( in ani mikheeva's world, there are benefits to a well-rehearsed routine. know the choreography by heart, and you never have to question which step comes next, never have to open yourself to the possibility of a stumble, never run the risk of it becoming a shitshow. and if there are cons to the same shit, different day hustle — if that numb absence of surprise outweighs the rest — she's learned to survive it. same way a rookie's body acclimates to the bruising demands of a pole, the blistering pressure of balancing in six-inch pleasers: the body adapts, eventually. grows thicker skin, evolution at its finest.
darwin, eat your fucking heart out.
she blatantly blinks when cracking open the door reveals silco. reveals that tiny break from what she's expected, too — thrown-off like a scene partner that didn't quite expect a deviation from the script, for a scoffing second. not harsh, but some sparkling shade of bemusement — a question that tics in her brow before it lowers. before she remembers that she and silco don't ask questions of each other, really. strictly don't ask, don't tell — a policy that's worked for them, so far. as age-old wisdom goes: if it ain't broke, don't fucking fix it.
(a policy that stays working, through the iv drip of memories; silco's grief, silco's losses, silco's betrayals. ani's, warped in the surfaces of his memories: neon lights, a body held down by men twice your size, a ring wrenched from your finger. blackmail of a different kind, knowing if you resist, they'll take more from you, your friends, your family. )
Oh my god. ( it isn't quite starstruck-astonished in any real, substantial way. just a glint of amusement that loosens her mouth, the curl of it threatening a dull-edged smirk. her stare twinkles, none too privately satisfied. she asks it only after she's scooped the vase into her chest, securing the bag: ) What'd you use to cut 'em? Knife? Switchblade?
( it's a little funny, the contrast of that mental image with what he is: silco taking care to pluck something soft without destroying it, a man tailored from sharp angles and crisp lines. she caresses the velvety bloom of one petal under the soft pad of a fingertip, a rare glimpse of sentimental appreciation — can't be anything but, from someone who knows how quickly beautiful things give up on you. roses aren't an exception, a gift that fades twice as fast as the rest. )
[ Riding easily on the same current and landing somewhere between self-deprecation and genuine joking, and delivered so quickly that one would be forgiven for thinking that flowers (anything green, anything requiring the touch of sunlight) had been at all common in his life prior to arriving here: ] I tore them from the flowerbed with my teeth.
[ The slant of his mouth mirrors hers — the closest he ever gets to really smiling, allowed here only because it's just the two of them, and not the circus car of staff they've assembled at the their respective clubs — his gaze tracking her through her room as she finds a place for the vase. (Viciousness and softness both: all of the thorns have been carefully pried off of the roses, a trail of green tacks leading in from the grounds. One sharp thing neutered in order to spare another.) He doesn't, however, go so far as to come in, instead leaning against the doorframe like this is all de rigueur.
(And it has become routine, in some ways. Not this, exactly, but overseeing the clubs, less back and forth — less testing for bullshit — than there had been before, companionable silence in lieu of perpetual performance. He prefers it to artifice, when it colors so much of the rest of his existence here. Only Jinx sees him as he is, has seen the full scope of what he's capable of. Would Ani balk, to know how much blood is on his hands?) ]
Ready?
[ For the spa — as inconceivable in his previous life as the rest of the house is — and the tub that's been curtained off for them, though it's hardly as if any one part of the manor is particularly heavily trafficked beside the dining room. ]
( her laugh barks more than bites, same as anything yipping in surprise at an unexpected knock at their door — only the intruder in question is silco's fast-footed joke. no, scratch that — an indulgence of humor, rather than the vibe of a drive-by: tolerating it, if it'll pass him by quickly enough. the sparkle-shine of ani's delight is half-hidden by the overgrowth of rose petals waving by her nose as they're planted in the garden of trinkets looming on her bedside table. piss-poor luck, she doesn't tell him, to bring an even number; stupid superstition she's as removed from as the culture that conceived them.
besides, from the sway of her stroll back to the door, one would think ani's turn of luck is looking up. can't be all that bad, if a spa day's on the table. there's no bullshit a deep-tissue massage can't hammer out of her, and even if it fails — well, at least she'll stay beautiful through the next batch of fresh, unbelievable bullshit baked specially with her in mind. )
Oh, watch out.
( — called out, new york construction worker levels of cat-calling, jackhammer-loud, right before her hips swing back into view, making a pivot around the door. only half-ajar, a small sliver of an opening — the implication of someone who's in the habit of keeping the blinds closed, keeping anyone from spying into the spaces they consider safe.
with the growing slant of a smile, more mirth than mean menacing: ) Smoke's got jokes now.
( it's not a presumption of touch — ani's hands adjust his collar with a a passing look of approval, a proficiency for nudging into personal space without overtaking it. a working girl's awareness of where that line, crisp as any of silco's pressed shirts, lies. her arm swans through his to lead him down the corridor, steps smooth and unhurried, in much the same vein. the companionable choice, without blurring boundaries into the easy, juvenile affection of holding hands. sappy shit meant for sappier romcom couples, not — whatever label suits them. )
Didn't think you were the pamperin' type. ( a squint brings the point of her chin to his tricep, leering sidelong. conversational curiosity — not suspicion, for all that silco never looks unsuspicious. like he just walked, sinisterly, off the set of the sopranos. ani chuffs a private snort. ) We're gonna book you a face mask, honey. Give you some shine.
[ They've come far enough from their initial encounter under the ruby lights of the Otherworld that Silco no longer sees Ani as a ghost, but shades of the past continue to unearth themselves — he'd waited like this, he thinks, as he lingers by the door, when he'd been younger, when he'd had peers instead of foot soldiers and employees. For Felicia, for Vander, for Connol. Waited, in anticipation of nights spent just as much in the interest of Zaun's liberation as the simple pleasure of shared company. Is that why he's here? Not really, when they've twin businesses to run, but for all that her brashness irritates and impresses him in turns, he understands things like that laugh, that nickname, to comprise reciprocation of— something. Trust, maybe, nascent though it may be. Or at least a mutual understanding.
So he doesn't protest as she fixes his collar of when slips her hand through his arm, and he doesn't say, in response to her first comment, I'm not, but you are, lest that plain a confession of consideration be too earnest for not just one but both of them. Rather, he meets that peering glance like it's old hat — which it is, to a degree, only in a slightly more volatile tenor — one eyebrow slowly arching like he isn't the one who suggested the spa in the first place. ]
I'll follow your lead, my dear.
[ They've been around each other enough, now, that she's seen him carefully applying color to the sallow half of his face, over scars that appear nearly black when unattended. (And under his shirt, marks that track a spray of bullets, surely enough to kill a man. Today, a new injury, even: a bandage wrapped around the broad of his left hand.) There's no amount of treatment in the world, at least not in the form of a face mask, that will fix his complexion — nor is he looking for a cure.
He doesn't have to say as much — not to Ani, nor to the staff awaiting them at the spa once they arrive, as he lets Ani pick out what it is she wants — though it could be chalked up, in part, to novelty. No such space exists in the Undercity, and the idea of spending time like this in Piltover had been laughable at best, as much for the impracticality and pure vanity of it as for his unwillingness to leave himself so vulnerable. That's the gesture, really — his time given and his soft parts exposed for the better part of the afternoon. ]
( worker bees swarm ani the minute they're through the door like she's the queen bee of the operation — and maybe she is, with silco complacently waiting for her verdict in the background, that backseat deference to her judgment. the closest two control freaks can come to sharing the responsibilities of their respective thrones. what ani decides on, somewhere in the frills and thrills of their fussing, isn't the same designer brand of pretentiousness vanya would have thrown his cash, the kind of carefree spending she hadn't realized was free of any real care for her. bullshit and bluster and benjamins ani once mistook for meaningful, like it wasn't all fucking monopoly money to boys like him, buying up as much property as he could before mommy and daddy ended his game.
her selections are the practical option on a menu tailored to excess and vanity, cutting out the extra calories that don't serve her. the three-meal course of necessary self-care: a milk & honey bath (vital hydration), sugar scrub with coconut oil (exfoliation, scrubbing off the dead cells of another life), and bottle of cork-popped champagne (mental exfoliation) to wash it all down. just enough to keep her beauty sustained and healthy. not gorge it, moderation she learned watching rookies at the club fumble their shot at securing themselves a benefactor. sugar daddies will give you a whole lot of sweetness for the chance to taste you, sure — but they still test you to see if you'll accept a slice of what he's offering, or take him for the whole damn birthday cake of what he's worth.
in his usual fashion — mute, communicated in the sign language of his mouth, for anyone with eyes to read it — she expects silco will appreciate that. restraint's a little like respect in ani's world, where using each other is just the accepted, standard exchange rate. something that creeps closer to mutual consideration, too, when ani slinks back over to his side. leans into the crook of space there, with the lazy, comfortable ease of draping into a doorway. ) Told 'em we wanted hands-free service.
( ani's eyes flicker to the bandaged gauze of his hand, the pointed punchline to a joke before her quiet interest moves on. one of the workers — monica, whose name ani learned quick, saleswoman to saleswoman solidarity — peels open the curtain to a view of a copper tub, gleaming round and overlarge. roomy enough to fit vanya's pretty posse and still have space for their fat fucking egos. floating there: drizzles of petals, sprinkled in rainbow shades across the cloudy water. she doesn't put a stopper on the snort that chuffs out of her, like it's a funny oxymoron to have them occupy the same space silco soon will. )
— It's the Cleopatra special. ( might mark the first time in history she knows more than silco, she thinks, dipping her fingers in. gives them a twirl to test the water, stirring cyclones in her wake, a natural disaster on sea and land. her mouth tips up, all mean amusement. ) 'Course, she used donkey milk. But we got plenty of jackasses downstairs.
[ As a rule, Silco doesn't gawk. At the house, at any of its rooms, at the violence that occurs in fits and starts. There's nothing to be gained in showing off what catches you off-guard, much less so among those that will judge you for it, and— it's less that any of it surprises him than that some of it seemed so far out of the question. Clean water — clean air — had been an unspeakable luxury. The kind of excess the Balfours place at their fingertips — he ought to balk, but he'd made speaking Piltover's language into a tool, dressing and conducting himself in a way that projects wealth and influence, the two arbiters of respect in a world defined by means.
Ani is the same way, he thinks. She understands how to speak the language of the wealthy and how to navigate within the world it gives her access to, even if she refuses (part of why he likes her, in the end, even if he'd never say it out loud) to sand down her rougher edges once she's past the door. (She's in the right, besides, when they'd take the first opportunity to kick her — either of them, really — out regardless. Better not to scrape and bow for those who'll cast you aside, and to take while you can. Best to hang onto a little pride and save your regard for those who deserve it.) ]
I'd rather not imagine our bath to have anything to do with them, [ he says mildly, casting a last glance at the contents of the bath (the flower petals on its surface, as strangely funny to him as they are to her) before turning to shed his jacket and unbutton his shirt. He follows her lead where modesty is concerned, stripping without much fuss given that each has already seen what the other has to offer. Lean muscle, his sharp edges worn close to the surface where hers are a hidden behind soft curves, a little more malleable — different tools for different approaches to the same game.
He turns, with that done, offering her his good hand to steady her on the wooden step stool leading into the tub. ]
Who was she?
[ Asked as he lowers himself into the bath, accompanied by a sigh of both effort and — miracle of miracles — relief. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
darwin, eat your fucking heart out.
she blatantly blinks when cracking open the door reveals silco. reveals that tiny break from what she's expected, too — thrown-off like a scene partner that didn't quite expect a deviation from the script, for a scoffing second. not harsh, but some sparkling shade of bemusement — a question that tics in her brow before it lowers. before she remembers that she and silco don't ask questions of each other, really. strictly don't ask, don't tell — a policy that's worked for them, so far. as age-old wisdom goes: if it ain't broke, don't fucking fix it.
(a policy that stays working, through the iv drip of memories; silco's grief, silco's losses, silco's betrayals. ani's, warped in the surfaces of his memories: neon lights, a body held down by men twice your size, a ring wrenched from your finger. blackmail of a different kind, knowing if you resist, they'll take more from you, your friends, your family. )
Oh my god. ( it isn't quite starstruck-astonished in any real, substantial way. just a glint of amusement that loosens her mouth, the curl of it threatening a dull-edged smirk. her stare twinkles, none too privately satisfied. she asks it only after she's scooped the vase into her chest, securing the bag: ) What'd you use to cut 'em? Knife? Switchblade?
( it's a little funny, the contrast of that mental image with what he is: silco taking care to pluck something soft without destroying it, a man tailored from sharp angles and crisp lines. she caresses the velvety bloom of one petal under the soft pad of a fingertip, a rare glimpse of sentimental appreciation — can't be anything but, from someone who knows how quickly beautiful things give up on you. roses aren't an exception, a gift that fades twice as fast as the rest. )
no subject
[ The slant of his mouth mirrors hers — the closest he ever gets to really smiling, allowed here only because it's just the two of them, and not the circus car of staff they've assembled at the their respective clubs — his gaze tracking her through her room as she finds a place for the vase. (Viciousness and softness both: all of the thorns have been carefully pried off of the roses, a trail of green tacks leading in from the grounds. One sharp thing neutered in order to spare another.) He doesn't, however, go so far as to come in, instead leaning against the doorframe like this is all de rigueur.
(And it has become routine, in some ways. Not this, exactly, but overseeing the clubs, less back and forth — less testing for bullshit — than there had been before, companionable silence in lieu of perpetual performance. He prefers it to artifice, when it colors so much of the rest of his existence here. Only Jinx sees him as he is, has seen the full scope of what he's capable of. Would Ani balk, to know how much blood is on his hands?) ]
Ready?
[ For the spa — as inconceivable in his previous life as the rest of the house is — and the tub that's been curtained off for them, though it's hardly as if any one part of the manor is particularly heavily trafficked beside the dining room. ]
no subject
besides, from the sway of her stroll back to the door, one would think ani's turn of luck is looking up. can't be all that bad, if a spa day's on the table. there's no bullshit a deep-tissue massage can't hammer out of her, and even if it fails — well, at least she'll stay beautiful through the next batch of fresh, unbelievable bullshit baked specially with her in mind. )
Oh, watch out.
( — called out, new york construction worker levels of cat-calling, jackhammer-loud, right before her hips swing back into view, making a pivot around the door. only half-ajar, a small sliver of an opening — the implication of someone who's in the habit of keeping the blinds closed, keeping anyone from spying into the spaces they consider safe.
with the growing slant of a smile, more mirth than mean menacing: ) Smoke's got jokes now.
( it's not a presumption of touch — ani's hands adjust his collar with a a passing look of approval, a proficiency for nudging into personal space without overtaking it. a working girl's awareness of where that line, crisp as any of silco's pressed shirts, lies. her arm swans through his to lead him down the corridor, steps smooth and unhurried, in much the same vein. the companionable choice, without blurring boundaries into the easy, juvenile affection of holding hands. sappy shit meant for sappier romcom couples, not — whatever label suits them. )
Didn't think you were the pamperin' type. ( a squint brings the point of her chin to his tricep, leering sidelong. conversational curiosity — not suspicion, for all that silco never looks unsuspicious. like he just walked, sinisterly, off the set of the sopranos. ani chuffs a private snort. ) We're gonna book you a face mask, honey. Give you some shine.
no subject
So he doesn't protest as she fixes his collar of when slips her hand through his arm, and he doesn't say, in response to her first comment, I'm not, but you are, lest that plain a confession of consideration be too earnest for not just one but both of them. Rather, he meets that peering glance like it's old hat — which it is, to a degree, only in a slightly more volatile tenor — one eyebrow slowly arching like he isn't the one who suggested the spa in the first place. ]
I'll follow your lead, my dear.
[ They've been around each other enough, now, that she's seen him carefully applying color to the sallow half of his face, over scars that appear nearly black when unattended. (And under his shirt, marks that track a spray of bullets, surely enough to kill a man. Today, a new injury, even: a bandage wrapped around the broad of his left hand.) There's no amount of treatment in the world, at least not in the form of a face mask, that will fix his complexion — nor is he looking for a cure.
He doesn't have to say as much — not to Ani, nor to the staff awaiting them at the spa once they arrive, as he lets Ani pick out what it is she wants — though it could be chalked up, in part, to novelty. No such space exists in the Undercity, and the idea of spending time like this in Piltover had been laughable at best, as much for the impracticality and pure vanity of it as for his unwillingness to leave himself so vulnerable. That's the gesture, really — his time given and his soft parts exposed for the better part of the afternoon. ]
no subject
her selections are the practical option on a menu tailored to excess and vanity, cutting out the extra calories that don't serve her. the three-meal course of necessary self-care: a milk & honey bath (vital hydration), sugar scrub with coconut oil (exfoliation, scrubbing off the dead cells of another life), and bottle of cork-popped champagne (mental exfoliation) to wash it all down. just enough to keep her beauty sustained and healthy. not gorge it, moderation she learned watching rookies at the club fumble their shot at securing themselves a benefactor. sugar daddies will give you a whole lot of sweetness for the chance to taste you, sure — but they still test you to see if you'll accept a slice of what he's offering, or take him for the whole damn birthday cake of what he's worth.
in his usual fashion — mute, communicated in the sign language of his mouth, for anyone with eyes to read it — she expects silco will appreciate that. restraint's a little like respect in ani's world, where using each other is just the accepted, standard exchange rate. something that creeps closer to mutual consideration, too, when ani slinks back over to his side. leans into the crook of space there, with the lazy, comfortable ease of draping into a doorway. ) Told 'em we wanted hands-free service.
( ani's eyes flicker to the bandaged gauze of his hand, the pointed punchline to a joke before her quiet interest moves on. one of the workers — monica, whose name ani learned quick, saleswoman to saleswoman solidarity — peels open the curtain to a view of a copper tub, gleaming round and overlarge. roomy enough to fit vanya's pretty posse and still have space for their fat fucking egos. floating there: drizzles of petals, sprinkled in rainbow shades across the cloudy water. she doesn't put a stopper on the snort that chuffs out of her, like it's a funny oxymoron to have them occupy the same space silco soon will. )
— It's the Cleopatra special. ( might mark the first time in history she knows more than silco, she thinks, dipping her fingers in. gives them a twirl to test the water, stirring cyclones in her wake, a natural disaster on sea and land. her mouth tips up, all mean amusement. ) 'Course, she used donkey milk. But we got plenty of jackasses downstairs.
no subject
Ani is the same way, he thinks. She understands how to speak the language of the wealthy and how to navigate within the world it gives her access to, even if she refuses (part of why he likes her, in the end, even if he'd never say it out loud) to sand down her rougher edges once she's past the door. (She's in the right, besides, when they'd take the first opportunity to kick her — either of them, really — out regardless. Better not to scrape and bow for those who'll cast you aside, and to take while you can. Best to hang onto a little pride and save your regard for those who deserve it.) ]
I'd rather not imagine our bath to have anything to do with them, [ he says mildly, casting a last glance at the contents of the bath (the flower petals on its surface, as strangely funny to him as they are to her) before turning to shed his jacket and unbutton his shirt. He follows her lead where modesty is concerned, stripping without much fuss given that each has already seen what the other has to offer. Lean muscle, his sharp edges worn close to the surface where hers are a hidden behind soft curves, a little more malleable — different tools for different approaches to the same game.
He turns, with that done, offering her his good hand to steady her on the wooden step stool leading into the tub. ]
Who was she?
[ Asked as he lowers himself into the bath, accompanied by a sigh of both effort and — miracle of miracles — relief. ]
Cleopatra?