honey, there is no right way

Isla

The cries of alarm sound from the clinic just as Isla and Ever reach the street where it's located, on their way back from her lunch break. And the medic is dropping the bag with their groceries in it without a second thought (she'll apologise later, especially because they'll likely need to go shopping a second time now) to break into a run for the entrance to see about the commotion.

Blood speckles the cobblestones before the clinic, and one of her fellow medics is holding the door open for the last of four individuals who are being hauled inside, all of them very worse for wear. Between scorches, ice burns, stab wounds and what even looks like a bite from an Attuned shift, it's clear not only that this has been one hell of a scrap, but that healing water has already been used in as many places as possible.

"They came from Rae's Fingers," the other medic is telling her, even as other patients scatter towards the side of the waiting room to make further space on the ground to lay the bodies out. Swearing under her breath, Isla is already trying to take in the worst wounds to prioritise.

"We need all the healing water we have," she says hurriedly. "And someone needs to go and get some more."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

Everest doesn’t run after Isla, not exactly—he matches her stride in a long, quick gait that’s too exacting to be called a sprint. His eyes snag on the bloodstains before they even cross the threshold, cataloguing colour, density, spread. His mind is already classifying: blunt force, penetrating trauma, elemental scarring. He follows Isla inside, shoulders tightening against the chaotic press of movement, his hands flexing at his sides as if to bleed out the static of too many things happening at once.

The moment Isla starts directing, he latches onto it like a lifeline. Orders are patterns; patterns are structure; structure keeps panic away. He’s on his feet in an instant, scanning the clinic with that sharp, restless attention. A bucket near the doorway. A basin pushed under a cot. His eyes snag on a pair of copper kettles stacked haphazardly in the corner, probably meant for boiling linens. Containers. Adequate.

He mutters it aloud as he moves, "Containers—capacity, weight, distance—" his mind breaking the problem into workable steps. He grabs the kettles, their handles clanging too loud in the chaos, and flinches at the sound but doesn’t stop.

Out on the street, the cold air slaps his face and helps him orient. He tucks the handles into one hand, clutching them tight against his thigh so they don’t swing, and pushes his stride into a fast, mechanical rhythm. Counting his steps. Measuring the blocks. The noise of the clinic falls away behind him, replaced by the distant crash of waves against Torchline’s cliffs and the rush of blood in his ears.

The fountain comes into view, its carved stone basin already gleaming faintly where healing water gathers. He kneels, careful and reverent, lowering the kettles in one by one. Each fills with a low gurgle that he measures in heartbeats—five, ten, fifteen—until he judges them full enough to carry but not so heavy he’ll spill or slow. Gripping the handles, his knuckles blanch white, and he lifts with deliberate control. His lips move soundlessly, rehearsing the path back, the steps in reverse. Back through the narrow alley, cut right at the cart, left at the blue shutters, straight into the clinic.

And when he bursts back through the door, breath sharp but his movements precise, he sets the kettles down with both hands, not a drop spilled, gaze finding Isla through the chaos. "Healing water—two full vessels," he reports, clipped and certain, before stepping back just enough to let the medics swarm in and make use of them.

"Will it be enough?"

I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through

Isla

People are already swarming under Isla's direction - finding beds, getting their cache of healing water, grabbing supplies of bandages and antiseptic, you name it - such that as the Remedy hears the murmur of Ever's voice cutting under the din like a strangely familiar lifeline, she's able to parse it from the rest of the chaos enough to spot him grabbing the copper kettles. "Thank you," she calls to him, already putting pressure on a nasty puncture wound to the gut, her hands and wrists painted red.

By the time he returns - in little less than ten minutes, if not even sooner - the chaos has subsided into something that isn't exactly calm, but could do a good impression of it if pushed. Two nurses in training sweep forward to collect the kettles that Ever has brought back, chirping their gratitude as they swarm away to find good use for it, and another one of the medics offers him a glad smile as he helps to settle those still in the waiting room, triaging where he can to reduce the number of people in the clinic.

When Isla emerges from the doors leading into the examination rooms and the ward, her hair has been dragged up into a messy bun and her hands scrubbed clean, though there are still splotches of red on her shirt. "Two are stable enough to leave already," she says quietly to him. "The other two aren't in a great way. They said they got into a fight down in the Fingers, something about tunnels having been flooded and gods know what else..." Sagging against the counter, she offers him an apologetic smile.

"You might have saved their lives with that water," she says. "Sorry I dropped the groceries, though..."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

Ever would still be catching up, mentally filing and re-filing the triage rhythm he’d just walked back into, when Isla appears. He stands a little straighter when she looks at him, as though bracing for another task, but her words slot neatly into a category his brain has prepared for: reporting back, offering gratitude, summarising outcomes. He can handle that.

His hands flex once at his sides before he exhales softly. "Groceries can be replaced," he says matter-of-factly, though his tone is softer when he adds, "Those two lives might not have been. It was the right trade." A small, almost mechanical nod punctuates the statement, but his gaze lingers on the faint red spattered against her shirt, his lips pulling down in a slight frown.

"Flooded tunnels suggest structural instability...Collapsed passages, or displaced currents." He’s aware he’s beginning to ramble, but his brain has already spun up scenarios, half-formed hypotheses tumbling out, because it was odd wasn't it? For all of Torchline's darker side, there was order to it. Fights just didn't break out like this, not when the heirarchy of who could do what and where and when in the Fingers had been long established.

Abruptly, he stops himself, clearing his throat and shifting the weight of his shoulders as if to file the tangent away for later. His eyes flick back to Isla, softer again. "Tell me what you need now. More water? Clean linens? I can go—?"

I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through

Isla

Were it not for the fact that she feels like she needs to wash and sterilise her hands all over again or that her shirt is still flecked with blood, Isla might have swept forward to kiss Ever for saying the exact right thing at the exact right time. "You're right of course," she says softly, her shoulders sagging, a relieved smile tugging at her lips. Glancing over her shoulder at a call from one of the other medics in the ward, by the time she turns back to the aviator, he's already deep in his hypothesis.

And Isla doesn't stop him, because it is strange. "One of them said it looked as though it had been done intentionally. Like someone had closed off a branch into one part of the Fingers. Two groups clashed over who was to blame over it, and so..." She gestures behind her. And so chaos. 

As for what she needs, her return smile is just as soft, Isla crossing a couple of steps towards him. "You've done plenty, I promise. This isn't your work to do, Ever, I'll make sure we can manage from here. Do you want to meet me at closing and we'll track back to get more groceries together? I can fill you in on anything else I find out."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

Ever’s frown would come immediately at Isla’s explanation, brow furrowing as his mind clicks through the implications. The Fingers are dangerous, yes, but even dangerous places have their rules, the sort of unspoken structure that keeps chaos from turning to full collapse. "Intentionally?" he murmurs, cataloguing the word with obvious weight. That would mean motive, planning, a breach of what balance Torchline usually manages to hold together. He doesn’t press further, but the thought slots itself firmly away to gnaw on later.

When Isla draws closer, he shifts—not away, but in mindful adjustment, the concern for germs and cross-contamination overriding the impulse to simply catch her hand. Instead he turns just so, offering her his elbow. It’s a small ritual, one they’ve unconsciously developed for these in-between spaces: when her hands are full, or his are occupied, or one or both of them have reason not to touch directly but still want that tether. His elbow fits comfortably against her side, his expression softening the moment she takes it.

"If you close up the clinic and then have to face another round of shopping, you won’t stop moving until dark." His thumb taps lightly against his sleeve in a tiny, unconscious staccato. "I know exactly what we need. I can go, pick everything up, and meet you at home. Then you can walk out of here and be done." He glances down at her shirt, the faint spatter of red not fully hidden despite her best efforts, then looks back up. "Or, if you’d prefer, I can meet you there and run you a bath, so it’s ready when you are." The offer is plain, practical, but his gaze holds an undercurrent of quiet affection, the sort that makes the phrasing less clinical than it sounds. "You shouldn’t have to do anything more after all of this."

I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through

Isla

Settling instantly and taking his offered elbow, Isla leans gently into Ever for a moment, as if using his presence to ground herself. She nods the confirmation - yes, intentionally - knowing that they're both going to be turning that over and over in their minds in the days to come. Her lips part to say that she knows, that it's fine, too used to being self-sufficient that it's admittedly a detriment more than anything to be lauded, and only as the aviator gives his suggestions does she stifle her protests.

"...Okay," she says, nodding softly. "You collect the groceries and I'll meet you at home after closing. Don't worry about the bath - I can deal with this." She gestures down at herself; fire is a cleanser as much as a bath might be, and the medic has that in abundance crackling through her veins.

"Thank you," she says again, giving his forearm a gentle squeeze before releasing him. "I better get back in there, but I'll see you soon, okay?"

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

Ever nods, the motion clipped but not unkind, committing Isla’s words to memory even as he quietly edits them to his own design. She might be able to scorch the blood away with fire, but the bath he has in mind isn’t just about being clean. It’s about warmth, about stillness, about giving her body and mind permission to stop. And it isn’t just for Isla either; he knows the act of preparing it will ground him, too, and of course he wouldn't mind sitting by the Remedy while she soaked, either.

He clears his throat softly in lieu of voicing any of that, a simple confirmation passing between them before he steps aside and leaves her to the work that still needs her. Outside, he retraces their route with deliberate precision, groceries list still fully intact in his head. The clerk gives him an odd look when he explains, with characteristic candour, why he’s back for the exact same items, but the explanation is delivered in such factual, matter-of-fact tones that it doesn’t leave room for humour at his expense.

Once the bags are in hand, Ever brings them back to Isla’s apartment. Each item finds its place with quiet efficiency—produce stacked, dry goods stored, cold items tucked away—and then, when the last cupboard door clicks shut, he pulls a bottle of red wine from its rack. Setting it on the counter, he uncorks it just enough to breathe and come to room temperature, ready to be poured when she finally walks in.

I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through

Isla

The sun is a bloody coin in the sky by the time Isla emerges from the clinic, sinking slowly towards the horizon. She locks up silently, spends a second or two taking deep breaths against the closed door, then peels herself away so she can head up the steps to the apartment. It's both a blessing and a curse to have the place so close, in truth - it means she's instantly available for any emergencies, but it also means she never really knows how to switch off. Still, it's as close as she's about to get tonight, and she clicks open the door with a soft call of hello to Ever.

As promised, she's clean and in a change of clothes as she steps in; a white blouse and a black pencil skirt, but it's all that she had tucked away in the clinic. "Everyone lived," she announces with no shortage of relief, smiling tiredly and clicking the door shut behind her. "They started to get real rowdy when they were feeling better, though. Safe to say no one knows who caused the flooding of the tunnels, still. But gods, enough of that for one night, right?"

Taking her hair own from the bun, she spots the red wine and lets her shoulders slump in relief. "You are perfect, Everest Hart," she announces.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

The scrape of her key in the lock has Ever on his feet at once, the small apartment suddenly feeling like it’s been waiting for her as much as he has. He moves with the kind of quiet economy that marks everything he does: cork eased free, glasses tipped just so, the red wine catching the light of the setting sun as it splashes into place.

Her announcement—everyone lived—pulls a soft chuckle from him, the sound faint but genuine. "Then you might be due for a few more of those...unusual tokens of gratitude," he murmurs, lips quirking as he imagines another heap of ill-gotten rings or half-broken necklaces dropped on her desk by rough hands that can’t articulate thanks in any other way.

When she lets her hair fall, his gaze follows with undisguised interest, as though he’s watching something familiar and miraculous all at once. He takes a few steps toward her, holding one glass delicately out until her fingers close around it. Only then does his hand slip to the small of her back, guiding her gently nearer. The kiss that follows is measured, polite in the way Ever always is, but the warmth beneath it is unmistakable. It carries all the unspoken relief of knowing she’s home, safe, and here with him—and the hint of something more he’s never quite able to mask when she’s this close.

I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through

Isla

"Gosh, you might be right there," Isla agrees through a soft, tired laugh. "Not that I don't appreciate their gratitude, but at this rate I will have enough treasure to need to bury it." She watches his steady hands pour wine with all the memory of a man who once worked at a bar, already smiling as she reaches out to accept the glass. Her thanks is lost in the sweet press of his lips, though, Isla melting forward and against him, as if she might be content to stand and kiss him and sleep here all in the entryway of the apartment.

"What a long day." She sighs as they part, delivering an extra kiss to his cheek before she slips out of her shoes, reducing her height by a good couple of inches. "I hope that your afternoon wasn't as eventful as mine," she adds, her free hand smoothing across Ever's chest before she reluctantly steps back. Taking a sip of wine and snagging her heels to put neatly away, she cocks her head towards the door suddenly as if worried she's hearing further ruckus down at the clinic.

It's just a few people bustling past on their way further into Haulani, though, and Isla huffs out a laugh of weary relief. "I will not be upset if there are no further surprises like that tonight."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

Ever lets a low chuckle slip, brushing his thumb idly along the line of her back as he answers, "Happy to help with burying it, though perhaps not in the Fingers." The tilt of his voice holds that same dry undercurrent he always seems to manage, even as his lips linger against hers just a fraction too long to be entirely polite.

When he pulls back, there’s a soft flush on his cheeks that has little to do with the wine. "No, nothing nearly as eventful. After shopping I...finished up some paperwork. Then some reading." His shoulders shifting faintly as though running through the mental ledger of tasks ticked off one by one.

The sound at the door catches his attention just as it had hers; his head cocks to the side in a decided canine angle until the bustle resolves into nothing more than passersby. Only then does he glance back, mouth tugging into a tired smile. "Selfishly, I hope so as well," he agrees.

There’s the briefest pause—hesitation, calculation—before his gaze drifts lower, affectionate and warm. "Could I tempt you to slip into something more comfortable?"...Or nothing at all? I did run you a bath, though you’ll likely need to heat it yourself as I believe the water temperature will be far lower than you like it to be." His eyes flick toward the door of the bathroom, one hand sliding into his pocket as if to keep himself from swaying her decision with the movement of his fingers against her skin

I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through

Isla

"Oh, never in the Fingers," Isla agrees with a melodic laugh. "Not just because of what happened today, but if any of those men uncovered it by accident, they might think me ungrateful." And as a former duchess, that simply won't do. Smiling as she has to practically force herself away from Ever's lingering kiss, once they've established that there are no imminent emergencies and her shoes are tucked away, it's with another (much needed) sip of wine that she hears about the rest of the aviator's day.

"Paperwork? Riveting," she says teasingly, but only because a large part of the end of her day had been consumed by the same. But then he's suggesting stripping off, and only the belated context of a bath stops the heat in her cheeks from creeping towards the tips of her ears. "Aw, Ever," she trills instead, padding back across to him and leaning up on her toes for another kiss, this one much less polite but no less sweet for it.

"That sounds wonderful. I would really like to do that," she tells him, kissing the tip of his nose and already breezing by to the bathroom. A moment later, her blouse lands outside the doorway, and her bra follows it a moment later.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

Ever tips his head, lips quirking at the wisdom of Isla’s answer. "Very prudent," he murmurs, the sound a quiet hum against her teasing. Her mockery of his afternoon earns a soft chuckle and a small, helpless shrug of his shoulders. "The paperwork is finished. Which means my evening is entirely free." His tone suggests—without flourish—that the only thing he intends to fill it with is her.

He means to head for the kitchen, already calculating what small snack might pair best with wine and a warm bath, when fabric drifts into the hall. First the blouse, then the bra. He stops. Blinks once. Twice. His mind parses the action with absolute clarity: intentional. Deliberate. An invitation.

The kitchen is forgotten. He turns immediately, quiet footfalls carrying him into the bedroom, and then to her. Isla will likely feel him before she sees him—; his lips pressing reverently to the slope of her shoulder, the faint exhale of his breath at her skin, and his hands bracketing her waist, large and careful yet carrying a heat that betrays his need. "There’s...a bit of an obstacle course, getting into the bath," he whispers, almost apologetic, as his lips glide down toward the point of her shoulder. She’ll know what he means: he couldn’t stop himself from shaping little barriers along the tiles, a subconscious attempt to still the water’s flow as the tub filled. "But—" his grip firms, voice dropping lower, steadier, "I'd be happy to make sure you get in safely." Even so, one of Ever's hands will drop to the top of her skirt, his thumb brushing beneath the fabric before moving seamlessly toward her hip in order to tug gently on the zipper.

I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through