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2020-06-22
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2020-08-10
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here i sit like a beginner beginning again

Chapter Text

Weiss is right, like she so often is.  As soon as they start throwing money at the problem, information about Blake floods in, enough to make Yang feel vaguely dirty and unsettled: traffic camera footage in Germany and hotel receipts in Austria, a train ticket to Budapest here, a flight to London there.  Threads pick up and disappear and they follow them all, shelling out money for bribes and favors alike, and what Yang had expected to be a months-long effort terminates abruptly when one of the private investigators calls her on a Tuesday morning two weeks in to tell her that Blake Belladonna checked into a hotel in Hoboken the night before.

“Hoboken?” Yang says into the phone, incredulous.  “Seriously?”

“Hoboken,” the PI confirms, her voice bored but pleasant.  “I’ll email you the information.  There’s no end date on the reservation so far.”

The call ends, the PI hanging up without waiting for Yang to speak again, and Yang drops her phone onto the desk.  Hoboken.  Just across the river.  She can see Hoboken from the westward windows in their living room, and Blake is there, right now.  She drops down into the desk chair, rubbing absently at her arm.  The weather’s started to turn, the first cold snap of the year since she made it home, and she can feel it deep in her reconstructed bones.

She’s unlocked her phone and dialed Weiss’s office without even realizing it, and nearly drops the phone when Weiss’s secretary answers and immediately puts her on hold.  Every single person who works for Weiss hates Yang and has no problem ignoring her, and it gives her too much time to think, to fidget, to tap her fingers against the desk and think about Blake and all the ways this could go sideways.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Xiao Long,” Weiss’s secretary says, sounding not even remotely sorry.  “She’s in a meeting--”

“It’s important,” Yang blurts out.  “She’ll understand, you can blame me, I promise.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then “One minute, please,” and Yang’s left again with the familiar hold music.

“What’s wrong?” Weiss says immediately.  

“I found Blake and she’s in Hoboken and I was going to say we should go there but you're downtown and now I’m freaking out so please tell me to stop freaking out,” Yang blurts out, and she’s rewarded with a slow and measured exhale on the other side of the phone that immediately settles her pulse.

“Yang,” Weiss says pleasantly, the way she does when she’s about to yell at someone.  “Did you pull me out of a meeting that’s been scheduled for two months so you could have a gay panic about Blake?”

“Excuse you, how are you not having a gay panic about Blake?” Yang says, immune to Weiss’s trademark fury and the way it’s sent businessmen twice her age running for cover.

“Because I’m at work and I can’t have any kind of panic over anyone while I’m here!”  There’s a pause, and then: “Wait, did you say Hoboken?”

“I know!” Yang exclaims.  “I could just be freaking out because it’s Jersey, you know--”

“Yang,” Weiss says, again, this time accompanied with a slow exhale, and Yang pauses and closes her eyes because she can practically see Weiss, pacing in her office, a hand pressing over her sternum and wrinkling her tie as she tries to keep her nerves in check.  “It’s okay to be freaking out because it’s Blake.  And also because it’s Jersey, but mostly the former.”

“Can you leave work?” Yang hates how small her voice sounds, but she squeezes her eyes shut and breathes in deep because they have to do this together and Weiss has never turned her down when it mattered, even when it set her professional life on end, and--

“Of course,” Weiss says, exasperated.  “As if I’d make you go do-- I don’t even know what to call this-- by yourself.”

“Can’t believe you don’t have some efficient business jargon to sum up going to confront the person we both fell for during a life-threatening situation and asking her if she likes-likes us back.”  It feels good to be sarcastic, and Yang drags her free hand through her hair and lets out a breath that had been burning in her chest.

“I cannot believe I’m attracted to you,” Weiss mutters distractedly.  “I just-- I need to smooth some feathers about rescheduling, but I can pick you up in half an hour, probably.”

“You’re downtown,” Yang blurts out.  Her body hums with nervous energy.  “Can we just meet in Hoboken?  I’ll text you the address.  If I sit around waiting for you I’ll go crazy.”

There’s the familiar sound of a laptop snapping out of a docking station, a quiet hum of agreement, and then Weiss, distant, rattling off instructions to colleagues and spinning lies into gold about a family emergency she has to deal with.  The ache that’s been weighing her stomach down since the investigator called unravels, because even if this goes terribly she’ll always have Weiss, familiar and constant, the only person who’s never left her behind.

“Klein can drive you.”  Weiss materializes back on the phone.  “I’ll text him.”

“Klein hates me.”  Yang rolls her eyes and drags a hand through her hair.  “I can drive myself.  Just tell him I’m going to pick up one of yours and I promise not to scratch it.”

“Yang Xiao Long, if you lay a finger on my--”

“Going through a tunnel, sorry, love you, bye babe,” Yang rushes out, grinning in spite of herself and ending the call, a bounce in her step as much at the prospect of finding Blake as in an excuse to drive one of Weiss’s absurdly expensive cars.

“Hoboken,” Yang yells out, flopping back in her chair with a groan.  An ache flashes down her arm from the impact, but she ignores it, irritation overriding the pain.

“What about Hoboken?” Ruby pokes her head into the room, one eyebrow lifted.  Her hair’s sticking up in every direction, a deliberate and expensive choppiness displacing the messy crop she’d returned with, and she shakes it out of her eyes with practiced ease.

“Blake,” Yang says, disgruntled.  “Is in Hoboken.”

“As in New Jersey?”

“Yes!” Yang yells out, flapping one arm out indignantly and pointing westward.  “As in right fucking there!”

Ruby stands more fully in the doorway, leaning against the wall, arms folded over her chest lazily.  It pulls Yang out of her frustration momentarily, like it still does so often, the way Ruby’s fit back into her life.  She’s put on weight, filling out the hollows in her cheeks and her ribcage, and her eyes are brighter than they had been in the delta, less shadowed with distrust and survival instincts.  She looks good, and healthy, and it still leaves Yang completely poleaxed sometimes that she’s home.

“Are you going to go talk to her?” Ruby tilts her head, one eyebrow lifting just like Weiss does, and Yang lets out an indignant huff.  “Is Weiss?

“Yes,” she mutters.  Her left hand massages habitually at the muscles in her right arm, damaged fingers flexing and releasing.  She might never have full mobility in her fingers again, but she’s trying.  “I guess so.  I don't know what to even say to her.  ‘Thanks for everything you did and then also totally bailing on us immediately?’”

“Maybe don’t lead with that.”  Ruby shrugs and straightens up from the wall.  “Play it cool.  If you can.  Or just let Weiss do all the talking.”

“I’m sorry, are you trying to give me social advice?” Yang throws back at her.  “You lived in a cave for ten years.”

It pulls a laugh out of Ruby, and the sound warms in Yang’s chest and overwhelms the apprehension at the prospect of seeing Blake again.  They found her sister and brought her home and they’re okay, now.  They can do the same for Blake.  

She pushes up to her feet and shuts her laptop, abruptly enough that Ruby blinks owlishly at her.

“What, you’re going now?”

“Yep,” Yang says hurriedly, slapping a hand onto Ruby’s shoulder as she slides past.  “Meeting Weiss there.  You’re not invited.”

“You think I want to go to Hoboken to watch you and Weiss be awkward around Blake?”

Yang pauses halfway down the hall and turns, hands on her hips, and Ruby sighs and shrugs.

“Obviously I want to watch you be awkward,” she amends.  “But fine.  Go do what you do.  I’ll just sit here, sad and alone in this enormous apartment, all by my lonesome.”

“Great,” Yang says, flashing a grin at her.  “Love you, don’t throw any parties while I’m gone, bye now.”

“Take a coat, moron!” Ruby yells after her as she disappears down the hall.

“Don’t baby me, cavewoman!” Yang bellows, even as she doubles back from the front door with a sigh and grabs her coat because Ruby’s right, like she so often is.  It’s November, nearly a half a year into recovery and home and relearning how to live in the world instead of just watching it go by, and it’s freezing outside.

 


 

It’s a long drive to Hoboken, traffic out of Manhattan moving at a crawl and creating time and space for her anxiety to rebuild itself until it’s overwhelmed her confidence again, and her fingers are tapping nervously against the steering wheel by the time she makes it to the hotel parking lot.  One of Weiss’s company cars is parked in a corner of the lot, driver lazing against the hood and preoccupied with a cigarette and his phone, and it tempers the sharper edges of her nerves because Weiss is here, and Blake is here, and they’re going to find a way to figure it all out together.  She makes it out of the car and up the elevator until she turns the corner to find Weiss standing outside of the room Blake’s rented, shoulders sharp under her coat and arms crossed over her chest.

“Hey,” Yang says softly, pulling her arms free until she can hold onto Weiss and close her eyes and measure her breaths against Weiss’s careful exhales warming the shoulder of her coat.  “This is a good idea, right?”

“Who knows at this point,” Weiss mutters into her shoulder.  Her posture doesn’t break, her breathing staying steady, but her fingers dig into Yang’s back even through her coat and sweater and shirt.  She pauses and then pulls back, hands going automatically to the collar of Yang’s coat and straightening it primly.  “Though I doubt she’s in Hoboken just for fun.”

“Oh,” Yang says, faint and distracted.  Behind her and around the corner the elevator dings again, distant and bothersome.  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Her hands curl around Weiss’s arms, wrapping gently around the soft scratch of her coat and tracking up to her shoulders and down again, closing her eyes and breathing into the way it settles her, the grounding sense of Weiss’s constancy, even when they’re both reeling with uncertainty.  She can’t wear heels anymore-- or yet, depending on how indignant she’s feeling about it on a given day-- and her oversized presence, the one projected through the tailored lines of her suit and the overbright shine to her oxfords, shrinks as her nerves grow, and Yang considers, momentarily and not for the first time, if they should just forget the entire idea of Blake and move on.    

“Yang?”

She nearly trips over her own feet with how quickly she turns at the sound of Blake’s voice.  She’s standing by the corner to the elevator, four doors away, an empty chasm of carpet and space between them that feels broader than the pit under the delta that Adam’s body had fallen into, and Yang’s mouth drops open silently and she internally overcorrects because she could never forget about Blake, anymore than she could ever forget about Weiss.

Blake’s eyes dart past Yang to where Weiss has shifted to stand at her side, chin lifted and her business face-- the cold and corporate one, unreadable save for an unwavering air of arrogance-- pasted on.  

“Weiss,” Blake says, softer, less of a question and more of a plea, and Weiss stiffens at Yang’s side.  

“What are you doing here?” Blake steps closer, cautiously, one hand weighted down with a bag from a grocery store, the other tight around a cup of tea, the label on the teabag still swinging from her abrupt stop and start.

“What are you doing here?” It’s not what she means to say, and it comes out sharper than she intends, sharp enough that a new ache stabs through her chest at the way Blake flinches and stops covering the distance between them.  Yang grips at her arm without meaning to, the tension pulling her body tight burning through her reconstructed bones, and Weiss’s hand settles over hers automatically.  Blake’s eyes flicker down, jaw setting and grocery bag rustling with the clench of her fist.

“How are you?” Blake says after a moment.  Her eyes slide deliberately along Yang’s arm, up to the narrow scar hidden in the shadow of Weiss's jawline.  

“It’s fine,” Yang says after a long hesitation.  She shoves her hands into her coat pockets just to have somewhere to put them when they want to reach for Weiss, for Blake, for the both of them.  It’s too soon, too much, like she so often is, and she holds herself back carefully because Blake’s run once already and Yang isn’t sure she’ll survive it if she runs again.  

“Getting better every day.”  She lets her gaze fall down towards Blake’s hip, hidden under a sweater and leather jacket that can’t possibly be warm enough for the November chill.  “How about your-- um--”

“Stab wound?” Blake says, dry and flat and so very like the first time she spoke to them, all those months ago in a ramshackle house in rural Hungary, distant and careful and twisting nausea into Yang’s stomach.  Weiss is still silent, save for a barely audible whistle of an inhale between her teeth at Blake’s words.

“Where’d you go, Blake?” Yang says helplessly.  Weiss shifts minutely closer, enough that her arm presses into Yang’s, present and unyielding, and Yang curls her hands into fists in her pockets.  “You left.”

“I-- it seemed like the best choice,” Blake says.  The elevator dings behind her and her head snaps around, posture tensing and breath catching audibly.

“Blake,” Weiss finally speaks, quiet and firm.  She tilts her head towards the door to Blake’s room.  “Should we talk inside?”

“Yeah,” Blake says after a moment.  “Right.”  She slides by them in the hallway, careful and distant, and doesn’t say anything when Yang automatically reaches out to help with the groceries, instead hooking the bag over the wrist with her tea and digging the key out of her pocket one-handed.

Blake holds the door open for them and Yang files in behind Weiss to stand awkwardly by the window, hands in her pockets and skin prickling with the dry heat blasting out of the vents.  Weiss fold her coat over the chair at the desk and settles down into it elegantly, one knee hooked over the other and chin propped delicately on her fist, a counterpoint of calm to the way Yang’s brimming with nervous energy, as Blake unloads food and a four pack of beer into the mini fridge.

“Planning on staying for a while?” Yang asks without meaning to, cursing her own lack of a filter when Blake hesitates and freezes, halfway to closing the fridge.  She turns her focus to shrugging out of her own coat, dropping it onto the still-made bed, because it’s something to focus on that isn’t the way Blake’s shoulders shrink in on themselves, achingly similar to a doorway in a ramshackle house in rural Hungary, before she’d settled into a space that Yang hadn’t even known needed to be filled between her and Weiss.

“Not really sure what I’m doing at this point, to be honest,” Blake says.  She reaches, haltingly, back into the fridge, and surfaces with three beers, holding two out like a peace offering.  

Yang takes one automatically, glad to have something to do with her hands; Weiss is slower, frowning down at the drip of condensation that darkens the gray of her pants just above the knee and swiping a thumb over the label.  The dry air from the heater prickles on Yang’s skin, too similar to another hotel room in another country, half a year and a whole lifetime ago, and she wonders if it would be unfair to Blake to curl around Weiss and sink into the comfort of her, unfair to Weiss to leave her to carry the conversation for the three of them.  

“Where did you go?” Yang says instead, not looking away from the bottle in Weiss’s hands but not moving from her spot by the window, creating an awkward isosceles of distance between all of them and leaving Blake as much space as she can to navigate the moment.  “After Berlin.  Ruby said you went to the hospital with us and didn’t leave until we were both in surgery, but then you just walked out.  Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Blake says eventually, and Yang’s hands tighten around the beer bottle as her head snaps up.  Blake holds out her hands placatingly, mouth turned down into an uncomfortable frown. Weiss doesn’t move, still staring thoughtfully down at the bottle in her hand.   “I mean, I didn’t have a plan in mind.  I just thought it was better for me to not be there.”

“How could you think that?” Yang’s shoulders tense, fingers tightening around the beer bottle until condensation-slick glass squeaks against her palms.  She looks from Blake’s frown over to Weiss, impassive and unconcerned, and for the first time that she can remember feels a flash of frustration at Weiss’s ability to maintain her calm under stress because Yang’s three breaths away from a panic attack and Weiss looks like she’s waiting to order coffee.   “After every-- you--”

“I burned my whole life to the ground for Adam,” Blake says, thin and hollow, cracking.  She plucks at the label on her beer, unopened like all of theirs, peeling at the paper corners, glancing obliquely at Yang, at Weiss, never direct enough to catch.  Weiss doesn’t move, chin still propped on her fist, thumb swiping methodically along the beer label, and Yang’s free hand curls into a fist tight enough that her rebuilt muscles spasm.  “Cut myself off from my family so that I could enable every terrible thing he did.  He should have been in prison years ago and he wasn’t because--”

“Seriously?” Yang sets the bottle down onto the dresser, heavy enough that drops of condensation fling off of it onto the cheap lacquer and Blake’s eyes snap over towards it, Weiss’s eyes shifting from Blake to Yang, the straight line of her mouth finally softening. 

“I should have protected you from him,” Blake says after a moment, dragging her eyes from Yang to Weiss.  Her posture finally breaks and she takes a hesitant step closer to Weiss, and then another, and Yang’s breath tangles behind her sternum when Blake reaches out, careful fingertips ghosting along the exposed side of Weiss’s jaw and the notched line left under it from the edge of a machete, invisible to anyone who doesn’t know it’s there but burning bright to anyone who does.  

Yang’s fingers dig into her palms, tension heavy through her body, mirroring the silent snap of Weiss’s posture even as her expression keeps cool and calm, head tilting minutely to maintain the barest of distance between her skin and Blake’s fingertips, eyes level and appraising on Blake’s.

 Blake lets out an unsteady breath and pulls her hand back, shaking her head.    “I should have-- I made so many wrong choices and--”

“Seriously?” Yang says again, strained and choking, and it snaps the focus of the room back over to her.  “You left because you think we wanted you to protect us?”

“He hurt you because of me,” Blake says.  Her voice wavers and her eyes burn bright and it’s the closest Yang’s been to her in six months but she’s still so far away, and Weiss is somehow so far away in a too-small hotel room but has never felt closer as she shifts, finally, hands folding in her lap and gaze settling firmly on Yang.  “Both of you.”

“Blake,” Yang says, strangled, unsure, because she knew this would be hard but she hadn’t know how much it would hurt, to have Blake within arm’s reach but have to watch, pinned in place, as she stands there drowning in guilt, unable to look anywhere but at Yang, at Weiss, the scars from Adam they’d both brought back from the delta.  “We-- I dragged us out there--”  

“For God’s sake,” Weiss snaps out suddenly, on her feet before Yang can even register that she’s spoken for the first time since they stepped inside, and she’s meticulously buttoning her suit jacket and advancing on Blake until she stumbles against the dresser with wide eyes.  Weiss yanks at the edge of Blake’s jacket, leather creaking in one hand, and her other hand digs under the edge of Blake’s sweater until scar tissue flashes in the artificial hotel lighting.  Yang’s lungs burn and her palms itch, her body aching with a need to move, to touch, to be as close as possible to the both of them, but her boots stay rooted to the floor and she watches helplessly as Blake’s eyes go wide and she sucks in a loud breath when Weiss shoves at her shirt until she can press a hand over the scar at her hip.

Weiss’s free hand wraps around Blake’s wrist and drags against resistance until she can press Blake’s palm over the scar hidden under her jaw.  Yang pushes a hand over her mouth, holding her breath in her lungs because surely if she breathes too loudly it’ll all shatter, the way Blake’s staring wide-eyed and frozen down at Weiss, the way Weiss is holding onto her like she could evaporate at any moment, the matching tension holding each of them sharp and unmoving so close to each other and far from Yang.  

 “This isn’t your fault,” Weiss says sharply, pushing Blake’s hand harder against her jaw.  “He hurt us because he could.  He hurt Yang because she fought him, and he did this--" She presses Blake's hand harder still to her skin, firm and unyielding-- "Because I insulted him.  That’s not your fault.”

Blake looks past Weiss’s shoulder, to where Yang’s still rooted to the floor, eyes wide and hand uncertain at Weiss’s jaw, and Yang reaches for her own arm automatically.  

“She’s right,” she says, shaking her head and rubbing at her arm.  “He-- you’re not responsible for what he did to us anymore than I’m responsible for not finding Ruby when I was fourteen, and we’re not mad that you didn’t protect us.”

Weiss pushes harder against Blake’s scar, enough that Blake’s free hand grips tight around the edge of the dresser and her breathing shifts audibly, and Yang’s stomach twists at the sound.  

“We’re mad that you left,” Weiss says, deathly calm and dangerously smooth, and a shiver rips through Yang that has nothing to do with nerves because there’s always been a power to Weiss, a weight to her attention that’s always pinned Yang in place and held her steady, and Blake’s finally found her feet under it, pitch black hair and gold-bright eyes and all her shattered pieces patched together and on display, burning at the seams and forever challenging Weiss, pushing back in a way Yang’s never been able to.  “Why are you here now, Blake?”

Weiss looks over her shoulder, not letting go of the grip she has holding Blake’s hand to her jaw, leveling a meaningful glare at Yang until she manages to break her feet loose and move, finally, covering the distance between them in stuttering steps with hands clenching and releasing over and over at her sides, until she’s a hairsbreadth away from Weiss’s back, close enough that she can see her reflection in Blake’s eyes and almost feel the wavering exhales of her every breath.

“Why are you here?” Yang echoes, ragged where Weiss is calm, pressing even closer to Blake, and Yang moves without meaning to, reaching with her damaged arm and dragging her fingertips along Weiss’s forearm until she can cover Weiss’s hand over the scar on Blake’s hip, burning and shuddering with Blake’s uncertain breaths.  

“For you,” Blake finally says, helpless and burning, looking from their joined hands on her skin to Weiss, to Yang, hand gripping tight enough to the edge of the dresser that it creaks audibly.  “Because I’m tired of running.”

“Then stay,” Weiss says savagely, and hooks a hand behind Blake’s neck and yanks, pulling her down until she can kiss her, all pent-up aggression and six months of grief, and Yang’s stomach drops out, free hand landing at Weiss’s side and skidding down the material of her jacket to land at her hip.

Blake jerks back, breathing heavily, looking between the two of them and dark spots burning hot on her cheeks.  “I don’t unders--”

“Don’t overcomplicate it,” Weiss says, fingers twining with Yang’s and pulling away from Blake’s hip finally so she can press a kiss to Yang’s knuckles, and it’s not new, not by a long stretch, the way it feels to have Weiss’s lips on her skin after so many years, but it still sends a thrill down her spine, molten heat stretching down her limbs that’s part Weiss and part the smoldering gold in Blake’s gaze as pieces click together in her eyes and part the stark contrast between Weiss's pale skin and Blake's darker tone, a clean line blurring the longer Yang looks at it.

“Are you sure?” she says, still looking between the two of them, gaze wobbling between uncertainty and relief.

“God, yes, we’re sure,” Yang breathes out, pushing closer, and Blake reacts immediately, hands fumbling with the button on Weiss’s jacket and grabbing for her waist and mouth slanting against hers, kissing her hard and turning and lifting her easily up onto the dresser, one hand reaching back for Yang the second Weiss is settled.  Yang doesn’t know where to put her hands but forgets to worry because Blake’s craning around to kiss her, one hand reaching back and grabbing for the back of her head. Yang’s lungs burn but she crowds closer, one hand landing on Weiss’s knee and the other skidding up along the side of Blake’s neck, mapping the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone, and then suddenly Weiss is there, hands dragging Blake forward again until Yang pulls back enough to pull in deep gasping breaths.  

Weiss's hands press against Blake’s cheeks and hold her in place, eyes shut and forehead tipping against Blake’s, breath unsteady, and Yang curls a hand around her wrist, thumbing over her pulse and dropping her chin down onto Blake’s shoulder, free arm wrapping around Blake’s stomach easily.  

“Come home with us,” she mumbles, tilting her head until she can press a kiss to the side of Blake’s neck and watch the way Weiss’s eyes are still shut.  Her hand presses flat over Blake’s stomach, lips pressed over her thundering pulse and thumb resting easily over Weiss’s as it matches pace, and she closes her eyes and breathes in slowly because they’re all here, now, whole and breathing and together, and the aching emptiness in her ribcage, the unsteady uncertainty between her and Weiss that even a lifetime of history couldn’t quite compensate for, is righted with Blake standing between them.

“Stay,” Weiss says softly.  She drags one hand from Blake’s cheek to Yang’s hair, and Yang’s pulse stumbles and she presses her face further into Blake’s neck, as much to mask the edge to her inhale as because she’s not ready to let go yet.  Blake’s hand covers hers, her other roaming from Weiss’s cheek to her hair to the knot in her tie.  “With us.”

A phone rings shrilly, cutting off Blake’s inhale and shattering the air between the three of them, and Yang straightens up automatically.  Instinct has her stepping back, creating space for Blake, for Weiss, but Weiss’s eyes snap over to her and Blake’s hand tightens, holding her in place, and she freezes, uncertain, as the phone keeps ringing.

“Ignore it,” Weiss grumbles.  “I’ll deal with it later.”

Blake hums noncommittally, tugging at Weiss’s tie and tilting her head to one side, and Weiss’s eyes go wide over Blake’s shoulder when a hand reaches into her jacket, Blake fishing Weiss’s phone out from the inside pocket and holding it up in front of her face.

“It’s okay,” she says, voice low and syrupy, and she turns halfway to curl an arm around Yang’s waist, the movement dislodging her chin from where it had been resting on Blake’s shoulder and the sudden pressure at her waist  vacuuming air straight out of Yang’s lungs.  “We’re not going anywhere.”

Weiss raises an eyebrow, clearing her throat and glancing from her phone still dangling in Blake’s hand to Yang’s wide eyes, and then hops delicately off the dresser.  She straightens her tie and buttons her jacket neatly, and snatches her phone out of Blake’s fingers, pausing only to dig a hand into Blake’s back pocket and resurface with the room key, one side of her mouth lifting elegantly when Blake’s breathing shifts and her hips tilt into Yang’s.

“You two behave,” Weiss says coolly, and she pockets the key and strides out of the room, leaving the both of them to stare after her until Yang shakes her head and pulls back from Blake’s hold on her waist.

“You’re really staying?” She shoves her hands into her pockets, curling them into fists to keep them in place because her skin feels hot, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the sputtering heater by the window and everything to do with how her palms still burn from Blake’s skin.  

“If you’ll have me,” Blake says, confidence vanishing immediately and arms wrapping around herself.  “Yang, I-- are you sure this is what you want?”

“Only if you’re not going to leave again.”  It comes out harsher than she means for it to, and regret flares deep in her stomach when Blake flinches back miserably.  Yang pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, tilting her head back and closing her eyes so she can gather the threads of her disparate thoughts without getting distracted thinking about the curve of Blake’s mouth.

She breathes out slowly and opens her eyes and immediately regrets it, because her shoulders tilt towards Blake anyways.  Blake drops down to sit on the edge of the bed, propping her elbows on her knees and scrubbing at her face, and Yang steps towards her without meaning to, jerking to a halt halfway there.

“I-- we just want you to stay,” Yang says softly.  “We can figure everything else, all the details-- we can figure all of that out together when we get to it.  But we just want you to stay.”

Blake laughs into her hands, dry and humorless, palms dragging down her face until she can drop her chin into her hands and stare up at Yang.  “You know, this really isn’t what I was expecting when I came here.”

“What’d you expect, then?”  Yang makes it across the rest of the distance between them, pivoting on one heel until she can sit down on the edge of the bed as well.  Her arm-- her whole arm, the undamaged one, the one that doesn’t ache in the winter chill-- presses against Blake’s side.

Blake doesn’t answer for long seconds, still staring straight ahead, and then she sighs, back lifting and lowering slowly with the breath.  Yang winds her hands together and holds them tight in her lap.  It feels pointless, after she’d had a taste of Blake’s pulse point and a hand dangerously low on her hip, half on scar tissue and half dragging at the waist of her jeans, barely thirty seconds earlier, but she digs her fingernails into her hands anyways.

“I don’t know,” Blake says eventually.  “I hoped-- I thought you’d be together.  After we talked at the hotel, after watching how you two looked at each other-- I just wanted to be sure you were both happy.”

She rolls her head over until she can look at Yang, and Yang drops her elbows onto her knees and mirrors her posture, head propped on her fist so she can stare right back.  There’s a fullness to her cheeks that hadn’t been there six months ago, a warmer flush to her skin instead of the sallow overtones that had lingered after they dragged her out of her dark house in Hungary; she’s put on weight, her hips and cheekbones no longer jutting out, instead settling into a lean, healthy build.  

“I missed you,” Yang says quietly.  “I-- I’ve always loved Weiss and I always will, but I-- we-- we missed you, Blake.  After everything we all went through, and then you were just gone.”

“I wanted to protect you,” Blake says, barely above a whisper.

Yang rolls her eyes, because she doesn’t have anything else to do except bump her shoulder against Blake’s, because Weiss has always been better with words, because she doesn’t know how to put words to how all she’s wanted since they set out from a hotel room in Romania is for them all to come home and be together, the three of them, and now she’d give anything to keep them all together.

“He’s gone,” Yang says softly.  “Adam’s gone.  Cinder’s gone.  You’re safe, Weiss is safe, I’m safe, Ruby’s home.  We can just live our lives.”

“And you’re sure this is what you want?” Blake asks again, uncertainty dragging the question down.  “You and Weiss, you want-- this, with me-- all of us--”

“Yes,” Yang says, unwavering, solid, sure, because she’s terrified of Blake leaving again but she knows, here with Blake in her sights and Weiss just outside the door, lips still tingling and hands still burning from kissing and holding the both of them, that this is what they need.  She sits up straighter and turns, hand curving along Blake’s jaw and pulling until she sits up as well and follows Yang’s touch, leaning closer until Yang can kiss her again.  It’s softer than earlier, less desperate and more patient, because they have so much time to do everything they need to, a whole empty horizon to fill together, all three of them, and there’s no need to rush.  Her mouth drags slowly over Blake’s, spine arching forward when Blake’s fingernails rake along the back of her skull--

“If you’re both quite done being sappy,” Weiss says archly, and Yang jerks back abruptly, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand without thinking about it and cheeks flushing dark as much from kissing Blake as from Weiss surprising them.  She’s standing over them, arms folded over her chest and one eyebrow lifted imperiously, corporate and disaffected, and a silence stretches over the three of them for a short burst of seconds before Yang scoffs and Weiss’s posture breaks.  

“Work crisis averted?” Yang slings an arm around Blake’s shoulders, pulling her into her side, pulse tripping at the way Blake fits against her.  It’s different than Weiss, a variable shade of right, and she glances back to Weiss, who’s looking down at them with her hands clasped in front of her, mouth soft and eyes softer, the way she’s only ever looked at Yang, uncertainty crowding into the back of her gaze.

“Weiss,” Yang says quietly, head tilting to one side, because this was always about them, all of them, together, and Weiss’s insecurity has no place in that pattern.  Blake hesitates, leaning back just enough to glance at Yang and then over at Weiss, and then holds out a hand, reaching until she can hook a finger around Weiss’s palm, and then another, pulling and pulling until Weiss finally gives and steps closer and closer still, letting herself be pulled until she’s crowded between their knees, held in place by Blake’s hand in hers and Yang’s hand at her back.

“You’re enjoying being the tall one right now, aren’t you,” Yang mumbles, forehead tilted against Weiss’s arm.  It earns her a laugh from Blake, watery and warm, and a slap on the back of the head from Weiss, and she laughs into the material of Weiss’s suit.

“Let’s go home,” Weiss says, hand dragging through Yang’s hair gently.  She steps back and holds a hand out to each of them, and Yang lets herself be pulled up to standing.  Blake follows a beat later, and there’s a moment of uncertainty where Weiss’s fingers start to slacken before Yang holds tight and then reaches out and catches onto Blake’s with her free hand, closing the circuit and nodding resolutely, firmly, like she knows what she’s doing.  

There’s a small sound from Weiss, uncertain and quiet but warm, and Yang glances from Weiss to Blake and then to where Blake’s shifted their hands until her fingers are winding between Weiss’s.  It’s careful and deliberate and her eyes are locked onto Weiss’s, wide open and scared but unwavering, and more than anything-- more than the way Weiss had kissed Blake, more than the way Blake had fit into her side and kissed her softer than anything Yang had ever felt not two minutes earlier-- it settles warm and sure in Yang’s chest, spreads through her limbs.

“Let’s go home,” she echoes, and squeezes their hands and then pulls free so she can pick up Weiss’s coat with one hand, Blake’s suitcase with the other.  She tilts her head towards the door and clears her throat and Weiss rolls her eyes but marches towards the door anyways, shoulders square and chin up and pulling Blake along, and Yang follows, stomach flipping because Blake’s smile for Weiss, for her, for them is familiar but so new outside of the delta, in a safer place and a quieter world where they have so much time to learn to live together.

“How long are you in the US?” Weiss says, hand still locked with Blake’s as they make their way down the hall.  Blake’s stride is shorter than usual so she can match Weiss’s pace easily, and Yang trails behind them, watching how Blake’s pulled Weiss’s hand in front of her so she can hold it with both of hers; they turn the corner to the elevator in front of her and there’s a wonder written into Blake’s profile as she stares down at Weiss’s hand in hers, fingers tracing over her knuckles and the inside of her wrist reverently.

“I, uh,” Blake says after a minute, shaking her head and glancing back at Yang, who raises an eyebrow and shrugging.  She’s used to being dumbstruck by Weiss; it’s nice to not be the only one anymore.  “I think my ticket’s for a couple of weeks.  It was the cheapest.”

“I have a friend at the State Department,” Weiss says as they step into the elevator.  It’s a tighter fit than it needs to be, with neither Weiss nor Blake willing to give up their hold and Yang squeezing in on Blake’s other side with both her broad shoulders and Blake’s suitcase, pressed into Blake’s hip and flushing more than she’d like to admit at the way she’s plastered against Blake.  Weiss smirks at her, because Weiss is a brat who enjoys watching Yang squirm, and Yang sticks her tongue out because she doesn’t know what else to do.  “If you’re interested in staying longer, that is.”

“I think I might be,” Blake murmurs, voice low and warm, and it rolls down Yang’s spine in a way that shrinks the elevator to half the size and, judging by the way Weiss’s eyes go twice as dark, has the same effect on her.  “If that’s okay with the both of you, that is.”

“Uh,” Yang says, and then shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling, breathes in deep, focuses on something besides the way her mind and her chest and her hands keep tracking back to the way Blake had lifted Weiss up onto the dresser and then dragged her forward for her own kiss.  “Yes.”

“Yeah,” Weiss adds, uncharacteristically ineloquent, and then shakes her head, cheeks smeared red.  “I mean--yes.  Of course.  That’s why we came to see you.”

“You’re both sure?” Blake says quietly.

“Yes,” Yang says, and Weiss echoes it without hesitation.  A flush crawls up Blake’s neck, appealing and calming at the same time, and Yang’s palms itch because all she wants to do is to touch and to hold, to grab onto the both of them and not let go, but they’re in a hotel elevator in New Jersey and all she can do is stand there and stare instead.

The wind in the parking lot’s picked up, and Yang can barely hear Weiss’s voice as she gives her driver the rest of the day off and they load Blake’s suitcase into the car Yang drove over.  There’s a moment where Weiss and Blake look uncertainly towards the front seat, to Yang, to each other, and she rolls her eyes.

“I won’t hold it against either of you if you sit back there together,” she says with a deeply put-upon sigh.  “But if you start making out without me I will be offended until the end of time.”

“You’re so kind,” Blake deadpans, but Weiss just rolls her eyes and pulls at her coat until Yang leans down so she can kiss her softly and with a hint of promise before she slips into the backseat.  Blake pauses, hesitant, and Yang stares because there are still lines to learn, boundaries to navigate, but then Blake leans up and brushes a kiss against her mouth as well, careful but warm, a hand pressing soft over her sternum for a moment before she follows Weiss into the backseat.

Yang stands stupidly for a moment, mouth burning and chest warm, before she drops down into the driver’s seat.  In the rear view, Blake’s sitting uncertainty, ramrod stiff, and Weiss rolls her eyes and slaps at her arm until she relaxes and leans into Weiss’s side, and Yang smiles.  

“So.”  Yang starts that car and pulls out of the parking lot.  “Where’d you go after Berlin?”

There’s a moment of quiet in the backseat, and Yang chances a look back to where Blake’s chin has dropped towards her chest and Weiss presses a kiss to her hair.

“Budapest,” Blake says after a moment. “To see my parents.”

“Oh yeah?”  Yang smiles into the rearview, meets Blake’s eyes and then Weiss’s.  “I bet that was good.”

“Yeah,” Blake says softly.

“It’d be nice to meet that at some point,” Weiss says quietly.  “If you’re okay with that.  Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’d like that,” Blake says, soft and barely audible.  “One day.”

There’s a long stretch of silence from the backseat, and Yang does her best to keep her focus on the road in front of her.  She waits until a red light to look over, and Blake’s practically curled into Weiss’s lap, barely held in place by her seatbelt.

“That’s terrible road safety, you know,” Yang says conversationally.

“Don’t hit anything then,” Weiss retorts, and Yang smiles, deeply and stupidly enamored, and Weiss’s hand curls into Blake’s hair, and then suddenly she lets out a yelp.  “Did you just bite me?”

A car horn blares behind them and Yang laughs, almost as loud as the way Blake laughs, because Weiss is slapping at her leg, as she turns around and sets off towards the tunnel.  She pulls over into the left lane and accelerates, relishing as much in abusing the powerful motor of Weiss’s favorite car as she is in the sound of Weiss and Blake laughing in the back and the fact that Blake is coming home with them, that the last missing piece of her life is slotting into place. 

She skips past traffic and merges smoothly into the toll line, glancing back into the rear view to where Blake and Weiss are curled around each other but looking up to where she’s sitting, and keeps moving forward, taking them into the tunnel and home together.