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“Here you are,” Paul says from somewhere near Pyrrha.
They have a voice that should have been familiar to her, but it is not. Neither Camilla nor Palamedes had talked like that, which of course, was the point.
“Unfortunately,” Pyrrha replies.
Paul’s footsteps get closer, but Pyrrha does not turn to look at them. She silently curses herself for not hiding better, but hiding was never her style. Pyrrha's initial plan was to return to the landing platform to be free from these goddamn tunnels, but the thought of having to deal with the people in the truck made her reconsider. She isn’t even sure who exactly she is avoiding. Camilla’s sister? Palamedes’ mother? Crown Him With Many Crowns? Wake’s niece? All Pyrrha knows is that she doesn't want to face anyone right now. With nowhere to go, she had elected just to slump down and sit on the ground with her back against a cold, hard stone wall.
“Where would you like to be then?” Paul asks.
“Six feet under sounds pretty good right now, if you pardon the pun and the honesty,” Pyrrha says. The joke doesn't even work since the Sixth House doesn't bury their dead, but Pyrrha doesn't care.
“You are forgiven on both accounts,” Paul says.
“Thanks.”
A silence stretches between them. It is not exactly awkward, yet Pyrrha finds it unpleasant. As far as she can tell without looking at them, Paul remains unbothered. Pyrrha keeps her gaze locked on the uninteresting, slightly cracked wall opposite her. Paul stands next to her for a while before speaking again.
“Can I sit here?” they ask.
“Will you leave me alone if I tell you to?” Pyrrha asks back.
“No.”
“Of course not,” Pyrrha says, and can't stop herself from adding, “stubborn ass.”
“So, can I sit here?” Paul asks as if they hadn't heard that.
“Be my guest,” Pyrrha spreads an arm in a mocking imitation of an invitation.
Paul ignores her clear distaste and sits down uncomfortably close, their shoulders almost touching. Gideon’s body doesn't do anything she doesn't allow it to do, so Pyrrha doesn't flinch away though she wants to. To get more comfortable on the ground, Paul brings their legs near their chest and folds their arms around their knees. Pyrrha still doesn't look at Paul’s face, which did not go unnoticed.
“You don't like looking at me,” they state matter-of-factly like they were remarking how dim the light was in the tunnel.
“Nothing personal, kid. I’m mad at them, not at you,” Pyrrha replies.
“I don't think there is much difference there,” Paul says.
“Do you want me to be mad at you?”
“I want you to look at me.”
Pyrrha doesn't. In a petty act of defiance, she turns her head further away from Paul, but there is nothing there but more of an empty, dark tunnel, which is starting to feel like a heavy-handed metaphor for Pyrrha’s life.
Eventually, she relents and looks at Paul. Since they look like how Camilla and Palamedes always did, but with a worse haircut, similar to Pyrrha’s overgrown buzz cut, and ill-fitting borrowed clothes, it is astonishing how much of a stranger Paul is to her. Paul looks back at her, and Pyrrha gets a good look at those new eyes. Even in the dim tunnel, the eyes would be beautiful if Pyrrha was in the mood to find anything beautiful.
“Listen, I am fucking tired of looking at the faces of people I loved. Gideon, as always, is the worst offender, but between him, Wake’s daughter being the spitting image of her and, and-” before she can even name Nona, Pyrrha’s voice, Gideon’s voice which always sounded like he was the chain smoker out of them two, gives out.
Pyrrha doesn't want to think about Nona. She doesn't want to think about how the body’s rightful owner had taken one look at Pyrrha, and in wide-eyed panic had taken a few steps back. Wake’s daughter had to jump in and reassure Harrowhark that the Saint of Duty was dead. That was when Pyrrha left the tomb and didn’t look back.
Pyrrha swallows and forces her mind to focus on Paul again. It is easier to be angry.
“And you have the rotten luck to wear the face of two people I cared about, so yeah, I fucking hate the look of you,” she says.
She already used the word love and can’t do it again. A ghost of a smile on Paul’s lips tells Pyrrha they hear the word anyway.
“That’s not fair,” Paul comments on the rest of Pyrrha’s words. It is not even a complaint, just a plain statement.
“I’m not feeling particularly fair,” Pyrrha shrugs, which makes their shoulders touch. “In fact, if you don't leave me alone, I think I will get downright cruel.”
“I don't believe that,” Paul replies.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know a thing about me,” Pyrrha says.
Embarrassingly enough she raised her voice, so the petty words echo in the tunnel. Pyrrha makes the slightest shift, ready to get back on her feet and flee, but Paul stops her by the shoulder. The touch is feather-light, barely even there, and yet even without any magic behind it, it freezes Pyrrha right in place. When they are sure she’ll stay, Paul moves their hand away from her and back to their knee. Pyrrha hates herself for it, but she misses the touch already.
“I know many things, Pyrrha. For example, they never thought you cruel and wouldn't have stuck with you if they did. Cruelty demands intent. Don't get me wrong, they thought you single-minded, entirely too comfortable in your cynicism and far too eager to be the one who gets to make hard choices, but never cruel," Paul says.
Them calmly listing out facts reminds Pyrrha too much of Palamedes. Some of that was probably an insult but Pyrrha doesn't care. Her borrowed heart beats faster.
“Well, ten thousand years tend to wring any drop of optimism out of you,” Pyrrha says and can’t stop herself from adding, “You’ll see.”
Surely if Paul is some sort of perfect Lyctor they'll live forever. Now there is someone else immortal besides John again, and Pyrrha has the choice to not be alone. That is a horrifying thought. She doesn't know what to do with it. She doesn’t know how to build anything lasting. After her death, she has tried to treat everything as temporary.
“I don’t believe it is possible to love like you do without optimism, Dve,” Paul continues.
Pyrrha laughs bitterly. The sound is sudden and unnatural enough to make Paul shudder, though only a bit.
“That didn't exactly turn out great for me, did it,” Pyrrha says.
“I still find it significant,” Paul shrugs and their shoulders touch again. “Significant and admirable.”
Pyrrha does not feel admirable. She feels so many things all at once, but somehow feeling pathetic manages to top all the other feelings. Camilla, Palamedes and Paul thinking highly of her should make her feel good but it doesn't. She feels small in a way that she thought was impossible for her. She says nothing, so Paul continues to wreak havoc with their sharp words.
“I meant what I said about how you can't take loved away. Your love for Camilla, Palamedes and Nona was not in vain, no matter how you might feel now.”
The fuck does Paul know about how she feels? Their whole existence was because Palamedes and Camilla never had to settle for being the second best. Not like Pyrrha who was consistently left behind by everyone. Gideon had never been able to truly choose between her and John, and Wake had loved her mission more than Pyrrha. Still, Pyrrha doesn't get angry. She doesn't know if it is because of Paul's sincere expression, or if every last drop of fighting spirit has finally been drained out of her. She remembers something.
“Did you think this was fun, Pyrrha Dve?” Pyrrha repeats out loud.
If she doesn't choose to find her way back to New Rho and use the Blood of Eden’s interrogation chair to sever her head from her shoulder, she’ll remember that speech for the next myriad. Did you like being mother and father?“
Pardon?” Paul asks, even if they know it wasn't for them.
“Just something Non─ Alecto said,” Pyrrha stumbles over the names. “She accused me of enjoying playing house.”
“If that was meant to be a secret, you did not keep it well,” Paul says casually, like it was a joke and then they see something in Pyrrha’s expression and tilt their head. “Was it meant to be a secret?”
“Yes. No. I don't even know,” Pyrrha says.
Paul waits for Pyrrha to continue, but she doesn’t know how to. More than anything she wishes she had a cigarette or even one of the useless nicotine patches. The building site had been full of men hiding booze in their pockets just to get through the day in New Rho yet she had never been one of them. She puts her hands in the empty pockets, her sharp elbow accidentally jabbing Paul to the side, and mentally curses herself for not doing the same. A flask of vodka would do wonders right now. She can't do this raw, but Paul still stares at her.
“It just sucks having to face that your deepest fucking desires are so banal and yet impossible,” Pyrrha’s usual easy charm fails her, and the statement comes out just sad.
It was embarrassing how much she enjoyed playing house. She wanted to play the part of a fun parent for Nona just to offset the Sixth House seriousness that would have coloured her life gray otherwise, and ended up falling for her own act. Working a shitty job for a shitty salary and coming home late to a shitty apartment to a parody of a wife and child had actually made her happier than she had been in twenty years. Or perhaps ever. A long, long, long time ago, there were enough people who were ready to be her trophy wife to form a queue, but Pyrrha had never had a time of her day for anyone who’d display such stability. She only loved those who burned too strong, too fast.
“I never learn. This happened with Wake too. I thought I was being so clever about it and it still ended up in a heartbreak and a shitshow,” she complained.
“Yet you don't regret getting involved with her,” Paul states.
“Like I said, I never learn,” Pyrrha says.
For someone with a myriad’s worth of mistakes, Pyrrha regrets surprisingly little. There was no point in it because she knew that If she got a second chance, she’d just make the same choices again.
“This whole thing sucks ass, and not in the good way,” she complains just for the sake of complaining.
“You always had the way with the words,” Paul says.
They smile quite fondly, which is the most emotion Pyrrha has seen on their face after Nona… was gone. Pyrrha has had enough. She’s about to get up but Paul grasps her by the wrist. Camilla’s body is strong, she was a well-trained and skilled cavalier. That would not be enough to stop Pyrrha from leaving if she wanted to do so, but something traitorous in Pyrrha doesn't want to go.
“Wait,” Paul insists.
Pyrrha waits. Paul doesn't quite hesitate, but they try to find a tactful way to say what they want to. They don't quite succeed.
“I hope you aren't too in a hurry to find a way to overpower your necromancer’s healing abilities,” Paul ends up saying.
Pyrrha is not going anywhere but Paul still holds her wrist.
“Why do you even give a shit? You don't know me,” Pyrrha says.
This gets another proper emotion out of Paul. Annoyance. It is similar but not the same look Camilla used to give Pyrrha when she came home just an hour before it was time to get up again. Pyrrha always liked that, she liked annoying beautiful women. It worked with this new person too. She doesn’t want Paul to let go of her.
“As I believe we have already established, I don't agree with that assessment, but more importantly,” Paul says in a way that almost evokes Palamedes, “I’d like to know you.”
They take their hand off Pyrrha’s now that it is clear she’s not going anywhere, and place it low on her cheek, caressing her strong jawline. She wouldn't mind the hand if it weren't for the overgrown stubble that probably qualified as a beard at this point. It's been over two days since she last got to shave. She hides her discomfort badly, and Paul moves their hand to the back of Pyrrha’s head. The gesture is so considerate it makes her ill.
“I’m being hit on by a baby. Wonderful,” Pyrrha says to offset the nausea.
“If you are only interested in people your own age, I’m afraid I have bad news.” Paul deadpans.
“And a smartass to boot,” she grumbles before leaning into a kiss.