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If you had told Vi as a teen that, on the cusp of her thirties, she’d be crossing the bridge into Piltover astride a motorcycle and waiting on a corner down the street from the Enforcer station for their Commander, she more than likely would have scoffed and told you to stow the bullshit. Had you told her she would meet said Commander at one of Zaun’s most popular night clubs some months before this trip, without knowing her official status… well. That would earn a, “Me? With a Piltie?”
Leaning against her bike—splattered, now, in the Firelights’ bright markings—licking the glue on her cigarette paper and finishing it off before lighting up, she still couldn’t believe it. Not fully. Yes, relations between Piltover and Zaun were not as taut as they had been when Vi was younger, but that still didn’t mean either side felt wholly comfortable in each other’s presence. Yet this woman had walked up to her, asked what she’d been drinking, and Vi, caught off guard with both her nervous confidence and stunning looks, had indulged her, and been swept away by how easy conversation had been between them—which, of course, led to other things, bedroom affairs, unable to scrub the memories of intimate details off, unable to keep from floating back to that club and wanting a repeat.
“Who are you?” Vi had asked the third time, tracing fingers between full breasts.
Instead of answering with a joke, Caitlyn had said, “I don’t think you want to know.”
“Try me.”
“Kept you waiting long?” came Caitlyn’s voice from the sidewalk, fracturing Vi’s reverie. She was dressed in black tonight, from her jeans to the turtleneck sweater, her tied-up midnight hair haloed in gold from the soft gas lamps lining the street. A smirk tugged at her lips, shone in her bright blue eyes, making Vi’s heart stutter like a stalled engine in her chest.
“No,” said Vi, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Early night?”
Caitlyn’s expression turned into one of exasperation. “Hence the call. There’s been no break in the case, and I’d had enough of chasing dead ends.”
Vi produced a portable ashtray from her leather jacket pocket, grinding the cigarette out. “What do you have in mind?” she asked, though based on the phone call, she could already guess. A short ride back to Caitlyn’s, phoning in a takeout order, happily going to her knees on the parlour rug while they waited for delivery. Nothing at all worth complaining about.
Caitlyn closed the distance between them, a bare hand cupping Vi’s face, gentle and warm. “Take me wherever you like.”
Vi smiled. So much for guessing. “Hop on then, Cupcake.”
She ensured Caitlyn was zipped in the spare leather jacket, that the helmet was secure, and pulled her own helmet over her head.
Vi always felt free, riding through the night. Felt as if there was nothing in the world that could hold her back from experiencing the pleasure that was the wind whipping past her, the rumble of an engine vibrating through her bones, the sights of Piltover giving way from gas lamps to Zaun’s soft neon. This time, she had Caitlyn moulded hotly against her back, strong arms wrapped around her waist that squeezed at every tight turn, a helmet-covered cheek propped against her shoulder that told Vi Caitlyn was taking in the change in scenery, and was fascinated by it. (She couldn’t blame her, really. The Winter Solstice had passed the night before, bringing cold, clear nights, with an expanse of bejewelled stars spread across the sky.)
They crossed the bridge, the River Pilt rippling with both skylines, an inky mirror. Vi wove through traffic, descending into Zaun and its crowded streets, strings of neon lights hanging between buildings. Here, there were more cars of Zaunite make, but one could glimpse Piltover models dotted throughout the streets. Both types of traffic lessened the closer Vi got to her side of town; people walked, or rode varying styles of motorcycles.
Vi’s home was an older building filled with flats, only a few blocks away from The Last Drop. She’d never brought Caitlyn here before. Moths fluttered through her nerves, making a mess of her heartbeat. Vi went through the motions of securing her motorcycle, buying time, not at all distracted by how damned good Caitlyn looked wearing a Firelights jacket, hair mussed from the helmet.
“It’s quiet,” Caitlyn remarked eventually.
“Not what you were expecting?”
“I don’t know what I expected.”
“Aside from being swept off your feet.”
Caitlyn’s laugh was sweet. “Think you’ve already achieved that, darling.”
Vi wondered if falling in love felt like racing through the night, except landing somewhere warm.
She cleared her throat, fished her keys from her jacket pocket. “Come up, then.”
The flat was a far cry from the luxury she knew Caitlyn was used to. Compared to that penthouse, Vi’s flat might as well have been a shoebox, but it was comfortable, even if the furniture didn’t wholly match and her walls were cluttered with Powder and Ekko’s artwork, her entryway home to many pairs of shoes, joined now with Caitlyn’s boots.
“Very you,” said Caitlyn, shrugging out of her borrowed leather jacket. Vi hung it up on the hook. “Are the paintings yours?”
“No. My sister and her boyfriend’s.”
“You’re not an artist, then?”
Vi chuckled. “My sister would tell me my hands are better for punching than for painting.” She didn’t mention that she was sitting down and trying it out, or that the spare bedroom was home to a graveyard of discarded sketchbooks. She turned toward the kitchen, throwing a, “Want a drink?” over her shoulder. She had a cabinet full of ales and beers, all locally brewed. No wines, or anything expensive, really, having not had an opportunity, or a reason, to splurge.
“Beer would be lovely, thank you,” came the answer from outside the kitchen.
Vi cracked open two bottles, hands slick with sweat. Caitlyn had proven herself trustworthy, but there was always a nervousness, a fear, that came with showing someone new one’s home and what occupied it, for a home was an extension of the self, furnished and decorated with things one liked best or thought practical, splattered with portraits of loved ones held close.
Caitlyn walked through the kitchen door moments later, accepting a beer. Vi turned up the radiator’s heat, then dug through the junk drawer for a takeout menu, in the mood for Jericho’s, passing the beat-up paper to Caitlyn, who scanned it with a calculating eye. Vi’s lips itched to kiss that canyon between her brows.
“I didn’t think we’d be having supper,” said Caitlyn, leaning against the doorframe as Vi sank into her usual chair by the window.
“I can’t beer you and dine you first? You surprise me.”
Caitlyn smiled, giggling, her cheeks turning redder in a—frankly—adorable blush. “Of course you can. I only… I thought…”
“I’d sweep you off your feet and straight into my bed?”
“Yes.”
Vi licked her lips. “Would you like me to?” she asked softly. All thoughts of dinner were abandoned. She felt a strange flicker of emotion in her belly at Caitlyn’s gentle smile; it intensified when Caitlyn set her beer aside on the nearest counter and strode over, smoothly planting herself astride Vi’s lap. Vi’s hands immediately went to her waist, thumbs circling despite the thick sweater acting as a barrier between her touch and Caitlyn’s skin.
Caitlyn murmured, “Not just yet,” and closed the distance between their mouths.
Vi had kissed many people before, had kissed Caitlyn several times by now, in many different ways; this kiss felt different in a way she wasn’t yet ready to name. And so when Caitlyn tugged her sweater over her head, topless in Vi’s lap, Vi gladly gave in to the new direction, making love to Caitlyn first in the kitchen, lips peppering full breasts while fingers slid into undone jeans to pump and curl, and again in her bedroom, uncaring that the bed creaked with every movement or that her neighbours could more than likely hear their moans and heavy breathing, or her half-choked cries of “Cait” as she reached orgasm astride Caitlyn’s beautiful face.
Panting, Vi rested her head on the forearm braced against the headboard, enjoying the soft kisses Caitlyn pressed to the insides of her trembling thighs. She watched, looked away when Caitlyn caught her staring.
“Vi,” said Caitlyn. “I like the way you look at me.”
“How do I look at you?” Vi dismounted, settling beside Caitlyn in bed, throwing an arm over her slender waist.
But Caitlyn only shook her head, much to Vi’s chagrin, and kissed her chastely. “You hungry?”
Vi, slightly bewildered, managed a, “Yeah,” against Caitlyn’s lips, watching her lover clamber from bed and walk naked to the kitchen, plucking the house phone from its mount to call in Jericho’s delivery.
If you had told Vi that she would, on the cusp of her thirties, find a woman who fit so well in her kitchen, with its mismatched chairs and wallpaper that refused to stay up in the high corners no matter how much fucking glue she used, after years of telling herself she would never know or deserve a love aside from her family’s, she wouldn’t believe you.
But seeing Caitlyn haloed by cheap lights, hair mussed and skin still glossy with sweat, heart swelling at the way she turned and said, “It’ll be here in twenty,” Vi thought she was just beginning to believe in deserved happiness.