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gideonisms · 3 months ago

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modern au meet-cute where gideon calls harrow her nicknames because she doesn't know harrow's name and is too afraid to ask

all right so I struggled to come up with nicknames, but hopefully the meet-cute bit makes up for it. This one also got kind of long

The girl is sitting cross-legged on Gideon’s favorite dryer in the laundry room when Gideon first sees her. Her first thought is: what the hell, now how am I supposed to dry my clothing? It’s not that they don’t have other dryers here. It’s just that the others either leave her clothing too damp, or smell extensively of wet dog. And Gideon has things to do.

Her next thought is: what the hell, she’s perfect.

Because the girl is perfect. Before this, Gideon couldn’t say she had one particular type, but as she looks at the miniature thrift-store goth in front of her, with her five different layers of black clothing, huge fuckoff boots, and grown-out buzz cut, she has to admit that the effect is both intimidating and extremely cool. That it’s working for the girl in a way it never worked for Gideon back when she’d had a brief goth phase.

The girl’s eyes are closed, body still. As though she’s waiting for something. Her lashes are dark against her cheeks.

“Um,” Gideon says eloquently. The girl does not respond. “Hello?” Nothing. Does she have earbuds in?

Gideon steps closer, and that’s when the girl’s body sways forwards, right into Gideon’s waiting chest. She smells kind of sweaty, and she’s warm as a fever. Gideon’s heart starts pounding. Is the girl dying? Gideon doesn’t know how to fix that.

“Hello, Morticia? Can you wake up for me?”

The girl’s eyes blink open. They’re extremely large and dark, and that’s probably why Gideon just stares down at her stupidly. But then they focus on Gideon. The girl’s eyebrows draw down immediately, and she shoves Gideon back, almost toppling off the dryer in her haste to get down on her own.

“Leave me alone!” she says.

“Okay. Sorry, it just seemed like you were having some kind of cri—”

“I am fine,” the girl says very definitely. She grabs her phone, which is lying on the table in the middle of the room, and hastily exits before Gideon can even ask her name. She leaves a bunch of cheap, badly-dyed black jeans in Gideon’s favorite dryer, too. Well, damp clothing it is.

At the coffee shop where Gideon works, she’s having a normal one. She greets the usual crowd from the university—there’s a twinge of pain in her knee whenever she thinks about the soccer scholarship she’ll never get there now. Anyway, the girls from the university are always very nice to Gideon. They ask her about herself, how long she’s worked here, what she likes to do on the weekends. Sometimes they look at her askance but later slide their numbers to her on a napkin. One even tried to get Gideon to come to a church function; Gideon thinks she would have killed it at the potluck, but she had a workout scheduled with Cam that afternoon. The guys either call her “dude” or don’t speak to her except to order.

This is the type of day Gideon has come to expect, and everything runs along the same well-worn track, with a brief appearance from Pyrrha, who turns on cheesy love songs on the store radio and shamelessly flirts with every mom who comes in until Gideon can only roll her eyes and tell her to stop stealing all the tips.

Even then, Gideon’s heart isn’t really in it. She has the vague sense that she’s running through the motions, living the life of the person named Gideon Nav because that’s the one she knows how to live.

Until around six PM, when The Girl walks in. Gideon had been starting to wonder if she’d dreamed the whole encounter, if her mind had conjured a beautiful goth girl out of sheer boredom. But no, there she is in the flesh.

She doesn’t look like she’s doing any better than last time, if Gideon’s being honest. Her boots are caked in mud, and she struggles to open the door. As she approaches the counter, she shivers even though the day is barely chilly. This time she is wearing headphones, big boxy ones with a visible wire that she keeps twisting through her fingers. She takes them off when she steps up in front of Gideon, distracted.

“Oh hey! You’re that goth bitch from before! The one on my dryer.”

The girl’s gaze immediately sharpens. Gideon could swear that she flushes darker.

“What are you doing here?” she snaps.

“Uh.” Gideon looks around. “I work here?”

“It’s not your dryer. It belongs to the complex.”

“Yes it is! It’s the one I always use. It’s my dryer.”

Gideon is beginning to think this whole conversation was a mistake.

“Well,” says the girl slowly. She’s staring Gideon down like she might kill and eat her, which is kind of doing it for Gideon. “When I’m sitting on it, it is in fact, my dryer. You can find your own.”

“Whatever you say, dryer despot.”

“Do you normally talk to customers like this?”

“Lord of the laundry.”

At that, the girl gives her one more withering glare, which suggests that not only is Gideon beneath her, but that she can’t even deign to continue a conversation with such an imbecile, then sweeps away. But not out the door, as Gideon expects. Instead, she sits down at a table.

For about ten minutes, she glares at the table like she wants it dead too. Or maybe she’s spacing out?

Gideon starts to ask her if she’s going to order anything, because at this point, she’s a bit worried the girl might pass out again, but then the girl pulls out her phone and starts typing rapidly. After about thirty minutes of this mysterious typing, she stands up and exits the building without fanfare.

Gideon doesn’t know what her problem is. But more importantly, she still doesn’t know her name.

“No, hang on,” Gideon says. “You’ve lost me again. I’m seeing an ashwaganda and I’m seeing a thething, but I’m not seeing them both together.”

“L-Theanine,” Palamedes says over the phone. “It’s a supplement meant to improve focus. Your grocery store might not have it, I just thought I’d ask.”

“No, I’ll keep looking,” Gideon says, although it’s late enough the people at the store might kick her out soon. “How is Dulcie doing, anyway? Does she need some soup too? Some chicken nuggets? I don’t know what people like when they’re sick.”

Palamedes might be laughing. “Perks of being Gideon Nav,” he says drily. “Anyway, it’s just the flu this time. She had it all checked. But you know how she is. She’ll want to keep working on the dissertation through it. Says she knows what being at death’s door feels like, and it isn’t this.”

Gideon hums sympathetically. She doesn’t really know what to say. She doesn’t have a lot of experience either being sick, dying, or caring for people who are sick. Recent events notwithstanding.

Gideon did almost die once, as a baby, but she hardly thinks that counts. What’s a little carbon monoxide poisoning when faced with a future strong, handsome lesbian? Although sometimes, she thinks it might be the reason she wakes sad for no reason in the early hours of the morning, as though her body is remembering the time everything almost ended.

“Oh, Cam wants me to relay a message. She says she’s going to, and I quote ‘kick your ass at Scrabble this weekend.’”

“I have work,” Gideon says absently. “I switched shifts with the new girl. She had to take off to take her weird dog to the vet.”

Palamedes is saying something about future plans, a topic Gideon has always struggled with, and Gideon gets this feeling again, like she’s gone missing in her own life.

And there in front of her, like an omen, The Girl appears. She just rounds the corner with a boxcutter in hand, running her finger along the catch over and over rhythmically. Her eyes are huge and dark and unfocused. Somehow, she looks more real than everything around her, like a dark ink blot over an aging photo.

In her other hand is a small box of cosmetics. They’re not in the aisle for cosmetics.

“Oh,” Gideon says, “It’s you.”

And then she stares stupidly. The girl seriously doesn’t look good—she’s had an air of malnourishment any time Gideon has seen her, but today, she’s practically swaying on her feet. On one side, her eyeliner is jagged. Gideon can’t tell if it was intentional.

“Yes,” Palamedes says on the other end of the line, baffled. “It’s still me. Does Thursday work, because Cam has clinicals on—”

“Look, I’m going to have to call you back, Sex Pal,” she says, and hangs up.

“Sex Pal?” the girl says in apparent disgust. “Is that really what you call your hookups?”

“Hang on—it’s not like that!” But Gideon’s protests are futile. In front of her, the strangest person Gideon knows, this unlikely bit of theatre in a world that has largely abandoned the stage, tips gently into a shelf of protein powders—and then she passes out.

When the girl comes to, it hasn’t been more than ten seconds. Gideon caught her before she could do any real damage. She wonders if she should call an ambulance. She’s halfway to shifting the girl’s weight so she can reach for her phone again, looking around for any other employees, when she feels a surprisingly strong grip on her arm.

The girl’s gaze snaps up to Gideon’s face, then to her arms, then to the tank top she’s wearing, which says #shredicated underneath the slogan for Gideon’s gym.

She narrows her eyes in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“I’m dedicated to shredding. Why else would you keep passing out in my arms?”

The girl immediately tries to sit up, but loses her battle with gravity.

“Okay, seriously,” Gideon says. “I’m calling the ambulance. You don’t seem okay.”

The girl’s grip tightens, her short, black-painted nails digging into Gideon’s forearm.

“You will not call the ambulance, moron. Why do you think I’m working here? Does it look like I can afford to miss the rest of my shift?”

“Not really,” Gideon admits. “But it kind of seems like you’re about to miss the rest of your life, so.”

She digs the phone out of the pocket of her shorts. On her lap, the girl twitches in a futile attempt to grab it from her. Gideon puts her hand around the girl’s wrist to hold her back, and holy shit, it’s so easy to wrap her fingers around the whole thing. The girl’s pulse pounds. Her wrist is way too warm. But she stops struggling. She just looks up at Gideon.

“All right, my discount duchess. We’re gonna get you taken care of.”

For a second, Gideon thinks the girl is going to protest again. But she just says, nonsensically,

“Harrow.”

“What?” Gideon pauses in the act of dialing.

“That’s my name. Harrow.” She points to her nametag, which actually says Harrowhark in a slanting, hurried script.

Gideon forgets to dial. She forgets everything about their surroundings. Because now the girl, Harrow, is blinking up at her with something like trust. It makes Gideon stupid. She feels like she’s holding the life of some very small, very helpless baby bird in her hands, and she’s terrified she’s going to fuck it all up.

“Don’t call the ambulance. Please. Just—I know what this is. I need—” She looks away to glare at the side of a protein powder cannister as though it’s personally offended her. Gideon falls a little bit in love. “I need sleep,” she finally says. “And water. Probably food.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Gideon says.

The girl sits up slowly and glares at Gideon too. “Well? Are you going to bring me water? Please,” she tacks on again reluctantly at the end.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Gideon brings Harrow water. She brings her a box of saltine crackers. And she brings her a protein shake which she doubts Harrow will actually drink, but she can hope. As Harrow nibbles on the crackers, she seems to gain vitality. At least, she goes from looking like roadkill to looking like someone who would take roadkill home and examine the skeleton.

Finally, Harrow looks up at Gideon in sincerity. “Thank you,” she says, only once.

“Gideon,” Gideon blurts out.

“What?”

“My name is Gideon.”

Harrow blinks slowly. “Thank you, Gideon.”

Gideon’s whole chest constricts like she’s in some kind of melodrama. She feels like she’d go slay dragons if Harrow wanted her to. Maybe it is just her need to be useful to someone, like Cam once said when they were both drunk, but Gideon thinks she wants to maybe pledge herself to Harrow forever.

“Mhmm,” she says.

“Now,” says Harrow, “I need you to help me up. I’m going to take an early lunch. We’re avoiding a nondescript man in a grey button-up, by the way,” she informs Gideon as Gideon helps her to her feet and walks with her to the back. “He’ll only start telling me stories about his troubled youth as a struggling freelancer. I don’t have the time. I need to study.”

“Noted. Avoiding guys who look like freelancers.”

When they reach the double doors to the back room, Gideon almost follows Harrow in, but Harrow stops her with a hand.

“You. Stay here,” she commands, which does funny things to Gideon’s stomach? Oh hell, Gideon might as well find out some more new things about herself tonight.

“Like, until you’re done with lunch break?”

“No.” Harrow looks at her as though she’s an idiot. “I mean, I am going to go about my evening. And you should go back home. I’ve troubled you enough.”

“It’s no trouble. I mean, gotta make sure you don’t faint on me again. It doesn’t really seem like your coworkers give a shit. Harrow, are you studying during the day and working here at night?”

Harrow’s expression tightens. “It is none of your business.”

“It’s my business when you faint into my arms.”

At this, Harrow does actually blush, Gideon is sure of it. She gets all annoyed about it too, scrunching her face up in outrage. “I didn’t purposefully faint into your arms! Yours were just the arms that were there at the times I fainted.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Harrow makes to turn around and leave Gideon behind.

“Wait, I—look.” She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

To Gideon’s astonishment, Harrow gives her the phone. Gideon quickly opens up the contacts app and types her number in.

“I’m going to leave now. But you’re gonna text me when you get back home safe.”

Harrow raises an eyebrow. “Why should I text you? We live at the same complex. Come see for yourself. Building nine, number nine. Nine AM.”

“Are you inviting me over?”

Harrow looks her up and down. The look is brief, but comprehensive. Gideon can feel it in her spine.

“Your choice,” Harrow says.

Later, when Gideon is lying awake in bed, she’ll wonder about choice, about coincidence, about the unlikeliness of anyone ever meeting anyone, about why she lived long enough to become herself instead of dying before she could ever keep beautiful girls from hitting their heads.

But in the earliest hours of the morning, she receives a text from an unknown number. The text is a single word.

Home.

Yeah, Gideon thinks. Maybe she is, after all.

#replies #tlt writing prompt night #harrow's anemic charm vs gideon's need to pledge a vow of service to a woman #my fic #they are having some peak early 20s experiences in this one

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