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we're two slow dancers, last ones out

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Two doors. Two exits and potential entrances. One vent. No windows. How far away is her gun from her hand? Can she reach it in a second? In less than a second? Is it loaded? If someone comes in, will she pivot Janey away from the door? Will she shove her to the ground and tell her to stay down? Will—

"Earth to Athena? You still in there?"

A calloused hand gently cups her cheek. Athena blinks rapidly, eyelashes brushing against the side of Janey's fingers. Vaguely, she feels herself moving, each limb plodding along in clumsy steps like a block of wood sinking into deep water. The boots on her feet feel like they should be making the clopping sounds of hooves—not the near-silent tap they make now against the concrete floor.

Two doors. One vent. No windows.

"Yes," she replies, mouth suddenly dry. "Of course."

She can't figure it out: this feeling. On edge, like her skin wants to crawl away from her and dissolve into moon dust. Like her blood is flowing too close to the surface of her skin and is slowly heating up into lava to burn through her veins. She's tense—every muscle is a perfect model of stone. They are the moments before medusa strikes and carves her into a flawless statue of blood and guts and something else she can't quite identify.

"Have you ever slow danced before, 'thena?" Janey suddenly asks, eyes twinkling in faint amusement. Her hand had slid down, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Thankfully, she seemed content with playing with the soft hairs at the base of the gladiator's neck.

She knew the answer to that question.

"No, never," Athena answers truthfully, stony expression flickering into one of brief uncertainty for a moment. She allows a beat to pass, before continuing with, "how am I doing?"

"Oh, you're doing fine," the blonde says airily. When the shorter woman raises an eyebrow, she relents. "I mean, you look like a baby kraggon learning how to walk for the first time, but I think it's cute," she laughs, twirling a particularly long lock of dark hair around her finger.

The feeling arises again, blood too hot for her own skin—Athena is sure she must look like Lilith's hair at this point. Frantically, now: two doors. One vent. No windows. Two doors. One vent. No windows.

Finally, her entire body drags in an invisible sigh before deflating in Janey's arms. Armoured arms tighten around a lithe body as she rests her head on Springs' chest. There, the slow and steady beating of the junker's heart forces everything in her mind to a halt. She feels Janey's breath hitch a little, the pulse picking up—and subsequently feels her entire body curl in around her, letting them rock in synchronization.

Let them have this one moment in time, she thought. No danger. No doors. No entries.

"Springs," she mutters. A pause. "Janey," she says instead. They come to a full stop, still encased in each others arms.

"Yes, pumpkin?" She answers cheerfully, pulling away a little to look her properly in the face.

Athena stares up at her—at the laugh lines, the scars, the band-aids adorning her face. The blonde hairs falling in front in little wisps with the select pink ones. She studies her face and feels a foreign urge that surprises them both.

A hand grabs the necklace dangling around her neck and yanks Janey down to her level, craning her head to meet her lips in a firm kiss.

She feels like she's dying. She feels like she's overheating. She feels alive.

Bandits wouldn't stand a chance against them, anyways.