Private Lantern Flowers [M]

Sinns old hat thwumped down on Brindas head.

"Hey!" She called out under the hat. Hand already going up to take it off. Her back pressed to the old blue door. She grabbed the cap, took it off and watched.

Garrod took up the hem of his shirt. Ripped it hard down the middle and grabbed one of the new wings. Grabbed Daniyah, left hand firm at the back of her head, and wiped off her face. Firm. And sure. It didn't matter if she hissed and bit, wrenched and thrashed.

He would hang on. He would try. To clean up the mess. To be there. For her.

"You stink," he said, breathless and tender as an open wound. Shirt covered in gutter shit. Grin tugging at his stupid face.

"What?!" Brinda protested with snap and a growl. Eyes crinkled like little stormclouds. As she gripped her hat, all coiled up and trembling like a thing caught between the want to fight and the want to fly.

Daniyah didn’t fight him.

Just stood there, straight-backed, breath thin, stomach tight, waiting for him to be done, like a statue. She stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed on nothing, on a point far, far away in her mind. It wasn’t dignifying. It sure as hell wasn’t what she deserved, being handled like she was a child who’d gone tumbling into a pigpen.

The cloth, a piece of his now ruined shirt, dragged across her jaw, her cheekbones, her mouth, smearing away the gutter-filth and dead-leaf sludge while she stood there like a carved idol dug out of a tomb. She didn’t hiss. Didn’t snap. Didn’t wrench away. Because what was the point? She knew how it went.

"You stink"
“Oh. Do I?”

She blinked once, slow, as the filthy cloth dragged over her cheek. When Garrod finally stopped, when the filthy cloth fell from his fingers, she took a single step back. Just one. “Your leg is still bleeding,” she said, eyes flicking to the dark stain spreading down his thigh.

“We need to deal with that. Come on. Let’s go inside."

“Que se acabe esta noche de mierda pronto.” almost a hiss to the ghost hovering near.

Daniyah stepped inside last. El perro avergonzado. Brinda scuttled past her like a roach, her eyes wide, shoulders tense, expecting the huntress to snap. Rage simmered, sure, but it had collapsed into something burning low.

Her clothes heavy and clinging. The warm shroudlamps made the filth shine, grease, rot, and gods-knew-what clinging to her. She shot a glance toward the hallway where the old bathroom waited, but the thought of peeling off soaked, filthy layers only to put them back on afterward was just pointless.

Garrod had already busied himself with baskets and clattering cookware, trying too hard to pretend things were normal. Trying to make things feel like a home.

Eyes half-closed, she made her way to the cuarto de baño. Her steps left a faint, damp, and smelly marks on the wood behind her. The floorboards moaned. She pushed into the bathroom and shut the door with a dull thud. She leaned back against the door, spine hitting the wood. Her legs folded, and she slid down the door until she was sitting on the cold floor. Legs tucked up.

Hands came up fast. Palms pressed against her eyes. Every muscle in her felt too tight, too wired, like she’d been strung up between fury and fear and expected to walk a straight line between them. She pressed harder into her eyes, hard enough to bloom colors behind the black. Purples, yellows, blues, reds, greens... and afterimages of marigold flowers, alebrijes, dancing dogs, and emerald flames.

Didn’t want to be in this house with its creaking bones and its history breathing down her neck.

She dragged her hands down her face, nails catching at the dirt and dried muck on her skin. Her palms came to rest over her mouth for a moment. A long, slow exhale seeped through her fingers. Hands fell to the floor. She let her head fall back against the door with a soft thud. She was drenched. Cold, black mud caked her in sludgy layers from head to collarbone. It seeped through stitching, glued her clothes to her skin, and filled her nostrils with the suffocating reek of decaying leaves, stagnant water, and something distinctly monstrous that came after years of neglect.

Eventually, she dragged herself upright. Probably, Garrod had something clean she could borrow. A sharp grunt escaped her lips as she wrestled her boots off. They hit the stone floor with two thuds.

She crouched by the tub, dropped there by a storm, fingers slick on the rusted taps. The brass cried and groaned under her touch, pipes rattling like bones. Water sputtered, hissed, and stopped, then spat out again, uneven, spiteful. Daniyah cursed, twisting and tugging the taps. Finally, it steadied. Warm enough. She let it fill the tub, while she undressed.

Her fingers, stiff with grime, fumbled with buckles and sodden laces. The heavy coat landed at her feet with a splatter of foul, silty water and chunks of semi-rotten vegetation. The smell intensified immediately, the pervasive gutter stink flooded the small space. The mud-heavy layers peeled like shedding a diseased second skin. Her pale, bruised skin streaked grey-black beneath and lightly marbled by thorns, blades and claws. She left the disgusting pile of gear where it fell and stepped into the bath.

The sound of bootfalls echoing into the old ruined haunt. Kept his back to them. Cold lightning corriendo como telarañas down his skin. Swirling up his breath.

Nothing said. Just the quick sink of a cuchillo filoso, slicing through chiles crujientes y frescos con su pico. Stung the lungs. The eyes.

"Chingado," croaked out as the bathroom door shut hard. Breath wavering, like so much wind come against a stone.

Took in another breath. Cold and shimmering through his lungs. His eye stung. Could blame it on the onions if he needed to. Why the fuck would he need to.

Gotita tras gotita de dolores en tecnicolor.

---

What a weird fucking night. First. She had to track the One Eye's ghosting ass down. Ask about. This old lady. That old man. Didn't even get to enjoy all the cool stuff!

What the hell even was a cempasutchil? And why the hell was that crazy hunter-

Her boot snagged on a root that came up all curling snake out of the ground. Took a tumble. Eyes wide, as the pot flung forward and clunk, clanged, knocked its way down the small slope. Grit her teeth, popped her head up. Saw the big bellied vessel thunk against a stone. All clang like a tower bell.

Cascabelera the wind seemed to whisper by her ear.

"Shit," she hissed through the teeth. Scrabbled up and hurried after it.

---

Run the knife through. Grabbed up a lime wedge, and stuck it betwixt his teeth to chew and suck down its juice. El gusto de el sabor agrio. He bit down the rind and felt the biter oils bloom about him. Full of citrus, and burn. Chewed on it mindlessly as he gathered up some clothes in the room he had claimed as his own during his crashing here. Wreck?

Shook his head. Walked out of the place. Dribbles of blood smeared under clumsy boot.

Shirt, and smallclothes. Pair of black and gold hose. Draw strings should help them fit. And his old black dueling doublet.

Knocked on the bathroom door. "Fresh duds," he called through the jadewood of the door. Hung a breath. Saw the muck caked prints leading in. The dribble of gutter filth, left far too long to rot. Clicked his teeth. Opened the door. Hit by the clouds of steam. Swirling about. He followed the tracks to an unholy pile of work. Hand snatching up piece by piece as he bent to them. Grabbed them up. "Should be some soap and oils about the tub," he said with a point of his nose. Turned toward the door, and made his exit.

Came back and wiped up the mud. Left.

She slid down, lower and lower, until the water swallowed her. The world went muffled. Thick. Warped. Light turned to a wavering smear above her, warped by grime and steam.

Daniyah stayed under. Let the heat press in around her ears. Let the silence claw at the inside of her skull. Stayed until her lungs burned, until her blood started screaming for air, until the pulse hammered so hard in her temples the world quaked. Terremoto. Only then did she break the surface, dragging in breath, and it hurt.

Pushed her hair back, felt the mud drag with it, clumps and grit and gutter sludge sliding down her fingers. Worked through the knots with slow fingers. Getting through it.

The pull, she felt it. A gravity in her chest, the fang Garrod had sunk deep into her. Tearing away at her. Hesitant. The bastard refused to fit into the neat little box where she kept all the people that was safe not to care about. Yet she could not hate him. She had tried, tried to carve the feeling into herself, with grit and anger and every cold edge she owned. He made it easy sometimes. Stubborn as a mule. Too earnest for a cazadore. Full of storm and that reckless loyalty that never ended well for anyone involved.

But instead she longed to drag him into her arms, bury her face in the warm, bronzed hollow of his neck, feel the thunder of his pulse under her palms. Felt him walking up the stairs. Footsteps creaked outside.

She didn’t want to need anyone. Never had. Needing got you gutted, killed, hurt, alone, stripped bare, used up, betrayed, abandoned, dragged through the dirt, and left bleeding on some godsforsaken river shore. Needing got you stupid, blind, soft in all the wrong places. Got your heart chewed up, spat out, and stomped flat under somebody’s careless heel.

Needing made you slow.
Made you vulnerable.

But any winter needed its spring storm.

Left clean clothes and picked up dirty ones and mud, las flores de este campo santo.

"Me dejaste comer el pan de los muertos y la vida ya nunca supo igual." A whisper emerged from the woman of ashes in the bathtub.

Her fingers curled over the edge of the tub, she leaned against the cracked rim of the tub, the old porcelain cold against her ribs. Wishing him to come closer, and he did. Arms hooking over the rim. Her eyes, pale as winter mornings, sharp as a blade, locked on him, bleeding heart and all. Her wet hair slid over her shoulders like strands of riverweed, and she watched him.

Watched the way that one green eye softened when it found her.
Watched his hand pressed to his chest.
Watched the calloused hand dipping into the water.
Watched the smile tugging crooked at his mouth.
Watched the absurd tenderness in his posture.
Watched him keep treating her like she was better than the dog she was.

Lavender rose around her in warm steam, fighting the mildew and gutter stink. His hand in the bath sent little ripples across her thighs. "Does the lady need anything?" His question drifted up, wine, cheese, jokes soft as butter. Like he didn’t realize she’d drown herself twelve times over just to keep from feeling what she felt right now.

"Tiempo mas con ti." she echoed.

She knew how to break a neck. Hurt people. That’s the one thing she was consistently good at. Cortar, empujar, romper cosas, con suerte antes de que me rompan a mí. Used to protect herself first, last, and always.

La Rondilla didn’t leave room for much else...

“…Garrod,” she said quietly. There was no bite in it. She leaned forward a little, water slipped down her collarbones in thin lines. Her eyes stayed on his face. A cazador should not tremble. But she felt the tremor anyway. Her hand reached out, hesitated, then planted itself on the side of the tub near his. A careful index finger reached out and caressed his wrist.

Her hand lifted, and she touched his cheek. Her thumb traced the lágrimas de arcoíris, wiping it away as gently as she could with her clean fingers. “It’d be easier if I didn’t want you. But I do. Haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the Weeping Widow. Estás en mi cabeza todo el tiempo. I’m starting to care for you. More than is wise..” she admitted. Cleared her throat, finally she got to say it. She had been thinking on it all evening. "Me da pavor."

Then she huffed out a breath, a scoff at herself, and leaned back. Gave her head a small shake, as if she could rattle all that softness out of her skull before it ruined her entirely. Grabbing for the honey soap like it was a weapon, she set back to scrubbing. Her cheeks were still traitorously warm. If he noticed? She could blame it on the warm bath then.

“Lovergirl” hit the air like a thrown gauntlet.

Oh, he would go there.

“Lovergirl, eh?” Daniyah stared at him, at that damned smirk. "Maldito cazador." The bathwater lapped against her ribs as she shifted, lifting one arm just enough to catch the surface with her palm.

Splash!

A clean, heavy arc of warm water slapped across his chest, soaking what little of his shirt wasn’t already ruined. Daniyah didn’t bother hiding the smirk that tugged at her mouth as she settled back into the tub, soap in hand like a weapon she might throw next.

"Get out of here before I drown you in your own damned bathtub!” She flicked water at him with her fingertips this time.

You'd drag me down?

A slow pour of warm, lavender water down her crown. She kept her eyes closed against the flow, leaning into his careful hand. It was claiming. His fingers combing through her hair, that soft tug was a spike of pure comfort. His kiss on her cheek wasn’t stolen; she pressed into it, turning her face slightly to feel the brush of his lips.

One hand slipped out from beneath the surface, fast and slick as a boca de algodón, and fisted in the front of his ruined shirt. She tugged hard enough to pull him closer. Straigtened her back to meet him as she tugged him that final inch, close enough that their noses brushed. Hand crept up from the shirt and placed her fingers high around his throat, finger by finger, thumb resting just below the sharp angle of the jaw and the tip of his ear.

“Yeah… I’d drag you under.” she said. Her gaze dropped to his thigh, blood darkening the torn cloth. She clicked her tongue, and she let him go. “Just…” she flicked a glance at the grey-brown filth still drifting in lazy clouds, “not in this.” Pushed his white hair back from his face. “If you put so much as a toe in here, you’ll get blood poisoning."

Footsteps, creaking steps, light and anxious, sounded downstairs.

His threat, I’d haunt you and dragged a crooked smile from The Wraitbinder. “Mm,” she hummed, leaning back, bare knees breaching the surface like pale islands. "Ya lo haces, mi tormenta."

She lifted a hand for him to take and help her out of the tub.

"Fuck," trembled out of his squeezed neck. Apple of his throat there in her grip. Made him laugh, all warm exhale. Blush running ruddy across his golden brown skin. Noses tickling, breath swirling. He could feel her lips just there above his.

Hot.

Felt her callouses in the press of her hand and the give of his neck. Just a little softer from the bath. There with all the honey and lavender that filled his nose. Like some fucked up bouquet.

"Yeah... I'd drag you under."

A giddy little rumble from the back of his throat. Made him feel her squeeze, just the bit more. Eye half lidded. Teeth bright. All into it.

"Just... not in this..."

Keeled toward the trace of her fingers.

"...You'll get blood poisoning."

"Que suerte la mia," he bit off, breathless.

And when she hummed. , when her voice let out mi tormenta. Low and rumbling as she rose out of the drink. Clean as calla, glowing through all the mire. Got him all lightning bolt down the spine. Hot and cold swirling at the base of him.

"Hechicera," he hissed through his teeth. Cheeks starting to ache. He took up her hand, and rose up from where he knelt. Bowed his head, all ruin of a knight to his cauldron-brewed lady.

Tried not to stare as her feet slapped against the terracotta tiles. Waves of white scales, interlocked with counterparts that looked all coffee splashed with milk.

A tremor through the muscles in his leg had him wobble and shake. Hiss through the teeth. A laugh as he forced his balance. "Right, right," he said, stepped to the door. "Much as I'd like to stay for the show..." he huffed. "I'm going to go uh..." let his eye linger. Made no sign of moving for a long second as he grinned. "Take care of this..." wet his lips.

---

Thumped his ass down on the chair with an old aid kit. Set it on the table. The bottle of tequila, y tres copitas para pistear. Uncorked the bottle. Poured three measures. Raised up a toast. "A ti, viejo carajo," tossed it back. Quemo algo feo as it washed down. Made a face all bitter and bite. Poured another. Knocked it back.

Undid the shawl. Careful like. Saw fresh gush of red pump up. Whistled. "Nice and deep," he laughed. Numb to the sting of it. Grabbed up a lime half, and squeezed it over the ruin. Breath through his grin, as the acid stung at the ruined nerves.

Brinda came in as he pulled the first talon and twine through.

"What are you doing?" she asked as she hauled the filled kettle over to the crackling hearth. Some stray marigold petals stuck in her hair. She set the pot on the hook with a grunt and shift of her whole little body. Still managed to set it to the flame.

"Drinking," Garrod said flatly. Driving another run of the twine through.

"Uh... aren't you supposed to clean that first?"

Garrod paused his needlework. Looked around. Set his eye back to Mouse.

"Well, right," she went and got a broom. Lingered with her eyes on the food.

"Later," Garrod cut.

Brinda huffed. Put a clean rag down by him. "Found that earlier," she said. Got to sweeping up.

Garrod watched her a moment. Grabbed up the rag, and dabbed up some of the mess about his leg.

Her pale eyes followed hom how he wobbled like a fool on that torn-up leg, somehow he still managed to grin at her like she was something carved out of starlight. They’d seen each other naked before. No need for coyness now. She took the towel off the hook, unfurled it with a single snap, and pulled it over her shoulders. Water dripping down her legs in lazy trails.

“Yeah,” she drawled, “Go take care of it.” A smirk curled slow across her mouth. Eyes gleaming like stolen coins.

---

Daniyah dried off. His clothes, she smiled to herself. The shirt was soft from many washings and held the ghost of his scent. It hung loose on her shoulders. The smallclothes she tied snug, the black-and-gold hose even tighter. The doublet, old black leather, worn to a softened sheen, creased with memories of sweat and sun and too many fights. The shoulders cut for his broader frame. On her, it looked rakish and stolen.

She raked her fingers through her hair, shook out the wet from the ends, and looked around the room. Before leaving, she reached down the tub and yanked the plug free. The water, murky with dirt, soap, and the oily thinning from his tears, spiraled away in a lazy, reluctant whirl. She watched it drain for a heartbeat.

Padded down the stairs, her boot thumping lightly. She padded out into the narrow hallway, feet silent on splintered boards, and made her way toward the front room. The house creaked with every step, old bones shifting, settling and complaining.

At the bottom of the stairs, she saw Brinda. Awkwardly do a sweep by with a broom. The girl looked up when she sensed movement. Their eyes met. Daniyah stopped. Just for a moment. Brinda flinched as if expecting a lash of Daniyah’s wrath.

Something in Daniyah's chest pulled taut, sharp as a wire. She, who could gut a man without blinking, found herself hesitating over the simple act of passing by a girl she had been cruel to.

One day, maybe, she’d learn forgiveness.

Forgiveness.
Such a strange, foreign thing. She’d never had use for it. Wasn't raised to forgive, The Red Mouth braided ruthlessness into her from childhood. And what about Brayan and cazadores? They traded in blood and coin, not mercy. She’d always been a tool of redemption for others, never taught how to grant it herself.

The girl hadn’t ruined her. Daniyah’s lack of talent with a sword and her clumsy footing had. Her embarrassing shortcomings were hers alone. But the girl was no innocent, either. Brinda had a greedy heart. Quick fingers, quicker lies. A hunger she barely tried to hide. And she had a new arm...

Maybe...
But forgiveness wasn’t a language Daniyah had ever been taught, maybe she’d have to make her own shape of it.

Daniyah exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from her shoulders. “…Huh,” she said. “That’s new.” Brinda swallowed, arm hitching awkwardly as the gears clicked.

“Better than the cursed one you tried on last time..."