Chapter 2.

“What’s this?” A kid asked, glaring at something they pulled out of a box. Before Yang could even answer, he started using it like a pretend sword, making whoosh sounds with his mouth as other kids started scream-giggling, trying not to be hit.  

“That, my curious friends.” Yang pulled the item out of the kids hands holding it high above their hands. “Is a Dust rod—not a toy. It channels and stabilises raw dust currents. Without it, electric dust is about as useful as an exploding rock.”

That earned a collective “Coooooool,” from the gathered kids, who now surrounded her like a pack of gremlins, eyes wide with wonder as they clearly imagined the glorious chaos of Dust-rock shrapnel.

“Cool, yes,” Yang agreed with a grin. “But also? No rod means no generator. No generator means no power. And no power…” She leaned in slightly, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. 

“...warm soda!”

A horrified gasp rippled through the group. One kid clutched their drink protectively. Another wailed, “NOT MY SODA!”

“Truly the greatest tragedy.” Yang nodded solemnly, placing the rod back into its box like it was a sacred relic. “That’s why we respect our generators! For cold soda!” 

The kids immediately agreed, even starting a boisterous chant of “COLD SO-DA! COLD SO-DA!” as they marched back into camp.

Yang let out a quiet laugh, already imagining the look on their parents' faces when a pack of sugar-goblins came marching past the houses like a fizzy rebellion. If they were lucky, they’d draw others into the chant. If not, well at least they had fun. 

Vernal, who had heard the whole thing from a short distance away, shook her head in disbelief. “Cold soda? Really?”

“What better gift than cold soda?” Yang shot back with a prideful smirk and a theatrical shrug. 

Vernal rolled her eyes. “You’re going to corrupt the entire next generation with carbonation and sarcasm.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing!” Yang quipped, already reaching for the crate on her truck bed. She holstered it onto her shoulder with a grunt, grabbing a second box under her arm, and started toward the camp's central pantry.  

“By the way,” Vernal said, trailing after her with a couple boxes of her own. “The Thorne family’s hoarding food again. Which would explain why half the stock practically vanished overnight.”

“You try talking to Marla? She get anywhere with her husband?” Yang let out a sigh. Jason was always a pain to deal with. Hopefully, by some divine miracle, Marla had already talked sense into him.

“I called her,” Vernal replied. “She’s still out on a supply job, but she said she’d call him when she gets the chance.” She let out her own sigh—more tired than annoyed. They both knew this had been coming.

—-——————————————————

The two dropped their boxes on the main counter of the pantry, having come to an agreement that Vernal will grab the rest of the supplies while Yang makes a quick visit to the Thorne resident. 

“I swear if he says ‘My family first’ one more time, I’m eating his rations in front of him,” Yang grumbled. 

Verbal didn’t look up from the box she was unpacking. “And what bout his kid?”

“Then she can join me!” Yang exclaimed. Hopefully she joined the soda chant, or she was pestering Finn again. Most talks with Jason ended up in some form of an argument, and she didn’t need to see that. 

Vernal rolled her eyes, a huff of amusement escaping her lips. “Just go!” She waved Yang off, damn near pushing her out the door. 

“Yes Captain Sir!” Yang gave a mock salute before heading out the door, her boots thudding against the packed dirt path. The afternoon sun still hung high in the air, casting sharp shadows across half-finished buildings, skeletal frames, and houses. The camp buzzed with gossip, the chant of kids still rallying for cold soda, and the rhythmic clutter of construction.

Yang rounded a corner, passing the old greenhouse—or what was left of it. 

A crooked frame of warped wood barely managing to stay upright, one pane of glass still clung on like it hadn’t gotten the memo. The rest had either shattered or been replaced with tarp, scrap plastic, and a couple planks lazily screwed on. Inside, the weeds were winning. 

No one really talked about it anymore. 

Someone tried to grow tomatoes the first year. Someone else tried beanstalks. Then, everyone kinda just gave up as some of the water pipes came crashing down—nearly taking someone out with them. 

Yang slowed for half a second, squinting at the tangle of green inside. A few hardy vines had somehow survived, crawling up the mesh like they hadn’t known they’d been abandoned. 

She shook her head. “Resiliant little bastards,” she muttered, and kept walking.

The peace didn’t last, though. A kid's voice screamed out from the Thorne residence—sharp, but the words were muffled. 

Damnit, she was home. Yang let out a frustrated sigh. Best get this over with, then.

She rapped her knuckles against the door, making sure to use her metal arm for a louder knock. Hopefully Jason would hear that difference— and fix his tone before opening the door.

Silence. 

Then a sharp yell from a man cut short before the door creaked open. Jason filled the frame, arms crossed, body angled just enough to block Yang’s view inside.

“Yang.” 

“Jason.” She offered a tight smile. 

She tried to peer past him, catch a glimpse of Nessa, but Jason shifted every time she angled her head — subtle, but deliberate.

“There a reason you’re ‘ere?” he asked, flat and cold. No effort to be polite. No tempering his voice.

Just great. He was in one of those moods — and with Marla gone, Nessa didn’t have anyone to shield her at home this time.

Yang resisted the urge to clench her fist. Not yet.

“I think you know why I’m here,” she said, keeping her tone even, but cool. “You’re not the only one here with a kid. Some of them could really use meds for their fever, and a nice soup would do wonders.”

Jason didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just stared at her like she was an outsider insulting his way of life. 

“I preferred your mother,” he coldly stated after a few long seconds. He then spat on her face, a slow, deliberate motion, meant to insult, not just provoke. 

It hit her cheek and trailed down to her jaw. For a moment, she didn’t move—she expected something like this. 

Her breath was steady—too steady.

She wiped it away with the back of her hand—calm, mechanical—then looked up at him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Funny,” she said quietly. “I didn’t remember asking for your opinion.” 

Jason’s lip curled, shoulders squaring like he was ready to throw the first blow. The tension grew thicker, barely allowing the sound of small feet rushing up behind him to break through. 

“STOP IT!! She’s trying to help you!” Nessa called out from right behind him. Her voice sounded broken, like she’d been recently crying. 

Jason froze. Just for a second. 

His fists stayed clenched. So did Yang’s, watching him carefully, every inch of her coiled for what might come next. His chest heaved. He didn’t even look at Nessa—just flicked his eyes back for a moment. Barely.

“Please!” she said again, louder this time, voice sharper.

Jason’s brow furrowed. Something in him snapped.

“GO BACK INSIDE!” he roared, turning halfway toward her.

Nessa flinched, her small body recoiling as if bracing for a blow. Her eyes squeezed shut, but the tears still came—silent, relentless.

Jason froze.

His shoulders dropped, his expression cracked. Regret carved deep lines across his face—genuine, immediate, and raw. He knew. He knew exactly what he’d done. 

Yang saw it, too. And a part of her tried to hold onto that: that maybe he understood, maybe he hadn’t meant it to come out like that. Maybe he still had a grip on something decent inside.

But her fists stayed clench. Her body didn’t believe what her mind tried to rationalise. 

That fear—the kind that lived deep down, low, instinctual—whispering that men like Jason didn’t just raise their voice. 

They turned it into fists when no one else was watching.

Nessa ran further inside, her bare feet pattering down the hall before a bedroom door slammed shut. The silence after it hit like a brick wall.

Jason opened his mouth, trying to find the right words to say. But none escaped. All were stuck behind shame and years of unspoken regret. 

Not surprising.

He’d never been good with words. Not even when Marla was still around to soften his edges, to stop him before his voice turned to something else. 

Yang exhaled slowly, her voice low and flat. “You return the stock, no point arguing anymore. I’ll send Vernal to check in with you in a couple hours.” 

Jason slowly turned to her, no more fight left in his eyes. “Yeah…” Was all he could manage to say. Barely above a whisper. 

He glanced up at the kitchen, then at Nessa’s bedroom, staring at it for a few long moments. Jason turned back to Yang, his voice soft. “Could… Could you talk to her?”

Yang let out a sigh. That was probably a good idea. Nessa would be too raw for her dad—apology or not. 

She knocked lightly as she opened the door. 

“Hey,” she called gently as she peered inside.

Nessa was curled up on her bed, back facing the door, her blanket twisted around her like a shield. 

“Go away, dad!” She choked out, voice broken from crying. 

“It’s Yang,” she softly clarified. 

There was a beat of hesitation before Nessa peeked over her shoulder to check. “Oh...” She muttered, and turned back to the wall. 

The room felt thick, like it was holding its breath.

Yang hovered near the door for a moment, unsure where to exist in this space—standing felt too formal, sitting in the chair too distant. So she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. It didn’t feel quite right. But Nessa didn’t flinch. She didn’t say anything. 

Maybe that was permission. 

Yang cleared her throat. “Look… your dad, he—he loves you. I know he does.” Her voice wasn’t entirely steady, but she pushed through it. “He’s always trying to protect you. Even if sometimes he—“

“Hurts the tribe?” Nessa muttered, low and bitter.

Yang blinked. “Yeah. That.” 

She sighed, brushing her fingers over a frayed thread on the comforter. 

“Jason was a bandit long before he was your father. A lot of us were. It’s hard to unlearn what kept us alive, y’know?”

There was a pause. Nessa didn’t answer, but Yang could feel her listening—quiet, still, attentive in the way kids get when the truth finally sounds like something real. 

“You kids didn’t see what we did, how we survived. The ugly things we never talked about.” Yang’s voice lowered. “You just knew we left, and came back with loot and food.”

She let out a dry chuckle, though it felt forced. “When we came back covered head to toe in bruises and blood, you all thought we’d been ambushed by pack of Grimm on our way to the store.”

Behind her, Nessa made a small sound—half laugh, half breath. A sound born from the absurdity of once believing that. The ache of innocence lost too late. 

Yang let the silence settle before adding, softer now:

“He’s not all bad. Just… trying to find his way. Even if he gets lost along the way.”

She glanced sideways at Nessa, then looked down at her hands. Her fingers twisted a loose thread on the comforter. 

“That said… If you’d rather stay at mine. Just to get out of the storm until your mum gets back…”

Nessa didn’t answer right away. She stared at the wall, eyes distant. Yang couldn’t quite read her from this angle, not fully—but there was something heavy in her silence. Something that looked a lot like regret. 

Yang cleared her throat, and tried again. 

“You’d still get to see your dad. It won’t be—“

“I’ll do it,” Nessa said, cutting her off.

She sat up slowly, dragging the blanket with her. Then, without warning, she leaned into Yang and hugged her—arms stiff at first, hesitant, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed.

Yang froze. 

For half a second, she thought of Ruby. To the little girl she used to pull close after nightmares and on stormy nights. Nessa might be a couple years older, but the shape of the moment— the way they both quieted when Yang offered small comforts—was all the same. 

Instinct took over. 

Yang let her arm curl around the girl’s shoulder, careful, steady. She pulled her in—not tight, not suffocating. Just enough to say ‘I’ve got you.’

And for the first time in what felt like years, she believed it could be true.

“You’re ok, now,” Yang murmured.

It slipped out before she could stop it. A phrase from another life, for another little girl. Something she hadn’t said in years, but never really forgot.

After a long silence, just as Yang was about to shift away, Nessa whispered:

“He didn’t mean to scare me.”

Yang didn’t answer. She just nodded, slow. Understanding. Not excusing it—just…acknowledging the ache in the middle.

Then, quieter still:

“Can… Is it really ok? If I stay with you?” 

She pulled away enough to look up at Yang, eyes wide and braced—like she expected her to take it back. Like hope had to be tested.

Yang met her gaze head-on, steady and warm.

“Of course it is.” 

She offered a smile. The kind she hadn’t used in awhile. Not a smirk. Not a mask. The real one.

Nessa looked down, biting her lip—then smiled back. Small. Real.

“Just—just until my mum comes back,” she said. Her voice was lighter now. Not healed. But hopeful.

Nessa slowly stood, wiping the last of her tears with the back of her hand, then wandered toward her dresser and began rifling through it with a kind of focused distraction. Like maybe, if she kept moving, she wouldn’t fall apart again.

Yang’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably Marla, she figured—maybe calling ahead, maybe checking in. She pulled it out, thumb already hovering near “answer,” half-preparing to explain the shift in plans.

‘Blake calling’? 

Yang blinked at the screen, dumbfounded. The name stared back at her like it knew something she didn’t. It had barely been a few hours since she took Blake’s car. What the hell was she calling for?

She answered, stepping out of the room to give Nessa space to pack. And maybe have a bit of privacy with Blake. 

“Hello?” 

There was a pause. Then, hesitant and low:

“… Uh. Hi.”

Blake sounded as casual as an Ursine ordering a martini— forced, stiff, and clearly not in her natural environment.

Yang smirked faintly. “If this is about your sedan, I’ll save you the suspense—it’s not going to be ready until at least tomorrow.”

“No no no no no. It’s.. I just—fuck.” 

Yang let out a small chuckle. Letting Blake stammer for a moment longer.

“You know what? Never mind. This was stupid— I’m sorry. I’ll just—“

“Blake,” Yang interrupted. “I would like a drink.”

Blake stammered some more. Yang could practically imagine those red cheeks burning with embarrassment and regret. 

It was only when Yang let out a stifled chuckle that Blake managed to collect herself. The latter muttered something unintelligible into a pillow before coming back to the phone. 

“That’s—Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before,” Blake spewed out ashamedly. 

“Asked out your mechanic?” Yang teased. She could feel her own cheeks burn brightly. Thankfully Nessa was still packing—though Yang prayed to the Gods the walls weren’t paper thin. 

There was a pause on the line. 

Then:

“Well— this isn’t a date. Just a… a…. I don’t know what this is. But it’s not a date,” Blake insisted, her voice stumbling through the sentence. She tried to sound firm, but it came out more like she was trying to convince herself. “I’m—I’ve never—“

“Blake.” Yang said gently, cutting in again.

And just like that, the smile faltered.

She regretted the tease. The implication. She shouldn’t have pushed it. They barely knew each other. A few hours wasn’t enough to know if someone was safe—or if they’d be safe with you.

Yang had passed through more than a few towns where homosexuality was more than taboo—it was considered a sin. Towns where same-sex couples were bullied with slashed tires, graffitied slurs on a multitude of their properties, even broken windows in the worst of cases. 

She heard of couples being driven out of such towns. Having to start new lives elsewhere with new names just to breathe easy. 

One in particular always stuck with her—Coco and Velvet. Two women who’d been driven out of their hometown, forced to start over without any friends, without family. Yang had only known them briefly, but their kindness lingered. Their bravery had seared itself into her memory.

Back then, when Yang had only begun to question who she was—her sexuality—she feared the same judgement. The same exile. Not just from strangers, but from her own mother. 

Even now, years later, the weight of that fear hadn’t fully left her chest.

Kuroyiri wasn’t just a hiding place for her tribe.

It was also a fresh start. Be true to herself and to be accepted for it. 

And here was Blake—fragile, scared, unsure of herself. Another woman, who didn't know who she was yet.

And Yang had teased her. Like it was easy. 

Yang opened her mouth, guilt rising in her throat. “Look, if I made you uncomfortable—“

“No no. I’m sorry,” Blake interrupted, a little firmer now—still quiet, but with the kind of sharpness that came from long-kept wounds. “Dating is just… a touchy subject for me.”

There was a weight to her voice she hadn’t had before. A kind of sorrow that wasn’t loud, but deep—like grief left in the attic too long. Not regret, exactly. Something messier. Something unfinished.

A heavy silence stretched on. Neither woman knew what to say now. It wasn’t awkward so much as cautious. 

They sat in the silence together, the kind of quiet when you don’t want to lose the line. 

Then after a long pause: 

“So about that drink,” Blake said softly. “How about tomorrow?” 

There was a tremble in the offer—not quite fear, but uncertainty. Like she wasn’t used to offering anything she couldn’t take back.

Yang leaned against the wall, her voice warming. “Tomorrow sounds good,” she said gently. 

“Is that Pyrrha?” A voice asked teasingly from behind her. 

Yang nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned and gave Nessa a playful glare, even trying to shoo her with a wave of her hand. 

“That’s your ‘talking to Pyrrha’ face,” she grinned, then ducked into her bedroom before Yang could sass her back.

There was a soft giggle from the other end. Not mocking—just amused. And yet, Yang could tell there was curiosity behind it, too.

It was a strange thing, knowing the difference in her laughs already. Stranger still, to feel reminded of memories they’d never shared. 

“I’ll explain tomorrow,” Yang said, trying to brush it off as if it was no big deal. 

It didn’t feel proper to explain things over the phone. Even if she planned to keep it vague—no talk of them being a tribe, no details about Jason’s… antics. Those were best kept brief, if told at all. With any luck, vague language would be enough to satisfy Blake’s curiosity. At least for now.

“Oh I can’t wait,” Blake said, her voice shifting easily into teasing. “I’m on the edge of my seat in anticipation.” 

There was a kind of brightness that hadn’t been in her voice earlier. Maybe it came from the realisation she wasn’t the only one with a complicated life. A tale to spin. 

Yang smiled to herself, letting Blake’s teasing settle into the space between them. She could still hear the nerves under it—but the fear was gone. At least for now. 

“Edge of your seat, huh?” Yang mused, her voice just shy of playful.

She caught herself picturing it— Blake leaning in, eyes quiet with focus, reacting to every detail like it mattered. Like Yang mattered. It made her heart skip a few beats. 

“I’m already counting down the seconds,” Blake teased, voice light. Then, with mock drama: “Fifty-nine… fifty-eight…fifty-seven.”

“You’re insufferable,” Yang replied, unable to wipe the smile off her face. 

“I’m committed is what I am—fifty-six,” Blake added, mock-serious. 

“Are you two done flirting?” Nessa’s voice cut from the bedroom— half-restless, half smug. 

Yang let out a quiet groan.

“That’s my cue to leave,” she said, regretting it more than she expected. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Blake’s voice was soft. Hopeful, maybe. But Yang caught the thread of something underneath—something like longing, or maybe just the ache of getting off the phone too soon. 

The phone screen dimmed. Yang stood there for a second, just holding it, the last echo of Blake’s voice still warm in her ear. 

Then, from the bedroom—an exaggerated cough.

Yang slipped the phone into her pocket and nudged the door open. 

“There a reason you’re invested in my love life?” 

A pillow slammed into her chest before the sentence even finished.

Yang gasped at the horrors, one hand clutching her chest. 

“I was being so nice to you, and you dare attack me?! That’s it— no pizza for you tonight Missy!!” 

Nessa rolled her eyes and snorted, but the corner of her mouth twitched—just enough to say thank you, without the words. 

—-—————————————————————

Yang flicked on the bedroom light, making note of the worrying flicker. 

The spare bedroom was still mostly storage—an old shelf, a crooked chair she kept meaning to fix, and a few boxes filled with old parts that she swore might be salvageable. 

Nessa didn’t seem to mind. 

She threw her pillow onto the bed and collapsed face-first after it, limbs sprawled like someone who just crossed the finish line.

“Mmphhff,” she muttered into the mattress. 

“Righ,” Yang said, crossing her arms with a smirk. “My ‘mattress’ is a little rusty, but I think it roughly translates to ‘Thank you O’ Kind and Gracious Leader, Provider of snacks and pizza’. I get that right?”

Nessa turned her head, just enough to breathe. “Thank you O’ Kind and etc etc.” 

She gave Yang another genuine smile—small but real—then promptly buried her face back into the mattress.

Yang figured she could use some time alone. Settle into her room, maybe patter around a bit and rifle through Yang’s stuff. 

A few hours passed. Yang made a quick round through the camp, her “leader face” firmly in place, and had a chat with Vernal about Jason—short, tense, and grating in the kind of way that left her more annoyed than when she started. No fault of Vernal. She even agreed with Yang’s plan, thought it was for the best.

Meanwhile, Nessa discovered a box of Nora’s old comics that had been ‘accidentally left behind’, and decided the corner of her sofa was her new sacred space. Only half-registering Yang’s return—until she noticed the can of coke being waved above her like an offering from the gods. 

Nessa blinked, glanced over Yang, then took the can without a word—cracking it open like it was part of a ritual they’d been doing for years.

Yang dropped her keys on the kitchen table, a short distance away from the sofa, kicked off her boots, and stretched her back until it popped. 

“Dinner?” She asked. 

“What’ve you got?” Nessa called back, not sparing another glance from her comic. 

Yang opened her fridge, and stared inside like the leftovers were mocking her.

“How does four-day old chili sound?”

“Like it needs to be in the bin,” Nessa said, face twisting in disgust. 

Yang let out a small snort. She had a point. 

“Microwave lasagne?” 

Nessa hesitated, then shrugged.

“I suppose…. Anything else?”

“Picky, aren’t we?” Yang shot back, already scanning the fridge again. 

“Sadly no. I really need to stock up…”

She didn’t turn when she heard soft footsteps behind her. Nessa appeared at her side, peering into the fridge over Yang’s shoulder. 

“That’s your microwave lasagna?” She pointed at a box near the back. Even the packaging looked ancient. “I’m trying to survive, thanks.” 

Nessa leaned a little closer, then suddenly stopped. Her expression faltered—barely, but enough for Yang to catch it. 

Yang closed the fridge halfway, the cold air lingering between them.

“You ok?” She asked, eyes flickering towards her. 

“I’m fine.” The answer came out faster than expected. Brittle at the edges. She sighed, almost frustrated with herself, and wiped away a tear that hadn’t quite formed.

“He—I dunno, it’s stupid.”

Yang didn’t press. She leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Doesn’t sound stupid.” 

Nessa shrugged, her voice low. “I tried cooking once. Had to do it alone—Mom was away and dad was passed out, drunk.” 

A beat of silence, Nessa’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I failed, obviously.” 

She let out a short, hollow laugh, trying to brush it off. “He didn’t let me near the stove after that. Been making microwaved crap since—Oh Fu—“

She cut herself off, flinching slightly. “I mean—Sorry. I didn’t mean to swear,”

Yang raised an eyebrow. “Swearings not a felony here. Just a misdemeanour. Three strikes and you’re out, young lady.” 

Nessa blinked, then gave a small, stifled laugh. “So I’m already down to two?”

“Yup,” Yang said, grabbing a baking pan from the drawer underneath the oven.“And there’s only one way to get chances back,” 

Nessa tilted her head. “What’s that?” 

“Today?” Yang said, reaching into the freezer. “You have to be in charge of Operation Pizza.” 

She pulled out two pizzas like sacred relics, then ceremonially handed them to Nessa with exaggerated reverence.

Nessa stared at the boxes.“Operation pizza?”

“Top secret mission. High-risk, high-reward.”

“Can we rename it to Burnt Charcoal?” Nessa stared dumbfounded at Yang’s oven for a second. 

“You’re my best soldier, Commander Nessa,” Yang said solemnly. “You’ll be highly decorated if we survive this.” 

Nessa snorted but took the boxes like they actually mattered. “So.. Do I salute the oven first… or?”

“You preheat it to 200° Celsius, brave soldier.”

“Are…are you sure? What about 300?”

Yang let out a slow, exaggerated sigh.

“We’re doomed,” she muttered, still smiling.

Thirty minutes later, the kitchen smelled like victory-cheese and slightly burnt crust. 

Nessa sat at the table, quickly eating her pizza like it was sent down from the heavens themselves. 

“Victory is oh so sweet, isn’t it?” Yang teased, waving a slice of her pizza in front of her like a banner. 

Nessa didn’t look up. “You’re lucky I’ve got the better toppings.” 

“Did you just threaten to steal your CO’s food?!” Yang smirked, pulling her slice out of reach.

“As Head of this operation,” Nessa said, mouth half-full. “I think I technically outrank you?” 

Yang gasped. “Mutiny,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Nessa to hear. And roll her eyes at. 

—-—————————————————————

Yang adjusted her jacket in the mirror for the hundredth time. This was dumb. It wasn’t a date. Just a drink. With someone she’d only met yesterday. Who’d called her out of nowhere and maybe—just maybe—sounded nervous herself.

She was overthinking it.

“Going out?” Nessa called from the sofa, legs tucked up, another one of Nora’s comics in hand.

“Yeah,” Yang said. “Won’t be long.”

“Bring back some actual food,” Nessa muttered, flipping the page.

“Hey, don’t push it. Operation Pizza was a complete success. You were officially retired with honours.”

Nessa rolled her eyes, but she glanced up at Yang anyway. Her voice dropped a little.

“Can… Is it okay if I go see Finn today?”

Yang shrugged, casual. “Yeah, course. So long as he doesn’t kick you out himself.”

Nessa grinned, kicking her feet in excitement. “He likes me. He shows me all kinds of things as he works.” 

Yang leaned against the wall, smirking. “Oh yeah? Like what?” 

“Ammo,” Nessa said proudly. “He’s been trying to get Dust to not explode the gun.”

Yang snorted. “That does tend to be a problem.”

“The Dust doesn’t react right when it’s fired,” Nessa explained, shifting in her seat a little. “He thinks we’re using too much, but he hasn’t found the right balance yet. Too little and it’s just a normal bullet. Too much and…”

She mimicked an explosion with her hands. “Kaboom.”

Yang snorted. “Sounds like he’s making progress.”

Nessa shrugged. “He calls it a good day when he doesn’t lose skin. You’d have a hard time convincing him he made progress, though.” 

“Still,” she added. “He let me pull the string a few times—the one that lets us shoot outside of explosion distance.”

She leaned back like it was no big deal. “That’s the closest thing to a promotion in his workshop.”

Yang let out a snort, a fondness curling at the edge of her smile. She remembered those days—Finn muttering to himself, hands blackened with soot, handing out tools to whatever kid hovered nearby. So long as they listened, and wore two or three layers or goggles, he let them help. Experimenting. Teaching without meaning to.

“I’m off. Try not to invent a new kind of explosive or rig a shrapnel trap. Not before I come back,” Yang remarked, ruffling Nessa’s hair—more out of instinct than anything malicious. 

Nessa grinned, but there was real warmth in it now. “I’ll try to wait, but I’m not promising anything.”

—-—————————————————————

Yang stood outside the motel door, trying to work up the courage to knock. 

She’d faced Grimm. Rival bandits. Even once stood through an inspection with two crates of contraband Dust in her truck. But knocking on this door? Somehow, that toppled them all.

“It’s not a date,” she muttered under her breath, adjusting her jacket for what had to be the millionth time. “Just a drink. You’re just two adults grabbing a non-romantic drink. Nothing weird about that.”

She stared at the door a moment longer.

Then—finally—lifted her hand. 

And knocked.

Her knuckles barely landed when the door swung open.

Blake stood there, clearly trying—and failing—to hide the smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

Yang could already feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

Blake leaned casually against the doorframe. “Took you long enough. Was starting to wonder if you’d run.” Her smile widened. “How’d you put it? Two adults just getting a non-romantic drink?”

Yang opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Okay, yeah, I deserve that.” She ran a hand through her hair, trying to laugh it off.

Blake stepped aside, inviting Yang in with a wave. 

She stepped in, eyes flickering around the modest motel room. It was cleaner than she expected, hardly touched. Even the beds was freshly made. The only sign of life was a faint smell of tea hanging in the room. 

“Looks like you had fun,” she remarked, giving her a teasing smirk. 

“I try,” Blake remarked, sitting on a bed. 

Yang chuckled under her breath, then stepped forward and dropped a worn duffel bag by the foot of the bed with a soft thump. 

“Figured you’d want this back,” she said softly, half-amused. “Don’t worry, I didn’t rifle through your knickers or anything.” She held up both hands in mock innocence.

Blake arched an eyebrow, but her lips twitched. “That’s very comforting.”

She stared at the bag longer than necessary, face dropping for a second. When she met Yang’s eyes as the latter sat on the opposing bed, her smile came back. Though it felt… different. Like a mask, almost perfectly made, lacking all happiness. 

“So… Drinks?” Blake asked, raising an eyebrow. “Are we going to a bar?”

Yang shrugged, unsure of the exact plan. “Maybe we can get some from the stores, have ‘em here?”

Blake’s smile stayed, nodding along to that plan. But Yang wasn’t fooled, there was distance behind it. Habit, probably—like armour you forgot you’re still wearing. 

“I… Probably shouldn’t be seen by a lot of people.” Blake turned away, staring at her duffle bag again as if to remind herself of her situation. 

Yang nodded, rubbing her chin in thought. She thought Blake might want that. Still felt strange hearing it said aloud.

“Does the clerk count?” Yang teased half-heartedly, expecting Blake to blow her off. 

Silence.

“I suppose they won’t count,” Blake breathed, trying to sound amused, curling her lips into a smile. But she didn’t sound amused. Her fingers started tapping incessantly on the bed. 

Yang watched the tapping. She didn’t call it out, just filed it away—like the way Blake’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Alright,” Yang said after a beat, careful with her tone. “We’ll make it quick. No one will see us. Not even the clerk.” 

Blake huffed a small laugh—just a breath, but it was real. “So we’re going to steal now?”

Yang huffed her own laugh, realising what she said. “Yeah I suppose so. So pull that hood over your bow…” Yang vaguely pointed at the accessory—almost aggressively neat—sitting proudly on top of Blake’s head. “We don’t want the cops to find us later.”

Blake smirked as she reached up, tugging the hood loosely over the bow. “Mechanic and master criminal. Is there anything you ‘can’t’ do?”

“I try to be well-rounded,” Yang said with mock pride, opening the door for her. 

Blake mock bowed on her way out, a ghost of a real smile forming on her lips. 

The afternoon air greeted them with a dry breeze—the kind that stirred dust but didn’t cool the skin. Yang shoved her hands into her pockets, falling into step beside Blake. 

They didn’t speak much on their walk to the store. Just a bit of aimless small talk. It wasn’t awkward exactly, but quiet in the way two people got when they weren’t sure if speaking would ruin something still settling.

Inside the store, Yang had just begun perusing the cheap whiskey when Blake pulled a bottle from the cooler. 

Yang let out a dazed laugh. “It looks like… I don’t know what that looks like, but it sure isn’t your typical drink.” She took the bottle and spun it to read the label. “Coastal ghost? What kind of drink is it?”

Blake hesitated. “It’s… it’s from Menagerie. It’s a coconut and pineapple slush with a spirit—vodka, I think?”

“You had me at vodka,” Yang remarked, putting it in their basket. 

“That was the last thing I said,” Blake retorted, shaking her head in disbelief.

Yang gave a half-shrug. “Still counts. Besides, I’m not one to turn down fruity drinks.” 

“Really? You? You strike me as the ‘cheapest whiskey you can find’, and proud of it.”  Blake eyed the two bottles of whiskey Yang had in the basket, an eyebrow raised. 

Yang laughed it off, giving another half-shrug. “I’m a woman of many drinks, but I can never deny my true calling.” 

Blake rolled her eyes but smiled again. She paused for a few seconds, spacing out slightly before meeting Yang’s gaze.

“You ever been?”

Yang shook her head. “Closest I got was delivery to one of the few ports with ships headed there. Heard the beaches are nice. The Faunus are lucky.” Yang gave a half-laugh, imagining what those beaches could be like—constant partying, drunken teens, bonfires, someone singing off-key while someone else dragged out a guitar. The kind of life she’d known with her tribe. 

“Yeah…” Blake’s gaze drifted again. “Lucky…” She tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve, pulling them up higher as her smile faded—eyes softening with a quiet kind of sorrow. Regret, maybe.

Yang caught the shift, but didn’t press. She lifted the basket with a flourish and nodded to the next aisle. “We should get snacks. If I learnt anything, it’s that alcohol goes great with crisps.”

Blake laughed—short, but genuine. “You must be an expert.” 

“Years of research,” Yang expressed proudly, leading Blake to the crisps. “All to find the perfect partner for every beverage!!” She added. 

Blake gave her a skeptical glance. “And what goes best with Coastal Ghost?”

Yang tapped her chin thoughtfully, surveying the shelves with comical seriousness. “Salt and vinegar crisps!” She said at last, grabbing a couple bags. “It’ll balance out all that sweetness with saltiness and tartness. Might even forget we’re drinking fruit punch for adults.” 

Blake nodded along, understanding perfectly. “You truly are an expert.”

With snacks and bottles in hand, they left. Falling back into that easy quietness on their way back. Blake walked a little closer, an easy-going smile on her lips. 

Back in the motel room, Blake flopped onto a bed, pulling off her hood. 

“So,” Yang said, setting down the bag by Blake’s feet.“You got any drinking traditions you’d like to share? Or should we just white knuckle it?” 

Blake slowly sat up, grabbing the plastic cups from the bag. Her bow slightly askew, and she made no move to fix it. It twitched again—Yang wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just a draft. She tried not to stare. 

“I…No. Sorry,” she breathed, handing a cup to Yang.

That earned a pause. Just long enough for the weight to settle between them. 

Yang nodded quietly, pouring Coastal Ghost in both cups. 

“Well how about a toast?” Yang raised her cup, waiting to see if Blake would reciprocate. 

“What to?” Blake mused, meeting Yang’s eyes, even raising her cup a little. 

“To right now—messy and weird. May tomorrow surprise us, but tonight? We drink with friends.”

Blake tapped her cup against Yang’s and in one fluid motion, downed half. Better than Yang at least, she barely got a gulp in before having to stop, coughing like it betrayed her. “How in the hell is this so sweet?!”

Blake couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing, full and unrestrained, turning red from amusement. 

Yang wiped her mouth dramatically with the back of her hand, grimacing like a soldier fresh off the battlefield. 

“I fix your car and this is how you thank me? With diabetes?!” 

That only made Blake laugh harder. 

After collecting herself, Blake leaned sideways on her bed, resting her cup on her knee, swirling it round playfully. 

“You ever played Never have I ever?” She asked, like it was casual—shrugging it off like it was no big deal. But there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes that said otherwise. 

Yang raised a brow. She pretended to consider it but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. 

“Well, since you proposed the game…” she said, tipping her cup towards Blake. “I’m guessing you’ve  already got a question in mind?” 

Blake took a swig of her drink—probably for courage—then met Yang’s gaze head-on. 

Surprisingly steady. No flickering glances to the door, no counting exits, no pebble to study. Just quiet, sharp confidence. 

“Alright then. Never have I ever,” she began, pausing dramatically. “Lied about my age to sneak in somewhere.”

Yang took a massive gulp. Grimacing the instant the taste hit her. She wiped dramatically again, refusing to acknowledge the quiet amusement radiating off Blake.

“Wanted to play poker in town once, there were a few sketchy guys hosting but being sixteen I didn’t care. I just wanted to impress my mum, show that I could hustle ‘em big time.”

“And? Did you?” Blake didn’t let up, her curiosity was insatiable.

Yang winced, holding up two fingers. “Fleeced two of them for all they had. Third caught on, but instead of calling me out, he turned it on me and got everything back for his friends.”

Blake tried—really hard—to hold back her laughter. “Oof. And your mum? She ever find out?” 

“Oh she did. But she wasn’t mad. Disappointed sure, the guys were loaded, they basically had money coming out their ears. But…” 

Yang paused, remembering that day. It put a smile on her lips. “She came back a few hours later, a few thousand Lien richer—and with a lesson: never try to fleece dickbags like them.”

Blake sipped on her drink, smiling faintly. “My parents would have had a heart attack if I so much as looked at a poker table.”

Yang snorted. “Then you missed out. You learn a lot of things in poker!” She sounded proud of it, waving her cup in emphasis. 

“Like reading people?” Blake half-teased. 

“And how to spot the local dickbags!” Yang emphasised that last word. 

Blake let the silence hang for a moment, nodding lightly—thoughtful, maybe.

Then she gave Yang a daring smirk. “Alright, your turn to ask.”

“Never have I ever…” Yang paused, then grinned wickedly. “Thrown up in a moving car.”

Blake groaned, then drank. “Not my finest moment. My… Ex never forgave me for that.”

Yang raised an eyebrow, voice still teasing but gentler now. “Well, least you’re not with him anymore.”

Blake groaned, tipping back the last of her drink. “Don’t get me started.” 

Yang considered asking more, but thought better of it. An interesting tale like hers would need more drinks to share. She reached lazily for the bottle and poured them both a refill with a splash, the sweet wafting up and hitting her like a wall of diabetic regret.

“Alright, round two.” Blake shot up out of bed, shifting to face Yang properly. Her spare hand tapped lightly against the bed—rhythmic, quiet, constant. 

“Never have I ever…” she paused, letting the silence stretch, her eyes narrowing with mock challenge. “Cried during a movie!” 

Yang gasped, clutching her chest in mock-offence. “Wow! Just trying to air all my embarrassing secrets, are we?”

Blake shrugged, innocent as can be. “Embarrassment for embarrassment. Fair’s fair.” 

Yang narrowed her eyes at her, then groaned in defeat as she took a sip. “It was that old apocalypse movie—the one with that scientist, the empty city, and his dog.” 

She sighed, shaking her head. 

“That damned, brave mutt. Saved the guy from an infected. My thirteen year-old self just bawled their eyes out.”

Blake’s eyes softened, though there still was a hint of mockery in them. “So you do have a soft side under all that bravado.”

Yang grumbled half-heartedly, pointing a finger. “You say that like you’re any better. We both know that dog deserved better!”

Blake shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Never seen it.” 

Yang gasped in mock-horror. “Well we have to see it now! I can’t go on without knowing if you’ll cry as much as I did!”

Yang grabbed the ancient remote from the nightstand, giving it a few firm whacks when it refused to respond to her clicks. “Let’s hope this dinosaur can stream.”

The screen crackled to life with a flicker and a low hum, like it had been dragged out of a tomb. 

“Looks like it struggles with the concept of light,” Blake replied, deadpanned.

Yang smirked as she finally found the right menu. “Well it’ll have to struggle. We're too determined now!” 

“WE’RE determined?” Blake teased, raising an eyebrow. 

“And,” Yang continued, blatantly ignoring the question. “We have the perfect snacks and drinks—Coastal ghost excluded, obviously.”

Blake rolled her eyes, then took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink—all while keeping steady steady eye contact with Yang, pure mockery in her gaze. 

Yang shook her head in disbelief, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Your sweet tooth is ridiculous. Guess that’s why you like me.” 

Yang downed her drink in a fluid motion, trying to keep her wincing to a minimum. 

“Blargh!” It slipped out anyway.

Blake burst out laughing again, loud and unguarded, her body shaking with it as she fell back against the mattress. 

Yang smirked as she wiped her mouth, lifting her feet onto the bed to properly face the tv. “I think I’m officially done with Coastal ghost!”

Blake turned her head to glance at her, still catching her breath. “It’s your own fault for drinking it. No one told you to.”

“Peer pressure,” Yang teased, sticking her tongue out at her. “I wanted to impress my not-date!”

Blake lifted her cup in respect. “Well colour me impressed. Faired better than most huma—-“

She stopped, her face turning ghostly pale. 

Yang raised an eyebrow, the playful tilt of her mouth fading. “Blake?”

She was frozen—eyes locked, not quite on Yang, not quite past her. Shoulders tensed. Jaw set. Like she’d been caught in the middle of a nightmare with no words to explain it.

Then, all at once, Blake shot up from the bed.

She grabbed her duffle bag with shaking hands, muttering a string of apologies under her breath. She barely made it three steps before Yang caught her by the shoulder.

“Blake?”

Just her name—gentle, not harsh—but Blake flinched at the contact.

Yang let go instantly, raising her hands in surrender. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

It didn’t ease the tremble in Blake’s shoulders. She stood there, braced like she expected something worse. Eyes down. Mouth shut. Completely still, except for her hands clenching around the strap of her bag.

Yang’s voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. “Are… are you okay?”

A nod—tiny. Almost imperceptible.

“You can tell me. Whatever it is.” Yang started to reach for her shoulder again, slower this time—deliberate. Her hand hovered just a breath away.

Blake flinched again. A small gasp escaped her.

Yang pulled her hand back and quietly tucked them into her pockets.

Then, without another word, Blake hesitantly stepped forward—into Yang’s space. 

No warning. No buildup. 

She just pressed her face into Yang’s chest, shoulders trembling as quiet sobs began to escape. She didn’t raise her arms to hug—she just stood there, clutching her bag like it was the only thing keeping her upright, breaking silently into pieces. 

Yang didn’t breathe for a second. Her heart kicked against her ribs, breaking into pieces itself. But she didn’t move, didn’t ask questions. She let it happen. 

Slowly, gently, she lifted her hands—hovering over Blake’s back, unsure—then let them settle. One behind her shoulder. The other lower, careful. And pulled her in. 

She held her. Not tightly—just enough to say she wasn’t going anywhere. 

“You’re ok,” Yang whispered, barely audible. “You’re ok.” 

Blake didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. 

Minutes passed. Long, quiet minutes filled only by the hum of the motel fridge and the distant rattle of a car passing by outside.

Eventually, Blake pulled back a little—not completely, just enough to breathe on her own. One hand rose, fingers lightly tracing the tear-stains on Yang’s shirt, as if trying to gather her thoughts from the fabric itself.

Yang let her go gently, then nodded toward the bed. “Want to sit?”

Blake nodded. Barely. Still sniffling as Yang guided her down.

They sat side by side. Blake leaned just slightly toward her—close, but half a breath from touching. Not quite ready. Not quite pulled away either.

She was the first to speak.

“It’s not for fashion.”

Yang turned her head. “What isn’t?”

Blake looked away, wiping her face with her sleeve. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Blake exhaled shakily. “N-No. I want to. It’s just…” She paused for a second, fingers tapping away at the mattress

. 

A beat. 

“My bow. It’s… It’s not some weird fashion icon.”

Yang glanced at it, how it seemed to flatten a little on its own. It twitched again. 

Blake pulled away a little, enough to reach for her bow. She pulled on a knot, undoing it and taking it off completely.

And there they were. 

Two soft feline ears. Twitching slightly with every sound. 

Yang couldn’t help but think they were beautiful. 

Yang smiled. “Huh. That explains the twitching.”

Blake lightly smacked her stomach. Though she tried to look serious with burrowed frows and flattened ears, there was a ghost of a smile on her lips. 

“I’m trying to be serious here,” she muttered. 

“And they’re seriously cute—ow!” Yang winced, rubbing her forehead where Blake flicked her, but still smiling.

“I know what you’re doing.” Blake looked down into her hands, staring at her bow. She was poorly hiding her smile, and the blushing. 

Yang leaned back a little, a devilish smirk on her lips. “And what’s that?”

“You’re trying to make me feel better,” Blake said, looking back up at Yang. “Thank you.” 

Yang took Blake’s hand, softly rubbing her thumb into the back of it. 

“Can I ask you something?” Yang dropped the devilish smirk for something softer. 

Blake nodded—unsure but ready. 

“Do you feel safe?”

Blake froze. 

Her breath caught. She looked down at the floor, ears twitching faintly as her smile faded. 

“I… I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was thin. Fragile. She didn’t look up—like meeting Yang’s eyes would make it all too real. 

Yang didn’t push. She just nodded. “That’s fair.” Her voice was soft. No judgement. Just understanding. 

A silence stretched out between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just… there. Like the space between words in a sentence that hadn’t finished yet. 

Then, Yang spoke again, gentler this time. “I don’t know about a lot of things either.” She rubbed the back of her neck, a soft breath leaving her. “But…maybe we don’t have to have all the answers right away?”

Blake nodded slightly, wiping at her eyes again. Her voice came smaller this time, but steadier. 

“I used to think that hiding made me safer,” Blake admitted. “That if I just kept running, then no one could hurt me. No one could find me.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers curling slightly into her lap. 

“But it didn’t help for those nights where I couldn’t sleep. Just… staring at the door. Knife in hand. Waiting.”

Yang didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She just listened.

Blake swallowed hard. 

“I’m tired, Yang.” Her voice cracked. 

“Of running. Of hiding. Of waking up in places I don’t recognise and wondering if I’ll wake up the next morning…or if this is all just some nightmare I can’t wake up from.”

Tears streamed freely now, and she didn’t bother to hide them. 

“I’m tired of surviving.” 

Yang scooted closer, just enough for their shoulders to touch. 

“Then for tonight,” Yang grabbed the bottle of Coastal Ghost and waved it around. “How about we live?” 

Blake let out a quiet, watery laugh. It was fragile, but real. She wiped her face again with her sleeve, eyes red and puffy but no longer spilling over.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she murmured.

Yang grinned. “But it worked didn’t it?”

Blake didn’t answer right away. She stared at the bottle Yang was holding, watching the liquid swirl under the dim motel light. Then she reached out and took it from her, pouring it to the brim. 

“I said we could live but… damn,” Yang teased, but it was already too late. She started drinking. 

Blake didn’t stop until she’d taken a long, defiant swig, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

Yang stared at her, impressed. “Okay, I’ll admit. That was bold. Slightly terrifying. But bold.”

Blake leaned against the headboard, letting her head fall to the side to look at Yang. “Feels like I’ve earned a little recklessness.”

Yang raised her cup in salute, now filled with whiskey. “To earned recklessness.”

This time, they drank together. 

They shared stories from childhood—some embarrassing, some absurd. Blake’s laugh somehow became louder and more genuine with every round, raw in its honesty.

And for Yang?

She simply lived.

In that room with cheap lights and cracked walls, no past chasing her, no future waiting outside—just a warm drink, a quiet friend, and a few stolen hours of peace.