Chapter Text
Harrow flicked the lights on in the anatomy lab with a little click . It was seven in the morning and she was the first to arrive, breaking the peaceful silence in the room with her boots and the rustling of her pants. It reeked of formaldehyde and steel.
The uncanny smell was comforting in its familiarity. The room was always the same - lab tables, microscopes, scalpels, and the flick of notebook and textbook paper. The ritual of class was always good for Harrow but this space in particular was special, perhaps because it lacked windows or the bustle of students outside its doors. That is, everything was still and quiet. It was always 8:00 AM, even when it wasn’t.
She moved to each of the ten tanks in the room and checked them, made sure everything was in place and nothing had gone wrong in the night. Temperature, seals, paperwork, labels, and tools - all in their right spots and positions. When she was satisfied with the tanks, filled with the hum of anticipation that hadn't gone away even after weeks of doing this, she turned on the computer and projector, the other tools that no one used but had to be there anyway, and waited.
By 7:45 she was perched on her stool by tank nine and waiting for her professor and the other students to file in. She had volunteered for this position, and she knew the other students hated her for it, not because they wanted to be teachers' pets but because she made them uncomfortable. But this was her second chance and she was taking it, no matter what the other students thought of her.
By 8:04 she greeted the professor and was sliding the tank open. The doors hissed and clinked into place and the odor of formaldehyde doubled - it wafted at her and made her mouth water in a sickly kind of way.
She and her cohort (three other students, only two of whom she could name) had been donated a beautiful young woman, struck down in her prime, now cold and rubbery to the touch. Her hair was lank and pale and her nose long and straight. Her mouth would have been plush had it not withered in the cold and her fingers were long and delicate like a pianist’s. Harrow thought it quite the shame she could not have met the blonde in life if only to hear her speak or see her blue eyes light up.
She was naked and half gone already, but her face was still pristine - they hadn't started on the head yet.
In her mind she greeted the woman.
"Hi, darling."
Even she knew it was morbid, but she wanted to be nice to the poor girl because she had been eviscerated by medical students, disemboweled in the name of teaching.
The professor started speaking and Harrow turned her mind off and her brain on - ready to listen.
—
At ten she was hungry and slipping out of the lab, ready to grab a bagel from the food stand nearby and go to the library. She had four exams next week, all of which she expected to ace, because she aced everything, but she still needed to review the materials.
The walk from the lab to the library was short and sweet, the sun was bright if cold, and she was feeling confident. She was the apple of her teachers' eyes, she was the top of her class, her boss liked her - this had never happened before. She had never been the favorite, she had only been the sacrificial lamb. But now she had a leg to stand on, a lung to breathe with. And nothing, not anyone could take that away from her.
The library was warm wood and special lights so her eyes didn't burn, it was the whispers of students having breakdowns and it was the smell of ancient textbooks long out of date. It was her second favorite place in the world. She sat down at her usual table - on the second floor, in a back corner, so it was almost always empty despite having the room to fit six people. She set up camp - her laptop, notebooks, textbooks, her bagel and her new cup of coffee.
First, anatomy review.
Poor dear blondie had offered up her liver today, so that was where she started. Getting bogged down in medical notes was cathartic to her. She had something to focus on. No past, no obligations, just her and her laptop, a mirror of her childhood when it was her and her Bible. She took a long sip of coffee and smiled - this shit was easy, she knew it all already. She'd known it for a long time.
The solitude of the library was what she looked forward to every day, especially after anatomy. The labs always left her feeling a little bit sideways. She wasn't yet sure if it was the formaldehyde, or the bodies, or the fact that her body was pretty, or something else. Either way she surrounded herself with the quiet air of books and got herself together.
Her keys clacked and echoed a little. It was the only sign that she was there.
She considered the rest of her day as well - more lectures, then walking home, prayer, and bed, rinse and repeat. Routine had been beaten into her from the day she was born and although she had thrown much of that away after what happened, she still loved a schedule.
In her focused state she barely noticed the rustling of someone else's clothes and bag off to the side of her, but when a figure sat down and a gust of air flipped her cards she nearly started spitting.
Without looking she rearranged them and went back to it, turning her headphones up one notch, as if the sound would make the person invisible. She refocused.
It took all of thirty seconds for her attention to slip again. The person at the end of the table was staring. She couldn't see them - she wasn't looking - but she knew. She could feel it.
And when she looked up to start fighting the wind was knocked out of her.
She was as beautiful as ever. Tall even sitting, red hair arranged in a purposefully messy way, sunglasses on the collar of her shirt. She had lost any trace of baby fat, her jaw was square and her cheekbones high and proud, and she was smiling. Her teeth were white and straight (had she gotten adult braces?). There were diamonds in her ears that made her look like a douchebag.
"How?" Harrow breathed. It had been four and a half years since they had last spoken. Even then it was a letter. Five years since they had seen one another.
Gideon smiled. It was a gut punch. "You're the best student at the best medical school in the country. Google." Her voice was low and rich but her tone was casual, she said it with a shrug, as if she had simply given directions.
Harrow scrambled to pack up her things - the note cards crumpled in her hands, her laptop shut without being turned off - before Gideon reached out a hand and laid it on Harrow's. She jerked back, feeling like she had been stung.
"You're not real," she blurted, trying to convince herself. It was the lack of sleep. Maybe she missed a dose. Gideon Nav was not here.
Her face was upset, though, and her hand was warm.
"Yes I am. And I came here looking for you."
"Forget I exist," Harrow spat.
Gideon frowned. "Can't. Tried that and it didn't work. I have something I want to give you, though."
Gideon started to dig through her own bag, a leather black backpack, but Harrow was moving before she could find it. She was leaving, and probably going to drop out, and run away and try the nunnery again.
"Wait!" Gideon called. And for some ungodly reason, Harrow paused. She hesitated. It was just enough time for Gideon to slip her a piece of paper, look her in the eye, and wink.
—
Harrow threw the door to her apartment open and screamed. She screamed and kicked her piles of laundry over, threw her coffee cup at her dishes, and flung herself into her bed. The anger and fury that Gideon had raised inside her leaked out everywhere - her voice, her fists, the dumping of her bag all over her floor. She wanted to rend her own body to shreds.
She ripped the note from the picket of her jacket and stared at it, half compelled to tear it to shreds and half wondering if she had dreamed the whole thing up. In a daze she inspected her pill organizer. It was, unfortunately, all correct.
It pissed her off even more.
Of all the wretched people in her life to reappear Gideon Nav was the worst option by far. Her great aunts would have been more desirable, or her first therapist who had tried to tell her she had no reason to be angry - hell, the ghosts of her parents would have been almost pleasurable over Gideon, the girl who had completely and utterly ruined her life.
She stared at the note. It was an address and a date.
Possessed, she grabbed her laptop from where it had landed on the floor and plugged in the numbers. It was some address across town, in a much nicer area than expected. Gideon was nothing to no one, what was she doing there?
For good measure and revenge, she typed in
GIDEON NAV
and searched.
Thank God she had a stupid name because there were actual results. A high school photo of Gideon appeared, baby faced and roguish, evil and cruel. A listing for a college championship. And, horrendously,
Gaius Corp CEO Reunites with Long Lost Daughter
A photo of - well, now she knew she was crazy. There was no way. And yet, the eyes.
God damn.
She lay back on her bed and assessed herself - her heart was pounding and her palms were itchy with sweat. In fact, all of her was itchy. She stripped her clothes off but it didn't help. She ran a bath. She dunked her head under the water. She called her doctor.
The evening passed with her restless and agitated, nothing soothing the fury under her skin. The sky blackened and she lay in her bed, tossing and turning, remembering Gideon's hand on hers, her smile, and what she said.
Gideon had nothing of hers. There was nothing to have. Harrow's life had started four and half years ago when she got her head on straight and went into the world, alone, and trembling. Gideon had not been there to help her back then, so to insert herself now, to claim she had gifts or offerings or mementos was -
It was wrong.
Harrow clenched her fists and steeled her resolve. The date on the note was for tomorrow, Friday night, at 8pm. She would be there, and Gideon would be sorry.
—-------
Gideon lived a thirty minute drive away, so she called a ride, and sat in silence the entire time. The closer they got the more she wondered about the whole thing. It was like she kept waking up from a dream, remembering where she was and what she was doing - she’d put on fresh eyeliner at eight in the evening to go to Gideon Nav’s house and all it took was a little mysterious offer. Who was she anymore? She should have grabbed Gideon by the collar and told her to bring it - whatever it was - to a public meeting place, or a police station.
The car stopped. Harrow came back to herself.
Gideons house was larger than expected. It was some big Arts and Crafts Movement thing, all wood and clean lines and open windows. It was built into a crop of trees so it was isolated from the neighbors. It stood in front of her like some evil castle in a movie.
There were a fair number of cars stuffed into the circular driveway and even more on the road. Music was blasting- she could hear it before even getting out. This was definitely a bad idea. And yet, out of politeness to the driver she tipped and left, and marched her flat ass up to the door. Aside from the obvious old-money aesthetic Gideon had somehow managed to curate, despite being nothing to no one, the most prominent feature was women .
Every lesbian from the tri-state area was on Gideon Nav's porch.
They were all drunk, and beautiful, and dancing, and laughing. A few looked at Harrow with interest, some open and some more discreetly. This was nothing like anything she had ever experienced and it certainly wasn't what she had been expecting. Her heart was in her throat as she stumbled through the crowds. She felt like she was going to throw up from the heat and the sound and the implication that this was, somehow, something Gideon had wanted her to see.
This was bad, this was really bad. Harrow was made for books and churches, not parties, certainly not Gideon Nav parties.
She had two options - run, which she wasn't going to do, or go in even if it killed her.
She was out of her element here, but if she knew anything she knew fake it til you make it. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and went inside the house without breaking stride, without showing any hesitation, feeling a bit Anne Boleyn about it.
The house smelled like booze and weed and perfume, it sounded like an earthquake, and it was so hot despite the pleasant outside temperature that Harrow removed her top-most layer. She stuffed it into her tote bag. The sheer crush of bodies was unimaginable. Every time she passed someone they touched, arms brushing or stranger's-butt-to-Harrow’s-crotch, which was awkward, but luckily no one tried to speak to her. She didn’t recognize anyone and Gideon was nowhere to be found.
The living room had girls kissing on the couch and a TV on, playing some kind of show or movie that she didn’t recognize. The nice hardwood floor had mismatched rugs on it, which, knowing Gideon’s uptightness, was strange.
The kitchen was full of girls kissing on the counters, and people yelling about ordering pizza. She snooped and stole a glass from the cabinets and filled it with water. Her throat was dry and her hands were shaking but the drink did absolutely nothing to help. She avoided the glances of the other woman and scurried out, the cup left behind in the sink.
The dining room had girls playing cards (and kissing).
She could probably ask (provided someone here actually knew Gideon instead of showing up as an invitation from a friend of a friend of a friend), but that would be like giving up, which she did not do. Opening her mouth to strangers was usually a one-way ticket to humiliation, anyway.
So, she went upstairs, where there were fewer people, and peeked into the rooms. An office (plain, unused, with a blank desk and empty built-ins, two women making out), a bathroom (locked, someone vomiting), a bedroom (barely used, maybe a guest room, the only empty room in the entire house), and then another locked door. Harrow pressed her ear to the door and didn’t hear anything - the room was probably empty. But Harrow had never met a locked door that could stop her. She pulled a little rectangular metal container from the bottom of her tote and -
Harrow closed the door behind her, locking herself into muffled silence. This would be far more efficient. If she could find the mysterious item Gideon lured her here with then she could simply take it and leave. This would be better for both of them, anyway, because they wouldn’t have to interact.
Nav’s room was painfully tidy. Her bed was tucked into the corner of the room and the white bedspread was neatly folded and set. Her pillows were spaced evenly. Her desk was organized and her bookshelf was in order by author last name which was shocking only because it implied Gideon wasn’t actually illiterate (and because that’s how she organized her own). Harrow could see the drag lines on the carpet from the vacuum cleaner. The overall state of the room would be surprising had she not known anything about Gideon, but she had always been like this. Once, when they were kids, Gideon had re-organized Harrow’s school desk, which meant she couldn’t find anything, and so Harrow hit her.
Out of contempt Harrow sat on Gideon’s bed and closed her eyes. The room smelled like her, like deodorant and oil and cleanliness. It was grounding, if not perverse. Harrow knew she shouldn’t be in here, but she also did not really care. This was about efficiency - get it, grab whatever it was, leave, and forget. Put it behind her. If she knew how to fake it til she made it she knew even better how to forget and move on.
She leaned over the bedspread and stuck her fingers through the blinds to look out the window, down onto the back yard. There were, unsurprisingly, people out there. A table was set up in the middle at which some girls were playing beer pong. A few were standing around smoking. And there she was, in the flesh, Gideon Nav with her hand on a statuesque blonde woman’s shoulder. The other woman had hair down to her mid back, and a blinding smile, and jewelry like the Sistine Chapel. Harrow stared. Gideon slipped her hand to the blonde’s waist and pulled her close. They were laughing together. Harrow bit her lip as they kissed. The blonde was taller than Gideon, which was absurd, because Gideon was always the largest person in the room. Seeing her tip he head back and kiss upwards -
Harrow did not turn away. The blonde cradled the back of Gideon’s head, her hands scratching her scalp. Harrow knew it felt good. Gideon’s arms flexed around the woman’s little waist, and Harrow knew that felt good too. To be wrapped up. The blonde woman pressed Gideon back, and wasn’t that a sight to see, Gideon being manhandled, even somewhat, and even more interestingly - she was allowing it. She leaned against the wooden fence and was crushed under boobs and hair.
Harrow licked her lips. She squirmed when Gideon squirmed. She knew it was wrong, and she knew it was a sin, and yet she watched. Her eyes felt dry from watching so hard. She was so turned on. She was always turned on when Gideon was involved, which was the worst part, that through all the hatred the simple truth of Gideon being beautiful was always there.
Gideon’s hands flexed on the blonde’s back. Harrow imagined what it would feel like if she were the one being cradled (or, God willing, sandwiched in between).
She blinked and wrenched herself away from the window. It was too much, she had to decompress before she did something stupid like act on her impulses (jumping out the window). She rubbed at her eyes (no doubt smearing her makeup) and blinked away the stars and refocused herself on her task.
Intentionally trying to forget the scene outside, she stepped to Gideon’s bookshelf to see what she had collected - of course there was nothing interesting, mostly philosophy and a surprising amount of poetry and vintage Playboys - and some knick-knacks that were lovingly dust-free.
Harrow swallowed, trying to focus on the stupid things. She wanted to look again.
On the desk was a closed laptop with a rainbow sticker (as if people couldn’t already tell, come on), a cup of pens, and a neat stack of paper.
Maybe someone would lose a shirt soon.
Harrow opened the drawers. Nothing spectacular. This desk was likely used frequently, which was interesting because Gideon had an office, so why cram herself into a bedroom?
There were a few sets of random, unlabeled keys in one drawer.
The bottom drawer was locked. She tried the keys but none of them fit, so, she pulled another safety pin from her outfit and worked it. It was easy, but Gideon’s locks always had been. When it came to her and Gideon it was practically an invitation. The drawer popped open with a click and she slid it out. Inside was a plain wooden box with no decoration and a simple latch. Harrow lifted it and flicked it open.
A neat pile of envelopes were stacked inside. A chill went through her, far worse than seeing Gideon get kissed on. She knew these letters intimately because she had been the one to write them, five to four and half years ago. Six months of her life was in this box, six months she hardly remembered, six months where she got no response, and yet here they were, in their little envelopes with their little stamps, and Harrow’s terrible handwriting.
Gideon was an awful person.
Harrow stuffed the letters in her tote bag, dropped the box in the drawer, kicked it closed, and fled.