(no subject)

Darrow is like nothing she'd ever imagined, not even if her wildest, most deviant dreams. The novels and magazines she'd survived on in Drearburh had described the front lines, romantic trysts snatched from the teeth of certain death, heaving bosoms and all. This...this was a whole different kind of life. Gideon has started to dress in softer things - sweaters that swamp her hips and wrists, skinny jeans and heavy soled boots, all of it in good, solid Ninth black. She buys books in truly obscene numbers. She drinks a metric fuckton of coffee.

And she spends time with Harrow. And, if that feels like a gift? She's never going to admit it.

They'd arranged to meet and five minutes late finds Gideon walking down the street towards the necropolis in long strides, sunglasses firmly in place, hair tumbled across her face. Tiny headphones blast loud music through her skull. And it's perfect.

Fuck, she loves this place.