to laugh, indeed it seemed as if her young companion deliberately set out to garner that response from her. Silvana soon found herself helpless to prevent the small smile that took up almost permanent residence on her lips in Chloe’s presence.

It was peaceful and sweet, and Silvana would have been perfectly content to allow those days to continue forever. Awareness of change intruded at quite an unexpected moment however.

She had watched the children at play in the fields, even laughed as Chloe chased the little ones around, tossing and twirling whatever squealing child she’d pretend to catch up to, and merely enjoyed the moment and the sunlight. With the children cheering her on Chloe had suddenly grabbed Silvana by the waist and twirled her through the air. Even though Silvana, ever before as untouchable as her name suggested, had gotten used to the casual, and perhaps even increasing, touch between them by now, this latest move had her too stunned to react any further than simply gripping onto Chloe’s arms. Something the children did jostled them, and down they tumbled into the grass, Silvana at the bottom of what quickly became a pile of squirming and laughing little bodies.

Chloe was directly above Silvana, protectively braced as if to prevent any climbing or jumping child from accidently hurting her. For some reason there was a pain in Silvana’s chest, and she felt herself tremble slightly and hold her breath as stared unblinkingly at the face so very close to her own. It crossed her mind in a strangely detached way that although she always likened the beauty she found in Chloe to that of the light and dark of the moonlit night, the girl always smelled of sunshine, grass, and for some reason apples. It was a warm, soothing scent, completely void of the acrid tang that always tainted a gun-wielder.

There was a strange expression on Chloe’s face which Silvana could not understand. Distracted by this she did not notice that her hands inched up towards Chloe’s shoulders, or how the distance between their faces shrank away. Their lips brushed just barely at first, the contact far too light to be considered a kiss, and then returned for a soft and gentle caress far more worthy of the name.

Then, as abruptly as it had been initiated, Chloe’s warm, sweet weight was gone and Silvana was left blinking into that endlessly blue sky. She found her feet and her self-control, aided by the loud but guileless laughter of children, hiding well the confusion she felt at what had just transpired. Confusion soon made place for charmed amusement when she caught sight of the persistent blush dusting pale cheeks even as Chloe used the children’s games to avoid meeting Silvana’s eyes.

The girl was adorably shy with her affection and Silvana decided not to make her any more uncomfortable than she had to be. After all, she knew Chloe’s story, she knew of the boundless devotion the girl had carried for so long, and the bitter, to say nothing of brutal, rejection that had followed. She was after all the one who had picked up Chloe’s broken form and nursed her back to health. In bits and pieces the story had all been told.

Chloe, tall and lanky and only recently filling out into a more adult form, with a beauty too subtle to see at first glance and her manners too innocent and direct, had gone up against Mireille Bouquet, the aristocratic and fashion-model beautiful Odette Bouquet’s equally striking daughter whom was world-wise and undoubtedly more experienced in matters of attraction, as rivals in love. Not that Silvana suspected that appearances or experience had mattered in the end, Chloe had never truly been in the running to begin with, despite the sincerity of her boundless love.

Rejected and robbed of not only the love she had carried since childhood but of her destiny, identity and only family as well in one fell swoop, Chloe had persisted with a dignity and resilience that Silvana doubted she could have matched in similar circumstances. Chloe accepted and moved on, slowly rebuilding herself and her life over time.

That affection had grown between them with the passage of time was not surprising, although it had indeed come as a surprise to Silvana, for they were kindred in so many things. Still, Silvana had barely begun to get accustomed to that affection and now it seemed as if their bond was already deepening, changing into something she was entirely unfamiliar with and woefully unprepared for. It was a sad truth to face that young Chloe, although rejected and now shy, had more experience in matters of the heart than she.

Time passed after their tumble in sunlit grass, and Silvana did not speak of what had transpired between them in effort of overcoming the awkwardness that initially set in once they were alone. Chloe soon relaxed again, and after a few days their interactions were for most part back to what had become usual for them. For most part.

If their eyes lingered a little longer on the other in ill-disguised secret, or if Chloe would blush and act bashfully where she previously had not, neither of them mentioned it out loud. Silvana was less successful in quieting her own mind, and in the days that followed she would find that Chloe dominated her every thought. Distracted and troubled by the direction of her thoughts, Silvana opted to remain behind when Chloe went for a particularly long run one evening in lieu of the sparring they usually engaged in.

Cool or lukewarm baths were things Silvana was long accustomed to, only upon occasion allowing herself the luxury of hot water. It was born from practicality, but for that particular evening the cool water felt like a blessing, soothing an increasingly feverish reaction in mind and body alike. She lay back in the large tub and watched clouds chase one another across the darkening sky through the window, her own thoughts keeping pace with them.

Chloe was young, so very young, and Silvana was not. It was surely both shameful and inappropriate to allow herself to harbour such thoughts and feelings for one so young, especially since life had more or less placed Chloe in Silvana’s care.

It was all well and good that Mireille Bouquet had taken a lover as young as Chloe, the daughter of Corsica was a fair bit younger than Silvana herself and besides which, the destiny of Noir had probably decided for them since birth, if not before. It did not quite apply to Silvana and Chloe.

Yes, Chloe was indeed young, but then again Silvana could not demean her by considering her a child either. The dark and blood-soaked life she had led was not that of a child, and what was more, the time spent in Sicily with Silvana meant that surely by now Chloe would be seen as an adult by whatever standard one would choose to measure. A young adult, certainly, but an adult nonetheless.

It was as she distractedly allowed herself to dwell on the many changes, inside and out, that Chloe had undergone during their time together, that it occurred to Silvana that she was giving serious consideration to taking Chloe as her lover.

The thought stilled all else, and for one long moment Silvana found herself staring up at the rise of an early moon. She could scarcely breathe.

Finally closing her eyes and shaking herself out of her absorbed stupor, Silvana sighed at her own folly. The water was beyond cold by now and so was she, having spent far too long in it even for her. She found her feet and rose slowly, feeling slightly unsteady, in the tub while casting her eyes about for the towel and robe she hoped she had managed to remember to bring even in her preoccupied state.

While she stood there with the water still running in rivulets down pale skin the door opened with a violent burst, startling her, and a worried Chloe came hurrying into the room with Silvana’s name on her lips.

Time froze for a moment, with Silvana naked and shocked that she had not heard the younger woman approach, much less call for her, and with Chloe locked in helpless staring, her narrow eyes gone alarmingly wide.

As finally she became aware of in just what manner Chloe was eyeing her naked body, a knowing smile made its way to Silvana’s lips quite unbidden. Chloe flinched at the reaction and, with an adorable blush on her face, closed her eyes to whip around and run from the room.

Instead she spun face first into the doorframe, the force of the impact bouncing her off to catch a glancing blow against the thick wooden door upon the back of her head, and finally deposit her in an ungainly and undignified heap on the stone floor just outside.

Silvana was out of the tub and at Chloe’s side, gently cradling the burgundy head to her still bare and wet chest, even before she realized what she had just witnessed. Chloe kept her eyes squeezed firmly shut in mortification as Silvana carefully probed the bleeding nose that had taken quite a bump in the spectacular turn of events. She, Silvana Greone, had just watched as one of death’s most powerful and graceful angels, the one that usually moved with the poise and surety of a large feline predator, had become as a fumbling adolescent boy... at the sight of her.

At the sight of Silvana.

Chloe had not behaved thus, never revealed even a trace of anything less than full mastery of her movements, in front of that dark-haired child. Not even when faced with the other girl’s nakedness had she stumbled, Silvana knew, her physical composure remaining perfect even though her emotional one had not been.

But for Silvana Chloe had bloodied her own nose and given herself a sizeable bump on the head, to say nothing of her loss of dignity. The smile that bloomed on Silvana’s lips at the realization was wider than any she had ever worn, and not at all mysterious.

Pleased, yes, perhaps even a little proud and smug, but overall just happy with Chloe, herself, and the world at large.

She did not stop smiling as she dotingly tended to the mortified and increasingly cranky young woman, making sure that nothing had permanently come to mar what she now considered to be the delicate beauty of Chloe’s face. The smile followed her to bed that night, still teasing the edges of her lips as she slept, and returned in force upon catching first glimpse of Chloe the next morning.

She had never really known much of happiness in her life, and certainly not like this. It was intoxicating.

It was during a mundane thing, simply the two of them preparing for a meal together, that true insight hit Silvana in full.

The decision had been made.

There was no point in debating the point further, or attempting to fight against it. All that was left was to embrace it fully, and perhaps, in their own special way, this too was destiny.

Their destiny.

And Silvana would dedicate her life to Chloe and Chloe’s happiness. It was something she would do gladly, and the one thing in this world she would do not for honour or duty, but for herself.

Chloe chose that moment to step up beside her, peering over Silvana’s shoulder to see what had caught the older woman’s attention so much that she had stopped chopping vegetables to simply stand there, staring. Silvana let the knife in her hand slip quietly down onto the chopping board.

As she turned towards Chloe Silvana was unaware of the almost fiercely tender and loving expression she wore, even as it stunned Chloe to immobility.

Then she had wrapped the slender young woman up in her arms and kissed her, giving in to her longing at long last.

She tasted the shock and hesitation along with the softness, and also, a small but amused part of Silvana added with glee, the little bits Chloe thought she had stolen in secret while they were preparing their food.

Finally Chloe responded, with fervour, and their kiss grew dizzying. Silvana embraced Chloe closer, more possessively, and the younger woman eagerly accommodated her. Neither knew how long they leaned against the cupboards, dinner preparations forgotten to wilt and desiccate behind them, before Silvana led her young lover to bed.

For the future there would of course be obstacles to face and hurdles to overcome, but some things would ever remain true; Silvana would love, honour and cherish Chloe for the rest of her days. Anything else would not have been in her nature. Chloe, finally free to love and be loved fully, would never have cause to think that anything else would ever be more important to Silvana... and so these two daughters of the moonlit night would live out their mostly peaceful, loving lives in the sunlight.

And Silvana would be untouchable no more.

Silvana pt1

NOIR-fanfic. The world's most brutal princess had been left for dead, but she survived.
(Silvana/Chloe)

Read Silvana pt1

Disclaimer: All things Noir belong to Bee Train and probably others, perhaps even to Raimi/Tapert by now, but at any rate I’m just borrowing.

Spoiler warning for much of the show, but the ending in particular.





SILVANA pt 1
------------------------------------------
by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson






There were likely many things that the daughter of the Corsican Bouquet family was and was apt in, various types of combat and assassination methods utilising a gun prominent among them, but one thing she was not so skilled in… the ways of the blade.

Silvana Greone supposed she should be grateful for that, given that it was only the other woman’s unfamiliarity with a knife that had ended up sparing her life. She was however of rather mixed feelings regarding her run-in with her childhood acquaintance, it was after all the first and only time Silvana, the vaunted Intoccabile, had ever been defeated.

More than merely defeated, of course. Her own blade, the very blade upon which she had ended both her father and beloved grandfather’s lives for the honour and glory of the Cosa Nostra, had been driven deep into her own chest. It was merely the other woman’s inexperience with stabbing that had prevented the blade from reaching Silvana’s heart.

She had been left for dead while the Bouquet girl and her young companion hastened on to the next hurdle in their death-riddled journey, left to bleed out on those cold ancient stone ruins alone. How ironic that while her killer had not taken the time to check whether Silvana was still alive, she had spared a moment to retrieve the tip of the dagger from her chest. A trophy from a defeated foe or a symbol for a fear conquered? Silvana did not know.

The blade, like her pride, was now broken anyway.

Silvana had been found in time, obviously, and rushed to a hospital. She would spend a long time recuperating at various such places, during which she officially handed over control of the Cosa Nostra to a man distantly related to herself. She offered him the traditional ritual, fully expecting him to take it and in a way she had even welcomed that end. In the end he did not take it. In the end, she was still Intoccabile, the untouchable one, in more ways than she had imagined.

He and others like him ruled the organisation in her name, while Silvana herself officially returned to a self-imposed exile in her beloved Sicily. If anyone thought such a thing would be a hardship they were sorely mistaken, for Silvana, while fully prepared to do her duty to the fullest and most brutal, longed for nothing more than that quiet, peaceful life she enjoyed in her Sicily.

But there was one thing she needed to do before putting the blood-soaked events that had dethroned the world’s most brutal princess behind her. One thing Silvana needed for her own and personal closure. With reverently bowed and respectful heads, the time and means to do so was extended to her.

And so it was that Silvana Greone, the feared Intoccabile of the Cosa Nostra, found herself in a deeply hidden valley between Spain and France, a small piece of land that time and the world had forgotten. The Soldats holy land.

It did not do to be discourteous, not there, not then, not with Soldats... not anymore. Silvana had dressed in a simple cloak, much like that of the nuns that occupied this ancient place, and arrived on foot for the last lengthy passage. She neither sought audience with Soldats’ powerful religious leader nor did she in any way approach or interfere with the activities there. Silvana merely sent a brief letter to the one named Althena to inform them that she was there and that all she wished was to watch from a distance as a conclusion came to the situation of those called Noir.

She expected no answer and received none. The fact that none of the heavily armed and fully combat prepared nuns attempted to kill her or drive her away, to say nothing of the Noir girls themselves, was blessing and approval enough.

Because of this Silvana watched from afar as the ever-changing three-way battle between the daughter of Corsica, her companion and a third girl Silvana herself did not know, raged back and forth as if they were all of them possessed. She felt approval when watching Mireille Bouquet during this battle, her erstwhile friend and one-time opponent no longer trembled in fear when faced with beings of such deadly presence and skill that the blonde should have been as a child before the reaper. There was a certain twisted satisfaction to be found in the fact that the woman who had, admittedly with help from her young lover, delivered Silvana’s own defeat perform well against such monsters. Perhaps in some way it appealed to the tattered remains of her self-esteem.

What was it that compelled Silvana, once the battle was ended and the newly decided couple made their way onwards towards their destiny, to approach the stone slab beside the ruins where the defeated girl had been laid to rest? She was unsure, although perhaps it had something to do with a wisp of memory of another ruin, another stabbed woman, and of bleeding out onto ancient stones alone.

Whatever the reason, she made her way down from her observation post as the sunset bled vibrantly across the landscape and the shadows grew long. The girl lying upon the weathered stone was a surprise once Silvana came close enough to clearly see her features. Young and slender, with skin as impossibly pale as Silvana’s own and a shock of remarkably deep burgundy hair, although the features or the still face were somewhat on the plain side there was something beautiful about this girl, something... fair.

The bloody cake fork lying next to the unmoving figure was also not what was expected, but with a sting from her own healing wound Silvana’s eyes were drawn to the blood that stained the front of simple white fabric. There was far less of it than there should be, and with a slight frown Silvana leaned over the prone figure, alert for any sign. Could it be? Could these two skilled assassins, one of them perhaps the most lethal being in the world right now, could they have made the same simple mistake... twice?

Judging by the tool and the blood, the wound was in the right place to kill but too shallow to meet its mark. The girl was not breathing, still Silvana sought for a pulse. It was hard to find, but finally there it was, slow and weak but still there.

If there was one thing Silvana had not been taught how to do, it was how to save a life. Still she struggled, lending the very breath from her own lungs until the girl, with a strained little gasp, drew breath on her own. She could not understand why it had become so important to save this one life, why it mattered so much to her, only that it did.

When narrow, slanted eyes fluttered open to reveal the blackest obsidian for just a moment, Silvana knew that she had succeeded. This girl, whoever she might be, would live. Vaguely aware of nuns moving in the distance, no doubt having witnessed that the girl was still alive and on their way to report this to Althena, Silvana gathered the long-limbed but surprisingly light form into her arms.

The sound of gunshots coming from the direction of the rather derelict-appearing building towards which the nuns of Soldats had been moving earlier had Silvana opting not to take the wounded girl there. Instead she carried her to a niche between stone and vegetation where they would not be easily seen yet Silvana had a clear view of the area.

She saw several nuns give their lives to Mireille Bouquet and her partner right there in the wine orchard, and as the two of them disappeared into the dark interior of the building Silvana could hear the sound of gunfire continue for some time before all was quiet. With a small nod to herself she approved. Good for you, daughter of Corsica, was her thought before simply ignoring the events inside the house completely.

Silvana had come there on foot for quite a distance, and while her car and her driver waited on the other side of that invisible but important border, she, out of respect once again, had not brought a phone by which to summon them. She had gotten there by her own strength and would leave the same way or not at all, or so had been her assumption, because such was the Soldats way. It was with a touch of contempt she had observed that some of the Soldats men had driven all the way to their sacred grounds, ignoring old traditions and taboos.

Very well. The situation was changed, and if she was to dedicate herself to rescue this stranger, Silvana would do so all the way. Half-measures were not appropriate for the famed Intoccabile, come what may.

What she needed to do was to acquire either a phone from the Soldats lackeys, or one of their cars. As the old was being burned down behind her with such reckless abandon it mattered little whether her servants crossed the boundary to get her or if she drove past it to meet them, either way she would get this girl to medical care as fast as she was at all able.

While a master of all bladed things, Silvana was still unarmed and held little illusions regarding her ability to take on a dozen well-armed and alert men empty-handed. A careful search yielded three narrow but utterly lethal blades hidden upon the girl which she tucked into her cloak, at least she would not be completely helpless.

She hid the girl as well as she could and, after long moments of observation until she decided whom among the black-suited men were the leaders of Soldats, eventually made her slow and careful approach.

Perhaps time had passed more quickly than Silvana had realized, or perhaps the two women that from that moment on would be known to the underworld as Noir had been more efficient in whatever trials they faced than she could have imagined, because as Silvana had completed her silent path through blackness and was about to make her presence known, the two women came limping out from the smouldering building.

They were both of them wounded, the daughter of Corsica limping as she struggled onward with her partner, the smaller woman soaked through with her own blood it seemed, leaning on her so heavily the former was all but keeping them both upright. And yet these were no defenceless or weakened creatures that stepped out into the night, oh no. Even as the blonde woman issued her warning of bleak death to those that would oppose them, Silvana saw the fire that burned in those eyes. Deeply moved she performed the ancient genuflection for the Maidens of Death and bowed her head in respect.

Pride, yes, pride was what she felt most of all, that the fair-haired child she had so adored during their brief and unfortunate acquaintance long ago had grown into this, this woman not only she but all the dark and bloodstained world would have to respect. Mireille Bouquet had never looked lovelier to Silvana.

The men of Soldats parted before Noir in silence, some out of fear and others out of respect, and the two women made their passage into the darkness without halting or sparing a single look back. It was as it should be, Silvana thought.

It was the tiniest of sounds that alerted her, and as Silvana tore her attention away from the retreating figures barely visible in the dark she found several of Soldats’ men in the process of aiming their guns at those two that they were all now honour bound to revere and serve.

The blades flew from her hand without conscious thought, each of them hitting with instant and deadly precision. A gun fired twice quite close by, and five bodies slid to the earth without protest. Noir neither stopped nor turned back.

If the one remaining leader of Soldats, now perhaps the very singular leader of all of Soldats, was at all surprised to find her there he was quick to mask his reaction. He knew her of course, as she him, and she silently approved of his quick disposing of his two fellow leaders for their treachery much as he, with a glance and an inclination of his head, approved of the intervention of her blades. They wasted no time on pleasantries.

Silvana was given one of the cars and drove off as the Soldats remained, aiding the fire and throwing their dead into it, and she only made one discreet stop before driving to the point where she could discard the vehicle in favour of her own. Hopefully the Soldats would not be aware that the pale and still unconscious girl was alive, for the girl’s sake as well as Noir.

She went to certain lengths to protect the girl’s identity, but as she was given treatment and care in Silvana’s own Sicily the odds were remote that she would be found, even if Soldats had reason to search for her. Careful probing of mutual contacts revealed in time that they in fact did not, and Chloe, for that was the girl’s name, was allowed to move as she pleased in Silvana’s simple cottage on the outskirts of her small village in the rural part of Sicily.

Days, weeks and even months passed, and to Silvana’s surprise her young visitor not only showed no signs of wanting to leave, but Silvana herself had no desire to see the lanky youth leave and her solitary days return. Chloe was nothing like Silvana could have expected.

There was no doubt that she was the same graceful and utterly lethal creature that Silvana had witnessed in the Noir battle, in fact there was little doubt in her mind that were it not for the tradition dictating that the Maidens of Death be lovers, Chloe would have been Noir. None could be more skilled, more capable, more lethal... but her love had been rejected.

Chloe also had another side to her, and it was this that continued to amaze Silvana. The girl was soft-spoken and shy, unassuming and possessing a strangely childlike innocence and devotion that made her very easy to love, even for someone like Silvana whose heart had frozen so many years ago. They shared a joy in the simple things in life, a love for the land and toil, and an appreciation for the rewards it brought. Most would reject Silvana’s simple and rustic lifestyle, but Chloe embraced it with familiarity and delight.

Solitude had never bothered Silvana, rather the reverse, outside the company of the village children any human contact was merely a burden, a duty to fulfil without protest or letting on but never willingly sought out. She always returned to her silent cottage with a quiet sense of relief, going about her simple life in peace. But this was no longer true. There was such joy to be found in Chloe’s presence, even in the small and silent moments. She could not quite grasp how it could be so.

Black Thread and Red Sheets

NOIR-fanfic. Mireille watches Kirika sleep.
(Mireille/Kirika)

Read Black Thread and Red Sheets

Disclaimer: All things Noir belong to Bee Train and probably others, perhaps even to Raimi/Tapert by now, but at any rate I’m borrowing the girls for a bit.




Black Thread and Red Sheets

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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson






I am watching her sleep. I don’t know why I do it and that tears me up, but still tonight like many nights before, I lay awake watching her sleep.

She looks so innocent while sleeping.

So pure, almost like a child in that regard. Like the child she was supposed to be, had things been different. So young, so untainted by darkness.

It is appealing. It is mesmerizing. It pulls me in.

It is also a lie, and I know this better than anyone.

That face, so angelically sweet, does hold purity while awake as well, a purity that defies all sanity, but not innocence. No, not that. Not in our world, not in our line of work.

But still, purity she has. I don’t know how she can or why, neither does she really, when she stands on a field of corpses all felled by her hand. The blood may stain her hands but somehow not her essence, and I can’t figure out how. She shrugs the lives taken off unconsciously, without a care other than to grieve for the guilt she does not feel – another oddity of hers – yet her eyes show me the bottomless pain and sorrow she carries.

She may look childlike in sleep, but she is anything but. I can’t afford to forget that.

All she has to tell her who she might be is a card filled with lies, and as right as the number that indicates age on it feels, it could be just another lie among many.

Some lies become truth though.

Such as her name. Although surely as false as the card upon which it is printed, she has made that name her own now. I can think of no other more fitting, not even the moniker that still chills me slightly to think of for all that I chose it to represent us both.

There is a touch of something beautiful in that name, although I no more than think it than I scoff at myself for this silly sentimentality. What am I now, a schoolgirl like she was supposed to be?

No, certainly not.

It would not do for me to become... attached. This dark and twisted path that we are both on, I know where it leads. Death will be the outcome. This is a given.

And yet... I watch her while she sleeps.

My partner. My companion. The one that will and has gone through the deepest pits of Hell for my sake. My protector, even, as well as my charge.

There is something beautiful about her face when sleeping like this, something a bit angelic. Objectively speaking, of course.

That and that strange kind of charisma she has, with her trusting eyes and tiny smiles and so quiet voice with those little grunts she makes... it is easy to see how someone could get obsessed with her.

Like that green-robed ghost of ours.

Obsessed. Completely head over heels, in the most annoying and pathetically obvious way. She really sets my teeth on edge.

Ignore me, will you? Ogle my partner with those dirty, hungry eyes will you? I’ll put a bullet in your head next time, consequences be damned.

But... I guess I can understand the appeal. The pull.

A little.

Because I’m watching her too, right now while she sleeps. And I am having all kinds of uncomfortable and nagging feelings that perhaps my eyes aren’t the purest either.

As I’ve told her before we are bound together with a thread stained deep black in colour. It is true, and it is a bond no-one can touch. It is true and I won’t deny it, but I can’t help but wonder... why did I use the symbol for lovers to describe us? I’m not sure and I’m even less sure why thinking of it makes me feel embarrassed.

She looks so young.

She looks so young but she is not, not really. And the bond between us may be black but it is true.

Yes... our thread is black in colour indeed.

But the sheets on our bed are red, and her skin looks so soft as she is bundled up in them.

My thoughts confuse me but the heat that accompanies them confuse me more. No longer knowing what I am doing I lean forward, lean in, lean over her.

Her eyes flutter and open.

She does not have that moment of disorientation, when sleep still clings to the mind, clouding it, in our profession it is a luxury we can’t afford. Her big dark brown eyes simply open to look at me, no alarm and no question. They are soft and filled with absolute trust.

Then another expression accompanies the trust. It is that expression.

That look.

That look she has sometimes when our eyes meet. That look she has only for me.

I know not what it means, and I can’t figure it out. I don’t know why it makes my breath hitch and my heart speed up for just a moment, or why sometimes there is a pressure over my chest when she looks at me like that.

All of that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it is mine. That look is mine, and mine alone.

Possessiveness swells within me, strong and fierce. I want to sneer at that burgundy-haired interloper that can keep her flirty eyes to herself, for this is mine.

She is mine.

And I’m not sharing.

She says my name, once, in her quiet voice. Nothing else, but it is still a question. I come to myself enough to realize that I have my arms propped on either side of her head now, leaning in, leaning down, far closer than I should and for no reason I can really give.

It doesn’t matter.

She smiles at me, that tiny but sweet smile of hers, and suddenly there is acceptance. My heart nearly pounds out of my chest to see it.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, I don’t know anything at all, but when she shifts slightly to face me better and those small but oh so very lethal hands move to slide up my bare arms something in me snaps, and I can feel it go almost as if it was a physical thing.

Oh no, I’m leaning down that final little bit of space towards her, and I can’t be, but oh god I am, and she is letting me...

Oh.

Soft.

Her lips are so soft.

Softer than the red silk sheets on my bed, our bed, and their touch sweeter than anything I could have imagined. She moves with me and I should break away, back away, but I can’t, I want more. So much more.

She is warm, so warm, and it is as if I have been frozen forever and now try to burrow into her skin or at least as close as I possibly can. I taste her heartbeat with my lips while a tiny noise she makes tickle my ear with her breath, and my hands are everywhere.

There are reasons why I shouldn’t do this. I know there are, but I can’t think of a single one now. A last confused thought of black thread and red sheets cross my mind before being washed away by her embrace.

Her lips part for me and it feels like heaven to this tainted sinner. I lose myself in her and in reward feel more complete than I ever have. I can’t stop but she is just as eager, welcoming my touch.

The world outside melts away, leaving only us in the moonlight. Nothing else matters.

This is right. This is how it should be. And I am finally beginning to understand.

Tomorrow I will try to find the words to tell her, for tonight though... we are both occupied with other things.

I Know

Original. More like a snippet than anything else, written as a small writer's exercise to hopefully get my writing going again.

A small... conversation between two women.
Who? Or why? That's up to you.

(Feel free to share your thoughts on that, I'd find it interesting to hear. ;)

Read I KNOW

Disclaimer: Original snippet, made as a small writing exercise.




I Know

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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson






”You are crazy.”

I know.

”It is insane.”

I know.

”And I hurt you so much.”

Yeah. Yeah, you did.

“You will get hurt – no, more than that, you will get killed!”

Know that one too.

“You don’t even have a good reason why, do you?”

That depends.

“Have you gone suicidal, is that it?”

Not sure, though I’ve asked myself that too.

“You know this can only head towards complete disaster.”

Probably.

“It is utter lunacy.”

I know.

I know all that.

I love you anyway.

BAKED GOODS

RIZZOLI & ISLES-fanfic. Jane comes home from a trying day at work to find that the door to her apartment is unlocked. Why?
(Jane/Maura)

Read Baked Goods

Disclaimer: I actually have no idea who Rizzoli & Isles belongs to, just that it is not me but I am still quite grateful for the episodes I’ve seen of it so far.

This little piece of pointless splooorp came to be just because my beloved apparently has mastered the puppydog pout even over the Internet, and I am powerless to say no to her.
No season, no episode, just excessive use of the words “croissant” and “pastry”.





Baked Goods
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson





For just a split second when Jane realized the front door to her apartment was unlocked despite her routine of checking and double checking that everything was locked up tight before leaving for work in the morning, adrenaline shot through her and her hand automatically strayed towards her gun. Before she touched her weapon though the door creaked open enough for a certain and very familiar scent to make its way to Jane, who slumped slightly in relief.

Relief quickly transformed into wry resignation and no small amount of irritation, not an uncommon combination where her mother was involved, in particular the times where her mother’s use of the spare key given her for ‘emergencies’ was involved.

Yes, Jane was a bit more skittish to such things than any normal daughter might be and she knew it, but one of these days her mother would have to accept that Jane was a detective with a very slippery murderer on a personal vendetta against her, and randomly popping in when the fancy struck her without telling Jane first was not a good idea on so many levels. Apparently though, that day was not today.

“Ma?” Both the weariness and the annoyance were quite audible in her voice, again not unusual when her mother was involved. “I’m home!” At least the mouth-watering scent that promised some of her mother’s delicious baked goods in Jane’s immediate future kept Jane from having any real desire to get into it with her mother that day, so the annoyance was fading some.

The delighted cry of “Jane!” that met her as she put her jacket away was not the one she had expected, however. Blinking in surprise Jane snapped around to face her kitchen just in time to catch sight of a beaming Maura Isles liberally dusted in flour.

Then she simply caught Maura, as the happy if unusually dishevelled woman threw herself in Jane’s arms. Rocking back ever so slightly on her heels both from the unexpected impact and from the surprise, Jane’s arms nevertheless settled around the smaller woman as if it was an automatic response.

“Oh Jane,” The sight of Maura being so happily excited had a way of doing funny things to Jane’s insides, such as making her completely forget that the other woman was at that very moment likely covering both Jane’s clothes and dark hair with white flour. “Your mother is teaching me how to bake your favourite croissants!”

A little distracted at first, because, well, Maura was very warm and holding her this close just felt so incredibly nice and what did some stray flour in her hair matter if Maura wanted to wrap her arms around her neck anyway, but eventually the words made it through to Jane’s awareness. A dark eyebrow hitched in surprise.

“My favourite croissants?” She looked towards the kitchen to find her mother smiling widely at her as she expertly switched baking sheets. “The croissants she claims are a secret family recipe, and that I apparently still haven’t earned the right to learn? Those croissants?”

“Oh Jane,” Her mother’s inflection being quite, quite different from Maura’s, and Jane wasn’t sure she’d like where it would go even though her mother sounded quite cheerful. “You and I both know that although I managed to teach how to cook well enough, you simply can’t bake. You have been a menace to my kitchen every time you’ve tried.”

“Besides,” The older woman continued before Jane had the chance to growl out a protest, that it was really just that one time, and was she going to hear about that for the rest of her life? “Maura is a part of the family.”

That statement, simple and genuine, from her mother and the reaction she knew, even without looking, that Maura had to it, would have been enough to make Jane forgive her mother even if she had set the entire building, Jane’s car and Jane’s hair on fire. She smiled affectionately at the older woman and, not for the first time, counted her blessings that she had such wonderful parents... even if her mother tended to drive her insane from time to time.

Angela sighed a little, sounding just a touch wistful. “It does me good to know that there is someone here to take care of you.”

Jane opened her mouth to protest the statement, just like she always did when the subject of needing someone to ‘take care’ of her came up, but for some reason this time she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Instead she felt slightly embarrassed and wasn’t entirely sure why.

Perhaps sensing that she had caught her daughter somewhat flatfooted the Rizzoli matriarch got a croissant from the rows that were put to cool and came bustling over, her wide smile still in place. “Here honey, try this; Maura made these herself.”

Between her mother’s smile and Maura’s expectant eyes Jane wasn’t about to protest, so she took the pastry and bit into it, preparing to cover up if it didn’t taste all that great.

She groaned out loud.

“Maura... seriously, you made this?” She groaned again and made short work of the remaining croissant. “It’s delicious!”

“Really?” Maura seemed so hopeful and so eager to please that Jane would probably have swallowed a rock and proclaimed it delicious just to make her happy, but fortunately no effort was needed.

“Oh yeah, really. I didn’t think anyone could top Ma’s croissants, but these are great!” Blinking a little sheepishly when she realized that she had just told her mother that her pastries weren’t as good as Maura’s, she tried a bit apologetically. “Sorry Ma, but it’s true.”

Angela just smiled serenely at them and waved a hand as if to say that it was fine. Something in her mother’s continued smiling regard had Jane realize that she was still standing just inside the door to her apartment with one arm wrapped around Maura and with Maura’s arms around her waist, and that she had been standing like this for a while now.

Flushing slightly she cleared her throat and, ever so gently, it didn’t do not to be gentle with Maura according to Jane, eased out of the loose embrace to move towards the kitchen. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful for this, but what brought this on?” She eyed the mess and wondered if Maura was the reason it was not nearly as bad as she would have expected. “Should I help clean up?”

Despite her offer Jane quickly found herself directed to a chair while the other two cleaned up. She wasn’t going to protest her good fortune this time, especially since she could surreptitiously steal another pastry or two while she waited. She wasn’t fooling anyone and she knew it, but the pleased smile on her mother’s face and the beamingly happy one on Maura’s as they pretended not to see that Jane was filching the croissants from Maura’s pile rather than her mother’s was more than worth a little bit of acting silly. She couldn’t keep from smiling either.

It really warmed Jane’s heart to watch how comfortable Maura had become around her mother, and as she watched the two most important women in her life bustle about her kitchen while chatting and taking turns to tell her how this day’s little adventure had come about, she indulged in a rare moment of just being happy and relaxed for once.

As it turned out Angela had stopped by the station after shopping, intending to have a quick chat with her daughter when she bumped into Maura instead. Maura, getting off work earlier than Jane for once, had offered to take Angela for coffee, and that had somehow transformed into Angela deciding on the impromptu baking lesson at Jane’s place. While eager to spend her precious time off baking with Jane’s mother in a way only Maura could be, she had still been reluctant to use Jane’s apartment without first asking for permission, but steamroller Angela quickly had things going according to her plans.

Jane was chuckling by the time the story and the cleaning wound down, and Angela shooed Maura off to the shower. She helped her mother get her things together – because as Angela pointed out, those were Frankie’s favourite croissants as well – while half-heartedly trying to convince her mother to stay for dinner. Angela declined as expected, citing the need to get home to cook for Jane’s father and brother, but was nonetheless pleased that Jane had offered.

Just before she closed the door behind herself Angela turned to Jane who had followed her to it, and asked in that oh so innocent way of hers that meant that it was in fact anything but. “Say, Jane, why doesn’t Maura have a spare key to your place?” She took a small step back. “You know, for emergencies?” Blithely ignoring that her own use of ‘emergencies’ was impressively wide and ruled by impulse, as well as her stunned offspring gawping at her, Angela shut the door and made a quick if slightly giggly dash down the hall.

Standing there, stunned and staring at the door while desperately trying to reboot her brain after her mother’s parting words, Jane was dimly aware of hearing Maura get out of the shower and into Jane’s bedroom.

It wasn’t a bad idea, Jane already had Maura listed on all sorts of emergency contact lists and such, so it seemed only natural. There certainly wasn’t anyone she’d trust as much as Maura, whether it came to how she’d use a spare key or anything else. It would be convenient too, if Maura came by while Jane was out walking Joe or something she wouldn’t have to wait for Jane in the hallway. And for heaven’s sake, she already had a drawer and a section of her closet dedicated to Maura’s clothing, for when she spent the night or just happened to need a change of clothes while at Jane’s place.

It was all very logical and reasonable, and Maura would undoubtedly agree.

So why did the very thought make Jane blush furiously?