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plutvisual · 1 year

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Fungi and Fae

NB Fae x AFAB Reader

AN: I wrote this last year while I was in the mood for fall. I'm a bit late for Valentine's but here's some fluff (and smut later in part two)!

Word count: 1.6k

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊Part Two (to be updated)𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

"You are looking devilishly beautiful today, m'eudail."

"I appreciate it." You mutter, eyes scanning your surroundings for brown caps or yellow growths. After years of gathering, you have grown quite adept at it.

“Won’t you spare me even one glance?”

The autumnal rain serves as a wonderful humectant for mushrooms- they come bursting forth from the ground and wood in vivid browns, yellows and striking black, well, the edible ones at least. A few of the local birds migrate for the season, leaving the woods serenely quiet. In their place, papery field maple seeds dance through the air like a set of wings carrying invisible bodies. Shades of red and orange permeate the woods, and even though you have looked out at the sea of colour countless times, the intensity of their hue and atmosphere always takes your breath away at the beginning of the season. It is your favourite time of the year, and it would always be much more enjoyable if it weren’t for your buzzing companion.

“I attended the most wonderful ball the other day, yet it was sorely lacking in good company. Would that you were there-”

“Your kind would have made me dance to death. Literally.” You quip, hiking your skirt up and stepping over a dead log. Conversation, if you could even call the slinging of words between the two of you, comes as naturally as breathing to you in the presence of Aetyn. Your grandmother had warned you about their kind since you were but a babe, cautioning you against their trickery. You were glad that she had trained you on how to handle them as it came into good use whenever you came out to forage.

Never accept gifts. Don’t stare at them for extended periods of time. If you encounter one, be gracious but maintain a boundary. You leave offerings of cream and pasties out for them, and wear a bell in the ribbon tying your hair.

After years of being around Aetyn, however, you have come to doubt the veracity of several claims. In the beginning they had attempted to ensnare you in all sorts of ways, fairy rings, gifts in the form of decadent chocolates and precious gems, wordplay. It all flowed over you like water. You presume that they gave up after the first two autumns.

Early on, you had accidentally gazed at them. It was hard not to- they have fine features so different from those of humans. It was as if fae were sculpted from marble, perfect and polished. Their smooth skin, hooked and noble nose as well as their androgynous beauty caught your gaze like a fish to bait. Nothing happened to you though, they just stared at you quizzically and asked if they had something on their face. Nonetheless, you still remain slightly guarded around Aetyn.

“Aetyn, would you ever consider chasing after a more naive, vulnerable maiden?” He’s quiet for a few seconds. You can almost hear the little cogs turning in his head.

“...but they don’t have your sharp tongue, or your bewitching-”

With a gasp, you clamber over to a massive queen bolete, brushing leaves and dirt from its cap before plucking it, its stem breaking from the earth with a satisfying crunch. You place it into your basket among a handful of porcinis, morels and chanterelles. Before you can stand and continue, you notice Aetyn laying belly-down on the grass with their head in their hands, long pink hair ostentatiously trailing down their shoulder.

“You have a look in your eyes when you find a good one. You smile so wide-” they have a sparkle in their eyes, you think you see their legs kicking in the air

“You’re so pretty.”

For some reason, the compliment feels oddly genuine, different from the other pet names that he piles onto you. Sensing the heat rising up your neck you look away, fussing with the mushrooms in your basket and wandering off to the clearing ahead. You’ve gotten used to Aetyn’s careless flirtation- they had used it as a tactic to trick you so you never take it to heart. Something about the look in their eyes strikes a chord within you this time, though. A jumble of strange, foreign emotions stir in your chest, so preoccupied are you with your thoughts that you make a near fatal mistake.

“Be careful!”

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your midriff and tugs you backward. You’re leaned forward, torso tipped precariously over a circle of mushrooms. Gingerly, Aetyn gathers you into their arms, pulling you upright and a few steps away from the fairy ring.

“It wouldn’t do for you to fall into the snare of another fae now would it?” In the circle of their embrace, you are acutely aware of their body against yours even through your shirt and your coat. Your eyes are drawn to their lashes- pink just like their hair, so fair that you had never noticed just how long they were, fanning across their rosy cheeks. Aetyn’s gaze trails down the features of your face and lands on your mouth, hands sliding down your shoulders to your wrists. The feeling of his skin on yours is surprisingly humanlike, soft and comforting, but what ever made you think it would be otherwise? The urge to say something…or to do something-

A light ring and plink snaps you out of your reverie. Tearing your eyes away from them, you twist around to see your ribbon and bell on the ground. Aetyn steps away from you, the usual ease and gracefulness gone from their lithe body. They bend over, picking the delicate ribbon up. Your fringe has come loose, the two neat braids threaded to the back of your head by your grandmother undone.

“May I?” Aetyn pushes back the hair that obscures your vision. You nod, taking a seat on a cushion of brown leaves.

Their fingers carting through your hair are tender, deft as they expertly do up the braids and secure them once more. It feels…good. The warmth of their fingers, which you have watched pointing and gesturing many a time, seeps into your scalp. For once, the two of you are silent and you realise that you are wholly unaccustomed to the quiet whenever Aetyn is around. You’ve just grown used to their chatter like the tweeting of a little bird hovering over your shoulder.

“It is done.”

You are unable to see it, so you run a hand over the back of your head and feel the braids just as they were when you left home. They really are surprisingly good at it. Your tongue slips loose, from the intimacy in that moment or the fluttering in your chest, you do not know.

“Thank y-” You slap a hand over your mouth, unable to stop the panic from bubbling and frothing over. You look at Aetyn warily but regret it in the exact same moment, because you can see your distrust reflected in their eyes. The wide grin plastered onto their face falls and they look away from you. Whatever little shreds of trust that they’d hoped to have built up with you had blown away in the wind, they must think.

It’s the first time that you’ve seen them look hurt and the sight claws at your heart. A few moments of unbearable quiet pass before you dust off your skirt and pick up your basket.

“I-I think that’s all I need for today.”

As the both of you walk through the lush woods, your mind is racing. With just one move, you’ve upended any semblance of kinship you shared with Aetyn. What were you going to do? Do you even want to do anything about it?

Just as you near the bend leading to your home, you come to the panicked conclusion that it would be awful to end the day this way. Aetyn has had every opportunity to capture you with trickery today, yet spurned it each time. Considering the seasons of your…relationship, you feel like you have shunned them. Summoning courage, you take a deep breath before spinning around so abruptly that Aetyn jumps.

“Today…was nice.” you bumble, acutely aware of how awkwardly your mouth forms the syllables. Your free hand twists the fabric of your shirt hopelessly.

“It was nothing. I am honoured to have your company.” They respond politely with a smile, eyes downcast. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish for a few seconds before

“Th…Th-thank you!” As soon as the two words leave your mouth, you squeeze your eyes shut.

This is it. I’m sorry for being such a foolish girl, grandmama.

What feels like an eternity passes and yet, you haven’t somehow been turned into a beetle, or been bound to servitude to a diabolical fae for the rest of your meagre mortal life, or anything really. It was quite anticlimactic.

Instead, you feel a rush of warmth in the air and the bristle of tree branches bustling against their neighbours and the sweet call of a bird somewhere. And you hear laughter- Aetyn’s laughter, bright and rich which makes your chest brim with weight and ache.

Your eyes still closed, a hand tugs gently against the nape of your neck and a pair of feather-soft lips plant a kiss on your brow.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He cradles your face in his hands. You feel compelled to lean into them but you remain rooted in place.

“Thank you.”

You place your basket on the kitchen counter, moving to don your apron and get started on dinner when your grandmother shambles into the room with her cane in hand.

“That’s a pretty flower in your hair,” she squints through the glasses perched on her nose, “wherever did you find it at this time of year?”

A hand flies to the back of your head, fingers tangling with little stems and soft, small flowers tucked into your braids. Your heart beats like the wings of a hummingbird.

“Oh my.”

Your grandmother peers at you with mirth.

“You have the look of someone in love, dear.”

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plutvisual · 1 year

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Step By Step -Old Dogs and New Toys, Part Two.

Part One

Summary:

“That’s the problem!” Vi interjects, throwing up her hands. “Cait’s mom already thinks I’m this big, nasty burden on her daughter. If –if Cait has to get me the right clothes, and teach me how to dance, and eat, and talk, and drink, and everything, that’s only going to prove Mrs. Kiramann right. Plus, Cait’s up to her eyeballs in casework. I don’t want her to have to take extra time just to teach me the ropes. I just want to be able to show up, have everything down, and… and surprise her a little. And, well, you’re the only other person up here who doesn’t look at me like I just crawled out of a sewer grate–”

“I understand why you came to me,” Grayson assures her. “Can you make weekends work?”

“I’ll make it fit.”

or, alternatively, Grayson helps Vi prepare for the Snowdown Gala and lowkey-highkey adopts Vi.

Pairing(s): Grayson x Reader, implied Vi x Caitlyn.

Rating: G for fluff and worldbuilding.

Word count: 9.6k.

You’ve always said her precinct office is something of an archaeological exhibition.

She agrees, but she thinks it’s because of the elaborate, gilded gold and blue trim everywhere –around the door frames, the windows, along the baseboards and crown molding, even along the built-in shelves that boast a scant few personal touches that she’s added over the years (a few potted plants that seem to live off spite alone, books, a couple pictures of you and her over the decades, and a couple trophies from shooting competitions). It’s regalia at its finest; a shrine to Piltover’s abundance and the institutions funded by it.

You maintain, however, that it’s because of the countless coffee mugs, case files, and old newspapers with half-finished crosswords scattered everywhere. “It’s like walking through history,” you joked the first time she’d shown you her office –though that had been a cubicle, way back in the day, when she was just a Sergeant. “Judging by the number of coffee cups and how dark the stains are, I’m going to guess the last time you slept was some time last year.”

She’d laughed then, and she laughs thinking about the memory now.

Grayson’s never been the tidiest person; she’s not terrible, but keeping up with menial cleaning when she’s knee deep in bureaucratic headaches and attempted coups by the Undercity just takes too much energy most days.

She has an assistant, now that she’s Sheriff. Lana keeps track of memos and calls, schedules her meetings, and clears coffee cups and old newspapers from her desk without complaint. Still, even with Lana’s help, her office still happens to be something of a disaster zone. Such are the hazards of often being hip deep in any variety of figurative shit.

So, when Lana opens one of the double doors that separate her office from the outside vestibule and announces that Grayson has a visitor, only for Vi to walk in, Grayson’s momentarily grateful that her office doesn’t look too disastrous. She doesn’t peg Vi as the type to mind clutter, but still. Standards, and all that.

The gratitude, however, fritters away to guilt when she catches Vi openly grimacing at all the filigree and expensive accoutrement. Can’t say I blame her. Grayson swallows, then offers Lana a smile and thanks before her assistant closes the door. “It’s good to see you, Vi. How can I help you?”

Vi jams her hands in her pockets and rocks back on the heels of her worn boots. “I need a favor.”

Grayson pauses, then pretends to glance over some paperwork Lana had laid out on her desk that morning. “Is it your sister?”

“No. It’s me.” At Grayson’s wary glances, Vi holds up her hands in a reassuring gesture. “It’s not anything illegal. It’s that–” Vi snaps her fingers until the words come to her. “That snowfall party.”

Grayson blinks, then nods when she connects the dots. “The Snowdown Gala.” She sets the paperwork back on her desk, then checks her calendar. “That’s… at the start of next month.” Shit. That’s sooner than I thought. I need to make sure my tux still fits. “What about it?”

“I…” Vi swallows, throat flexing, then looks away. “I –I don’t know what to do for it.”

“...It can be a lot to take in,” Grayson agrees, trying to reassure her, when Vi doesn’t offer any additional information. She studies Vi for a moment, then leans forward and crosses her hands against her desk. “Not that I’m unwilling to help you, but I’m certain that Caitlyn would–”

Grayson grimaces, but says nothing. Unfortunately, she’s not wrong.

“Plus, Cait’s up to her eyeballs in casework,” Vi continues without waiting for Grayson’s prompting. “I don’t want her to have to take extra time just to teach me the ropes. I just want to be able to show up, have everything down, and… and surprise her a little.” She takes a moment to catch her breath, then continues explaining. “And, well, you’re the only other person up here who doesn’t look at me like I just crawled out of a sewer grate–”

“I understand why you came to me,” Grayson assures her. She leans back in her leather desk chair, considering. It could work, she reasons as she checks her mental calendar. There’s enough time for fittings and some dance lessons, provided it can wait for the weekend. “Can you make weekends work?”

“I’ll make it fit.”

Grayson nods and smiles. “Then my wife and I would be happy to help you.”

Vi’s eyebrows spike upwards. “You have a wife?”

“I do.” Grayson grins and gestures to the picture frames on the bookshelves, then grabs a pad of paper and writes down her address while Vi examines them. “We’ve been married for… oh, nearly thirty years now. And we’ve known each other closer to forty.”

“Damn.” Vi nods, approving, then offers Grayson a crooked grin. “You scored.”

She laughs. “That I did.” She tears off the piece of paper and holds it out to Vi. “We’ll start with dance lessons, that way you can practice during the coming weeks. That is my personal address, so I appreciate your discretion.”

Vi nods, expression solemn, and tucks the paper into the pocket of her red jacket. “What about suits and shit?”

“I’ll have to schedule an appointment for a fitting consultation,” Grayson says as she makes a note to do just that. “But I should have something booked by next week.”

“‘Consultation?’” Vi’s face scrunches up. “What, we can’t just… I don’t know, go and buy one?”

Grayson suppresses a smile. “It’s not that simple, no. Shall I see you around one, on Saturday?”

“Sure.” Vi nods, then turns and walks towards the doors. She stops halfway and turns around again. “Uh, Grayson?” When she raises her eyebrows in question, the younger woman ducks her head, then nods. “Thank you.”

Grayson smiles and nods in return. “It’s my pleasure.”

…

There’s a knock on the door at a quarter past one on Saturday.

Vi grimaces when Grayson opens the door. “Sorry for being late. Got turned around a couple times.”

“No apology necessary.” Grayson ushers Vi inside, then closes and locks the door behind her. “I’m sorry for not giving you better directions.”

Her apology goes completely over Vi’s head; the younger woman is too distracted by the inside of Grayson’s home. Vi pivots slowly, staring at the decor, plush furniture, and various paintings decorating the walls. “You live here?”

“For nearly forty years.” She only got this place to make a life with you, after all. Grayson motions for Vi to follow her, then starts walking deeper into the house once she’s got Vi’s attention. “We wanted something small.”

Vi lets out a quiet, shocked laugh behind her. “‘Small.’”

Grayson grimaces, having caught her faux pas too late. “Relatively speaking.”

You’re in the back of the house, narrowing down record choices. You look up when Grayson walks into the room, then smile warmly when Vi follows. “Oh, good. I was worried you got lost.” You set the small stack of vinyls down, walk towards the two of them, then hold out your hand and introduce yourself. “You must be Violet. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Vi returns the handshake with a wary smile. “Everyone just calls me ‘Vi.’ And I’m sure the Sheriff has a few opinions about me.”

“Nothing negative, I promise.” You glance at Grayson, then wink teasingly before looking back at Vi. “Maybe a little exhausted at times, but that’s probably the caffeine withdrawals talking.”

“There’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Grayson fires back with a smirk.

You laugh, then go back to your collection of records. “So, Vi, how much experience do you have with dancing?”

“Uh…”

You bite back a smile when Vi’s voice trails off, then put a few records back on the shelf. “We’re starting from scratch, then.”

Vi’s shoulders hunch up. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no, not at all!” You wave one hand, then pull a record out of its protective paper covering and place it on the gramophone. “It’s not a problem. We’ll just start with learning how to pick out rhythm in a song.”

Grayson peers over your shoulder. “Oh, ‘River’s Waltz.’ Good choice.”

“Well, I figured a waltz would be best,” you explain as you move the gramophone arm and set the needle in place. “They always play one at the gala, and it’s an easier dance to pick up.” You turn the gramophone on, then turn to Vi once the sound of melodious strings and horns starts flowing from the speaker. “Alright, so what you’re listening for is the beat of the song. That’s the measure you’ll use to pace yourself during the dance. All waltzes are in three-four time counts.” You start clapping your hands along to the beat to illustrate your point. “Each measure in music has four counts, but a three-four count only uses three beats, then leaves the fourth as a rest –so, one, two, three, rest. One, two, three, rest.”

Vi nods, head bobbing in time with your counts. “I can kinda feel it with how the music flows.”

“Good! Very good!” You motion for her to step into the space and have her stand next to you on the rug. “So, right now, we’re just going to get you familiar with feeling that beat. Can you feel the emphasis on the first beat of every measure?”

“A little.”

Grayson watches you for a moment with a soft smile. Such a natural.

But then, that’s why you’re the Professor and she’s the Sheriff.

She picks up a book and settles in her arm chair after a couple minutes. The last thing she wants to do is make Vi uncomfortable with her staring. (Though, if she happens to steal a glance every now and then and smile at your enthusiasm, or Vi’s earnest attempts, that’s between herself and her novel.)

…

By the time the day’s lesson concludes, Vi’s advanced from finding the rhythm of a song to practicing a simple waltz.

“You’re doing well,” you assure her when Vi seems discouraged. “You’re already good on your feet. Just keep practicing and you’ll have it down handily before the gala.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.” You pluck a record from your extensive collection, then hand it over to Vi. “This is the Snowflake Waltz. It was one of the most popular pieces written at the height of the jazz movement. It’s played every year at the Snowdown Gala as part of tradition. The steps we worked on today will work fine with the song.”

“Right.” Vi nods, looking somewhat shell shocked. She stares down at the record case, eyes wide, then swallows hard and nods again. “Right.”

“You’re going to be fine.” You place one hand on her shoulder and smile warmly. “Look, between the two of us, if Gray could learn how to dance, then you’ll be a master by the time of the gala.”

“Slander,” Grayson fires back with a grin. “I was more than adequate at the start.”

You glance at her, then back to Vi and shake your head before laughing. “You’ll be just fine. I promise.”

“If you say so.”

“You will,” Grayson agrees with a reassuring smile. She sets her book on the coffee table, then stands with a grunt. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the trolley.”

Vi blinks rapidly. “Oh –no, it’s fine. I can –thank you, but I–”

“It’s alright. Call it safety in numbers.”

Understanding settles over Vi’s features, followed by exhausted frustration. “Yeah. Thanks, uh, Sherriff.”

She chuckles as she heads towards the front door to grab her coat. “Grayson is fine, dear.”

…

The walk down to the trolley is brisk. Even with the sun still hanging in the cloudless sky, the late Autumn wind cuts through everything in its path.

Grayson winces when a particularly biting breeze tries to snake under the collar of her coat. “How is your sister?”

“She’s… coping,” Vi answers with a pained twist of her lips. Despite wearing significantly fewer layers, the younger woman seems practically unaffected by the chill; the gifts of youth, perhaps, or just standard Zaunite hardiness. “She’s gotten good marks at the Academy this term.”

“Good. Give her my congratulations.”

“Yeah –sure. Thanks.” Vi sidesteps a Piltovan man in a light gray suit that nearly bowls her over. She scowls and jams her hands in her pockets. “Asshole.”

Grayson glares over her shoulder at the man –not that he notices, since his back is to them both–then carefully places one hand on Vi’s shoulder. “And how are you?”

“I’m fine,” Vi answers quickly, automatically.

She doesn’t buy that, but a frigid stroll to the trolley is hardly the time or place to dig into one’s psychological well-being. Grayson files the topic away for later, then moves on. “I’ve scheduled an appointment for a tuxedo fitting this coming Saturday at nine in the morning.” She nearly gives Vi the address, then reconsiders. “Perhaps I could meet you at the trolley station around half past eight?” She watches as Vi tenses, chafing against the notion of having an escort (an Enforcer escort), then squeeze’s Vi’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I trust you. But you know how things are up here. I’d rather you not get in trouble over nothing.”

Vi scowls, nostrils flaring in irritation and disgust. “Yeah.” She glares at the ground for a few moments, then cracks her neck before asking. “Half past eight?”

“I think that would be best, yes.”

Vi works her jaw, then nods once. “Alright. Half past eight on Saturday it is.”

…

Progress Haberdashery is nestled into a towering, multi-story, sandstone behemoth in Piltover’s fashion district. Located on the first floor on the building’s front face, the window that boasts the shop’s name in elegant, swirling gold script seems like every other shop alongside it. If you aren’t looking for it, it’s easy to pass by.

Grayson knows the shop’s location by heart; she’s been a patron of the haberdashery for decades now, after all.

Agatha Wainwright is just as Grayson remembers her –short, stocky, with large, thick, round-rimmed glasses that give her an owlish appearance. Her short, steel-colored hair is neatly styled and smoothed down with pommade, and she has a measuring tape draped over the back of her neck and a pencil tucked behind one ear. She’s scribbling on a notepad, hunched over the desk behind the front counter when Grayson ushers Vi inside, but she lifts her head and turns around when the bell for the front door rings. “Grayson!” She perks up and smiles, then bustles out from behind the front counter.

Grayson grins easily, then accepts Agatha’s hearty handshake. “It’s been too long, old friend.” She glances over at Vi –who’s distracted, unsubtly gawping at the displayed suits, accessories, and photos–then gestures at the younger woman. “This is Vi. She’ll be needing a tux fitting today for the Snowdown Gala. Vi, this is Agatha Wainwright.”

Vi starts at the mention of her name, then recovers and shakes Agatha’s hand. “Hey. Uh, nice to meet you.”

The corner of Agatha’s mouth ticks up as she nods in return. “Glad to have you. Come on back with me.” She motions for Vi and Grayson to follow her, then turns on one heel and motors towards the back of the shop. “Remind me, Gray, the Snowdown Gala is considered black tie?”

“Technically black tie creative,” Grayson replies, lengthening her stride to keep up with Agatha’s quick clip.

“Oh, good.” She half turns, still walking, and gestures loosely at Vi. “I wasn’t liking black for her. That gives us options!”

“I, uh–” Vi pauses to clear her throat. “I thought the rule was ‘black looks good on everyone.’”

“Yes and no.” Agatha turns on the light for one of her fitting rooms, then ushers Vi and Grayson inside. “Yes, black is a neutral color, which means you can pair it with any other color and it won’t clash. Yes, a lot of people wear it because that means it won’t clash with your hair, or eyes, or accessories. It’s an easy color to style with. But when you get into the chromatic value system–”

Grayson smirks teasingly when Vi shoots her a slow, wide-eyed look. “You just had to get her started.”

“Fuck off,” Agatha fires back with a grin. She rolls her eyes when Grayson chuckles, then returns her attention to Vi. “In fashion, there’s a whole system of color theory that relates to a person’s skin tone. It focuses on what colors look most flattering with which skin tones and undertones. And it’s not just about hue, but also the boldness of the color. Some people can wear really bright, bold colors, and they look absolutely wonderful in them. Some people, on the other hand, either wash out or get all shadowy in the face when they wear bolder colors.” She gestures to her own face to demonstrate. “Especially around the mouth and eyes, which ages them. And black, even though it is a neutral color, is a bold color. So, for people with such skin tones, more muted shades of gray are often more flattering.” She clasps her hands together, waits until Vi nods (albeit uncertainly), then continues. “So, in your case, just at a glance–” she gestures up and down Vi “–my immediate instinct is that black would probably look harsh on you, and that a dark gray would likely suit you better. Although…” She leans back on her heels, puts her hands on her hips, then glances at Grayson. “You said she was from the Fissure?”

“I grew up in the Lanes, yeah,” Vi answers, somewhat curt.

Agatha purses her lips, then sighs. “Black might be better, then. It’s more traditional.”

Vi frowns, upper lip curling in confusion and frustration. “I thought you just said black wasn’t a good choice.”

“If we’re working strictly off what colors best flatter you, then no, probably not,” Agatha agrees. “But it’s the most traditional choice; even though it’s black tie creative, a lot of people are still going to be in black tuxedos. A lot of people are still going to expect others to wear black tuxedos.”

“It might help deflect unwanted criticism,” Grayson adds when Vi scowls. “Think of it as a precautionary measure.”

“Do you really believe that?” Vi arches one eyebrow, then shakes her head and laughs bitterly when both Grayson and Agatha hesitate. “Let’s be realistic. The color of my damn suit isn’t going to do shit. They’ll just find something else to gossip about.” She smirks, frustrated, then gestures at herself. “I mean, it’s not like they’re lacking for choices.”

Grayson remains silent. There’s not much else to say.

“The only person I care about in all of this is my girlfriend,” Vi continues, facing Agatha. “The only reason I’m doing any of this is for her. All I care about is looking good for her and making her feel like she’s the only woman in the room that matters. Fuck tradition, pick the colors that look best.”

Agatha smiles slowly and nods. “I can respect that.” She directs Vi to stand on a wooden podium surrounded by mirrors. “First, let’s get your measurements.”

…

It starts off simply enough.

Granted, measurements aren’t generally the hard part (relatively speaking). Vi holds still, cooperates, even chats amiably with Agatha.

“Got a lot of bulk in the shoulders,” Agatha comments while scribbling on a yellow notepad. “That’ll make taking in the waist… interesting.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Vi asks, glancing between Grayson and Agatha.

Agatha shrugs. “Does your girlfriend think it’s a bad thing?”

Grayson smothers a chuckle when Vi smirks. “It just means the tailoring will be a more involved process.”

“But I am a professional,” Agatha assures Vi as she crouches to measure Vi’s inseam. “And it won’t be the hardest job I’ve ever done. You have very nice lines, by the way. Have you considered modeling?”

Vi goes wide-eyed, then looks over at Grayson. “Uh…”

Grayson merely smiles and waves one hand.

And then there’s choosing between tuxedos.

“They look the same,” Vi says with a shrug when Agatha lays out five different, dark gray sets of tuxedos, slacks, and vests.

“It might be easier to see the difference when you have them on,” Agatha assures the younger woman.

Vi, in fact, does not see the difference.

“They still look the same,” she declares after trying on the fourth suit. “I mean, they look fine, but they’re all just gray, right? I don’t know, why not…” She twists, then points at a mannequin dressed in a pinstripe gray suit. “Why not something like that? The stripes look cool.”

“Oh.” Agatha looks at the mannequin, then back at Vi. “Well, we can look at something with a faint pinstripe, if you want, but that particular one is a suit, not a tuxedo.”

Vi blinks, expression blank. “...Aren’t they the same thing?”

Agatha blinks, then turns on one heel and picks up the fifth tux. “I’m going to pretend she didn’t say that.”

“Don’t torture the poor kid,” Grayson admonishes the seamstress when Vi shoots her a panicked look. “The easiest difference to spot is the cut of the lapels. You see here, how the buttons come up higher?” She gestures to the suit on the mannequin and waits until Vi nods. “Now, look at what you’re wearing.” She traces the line of the left lapel with one finger. “This section is larger and angled differently from a standard suit, see?”

“There’s also a difference in the fabric,” Agatha adds as she takes the fifth option out of its protective plastic covering. “The lapels and pocket trim are made from satin, and the buttons are covered in satin as well.”

“And that… matters?” Vi asks, face scrunching up in confusion. She glances between Grayson and Agatha when the two older women nod, then sighs heavily and sets her shoulders resolutely. “Alright.”

Vi opts to let Grayson and Agatha pick the most flattering tuxedo (in terms of color, since Vi’s take is that all the tuxedos are “gray”). “Sweet.” Vi starts to shrug the tuxedo jacket off. “Is that it?”

“Uh–” Agatha goes a little wide-eyed and gets the jacket back on Vi’s shoulders. “Not quite. We need to do some pinning for alterations.”

Vi frowns, confused, and glances between her own reflection and Agatha. “It looks fine, I promise.”

“It will look much better tailored to you,” Grayson interjects. “Trust me.”

Vi sighs again, then straightens up and lifts her chin. “Okay.”

And then, part way through deciding what alterations need to be made, Agatha has a realization. “Ooh, it’s black tie creative! We can play with color!” She looks up from Vi where she’s adjusting the length of the slacks. “What color dress is your girlfriend wearing?”

“Uh…” Vi looks towards the ceiling, then shrugs. “I think she said blue?”

“...Okay.” Agatha waves one hand. “Powder blue? Royal blue? Progress blue?”

“...There’s a difference?”

“We’ll have a color sample the next time we come in,” Grayson interjects when Agatha pinches the bridge of her nose.

Eventually, the two of them leave in one piece, but Vi looks almost haggard.

Grayson takes one look at the younger woman, then smiles sympathetically and clasps Vi’s shoulder with one hand. “Would you like to get something to eat? It’d be my treat.”

Vi balks. “I wouldn’t have the money to pay you back, most likely.”

The response activates her mind’s eye; it’s a dim, but still visible memory of one of the first times she asked you out for coffee. She hums and slows her pace as she reflects. “You know, my wife said something similar to me the first time I asked her out for coffee.”

Vi glances up at Grayson –then, the penny drops and she does a double-take. “Is she from Zaun?”

“Yes,” Grayson says with a nod. “Her family lived on the Entresol level.” She stops and squeezes Vi’s shoulder. “I should clarify: I would like to spend some time with you outside of the fitting. That’s why I offered up lunch. If you’d rather not, you won’t hurt my feelings by saying so.”

Vi nods slowly, looking away while she mulls it over. After a bit, she looks back at Grayson and raises one eyebrow. “Nowhere too fancy?”

Grayson chuckles and grins. “I think I know a place you’ll like just fine.”

…

She takes the Vi out to the fringes of Piltover, where the City of Progress starts to blend into the Promenade levels of Zaun. Things aren’t near as modernized out here. The buildings are smaller, more humble establishments made out of white-washed bricks and granite. The roofs are still blue, but the edges and various trimmings aren’t capped in gold. The roads are rougher, not quite so neatly tended to as in the city’s main districts.

She takes Vi through a marketplace, stopping as Vi gets distracted to tell the young woman about what the various stalls boast. She buys a bag of dried mango for them to share, then guides Vi down a side street to a shop where the front door is painted green.

Cheriqui’s has been around since her parents were children. She can still remember her grandmother and mother bringing her here for traditional tea services and Farsi practice on Saturday afternoons.

Grayson inhales deeply as she sets foot inside the deli. She’s greeted by a veritable perfume of spices –saffron, cumin, garlic, ginger, cloves. She’s carried back to memories of home –of her family working in the kitchen–and she smiles.

“Wow.” Vi gawks, staring at the deli case of breads and pastries, the bins of bulk spices along the wall next to the deli case, and the shelves of various foreign goods not typically found at “traditional” Piltovan markets. She rolls up on the balls of her feet, then lets out a low whistle at the sight of meat roasting on vertical spits and the grills in the kitchen behind the deli case. “Damn.”

Grayson ushers her towards the deli case. “How’s your tolerance for spicy food?”

Vi shrugs. “Everyone blasts their food with hot sauce in the Lanes. It’s the only way it tastes like anything.”

Grayson nods, then straightens up when a portly man with tan skin and a thick, silvering mustache approaches the deli case.

“Grayson.” The man raises one bushy eyebrow teasingly. “And here I’d thought you’d forgotten us.”

“I’d be hard pressed to forget you and your family, Abdul,” she replies, slipping into easy Farsi. She introduces Vi and Abdul to one another, then returns her focus to Abdul. “We’re here for lunch. This is Vi’s first time trying Persian cuisine.”

Abdul nods, expression lifting in understanding before settling into serious contemplation. “How’s her tolerance for heat?”

“She says it’s good.”

Abdul shoots a wayward glance at Vi, clearly skeptical, then holds up one finger before bustling back into the kitchen. He returns a few moments later and sets a tray with little cups of soup and a plate with small pieces of meat and bread atop the deli case. “Try first,” he explains to Vi in heavily accented English, “and decide how well you tolerate it, okay?”

“Right.” Vi stares at the tray, then looks over at Grayson. “What am I working with here?”

“It’s traditional Persian food,” Grayson explains, gesturing to the tray. “It’s a bit of a melting pot; many countries fall into the fold of Persian culture, so there are many regional cuisines. These–” she gestures to two of the soup cups “–are adasi, or lentil soups. The yellow one is milder, and the red one will be spicier. This one–” she gestures to the third cup “–is aush, or a thick noodle soup.” She switches her attention to Abdul. “What’s today’s recipe?”

“Chicken and barley noodles with seasonal vegetables.”

“It’s good.” Vi nods along, already halfway through the cup of yellow adasi. “What’s the meat on the plate?”

“Lamb,” Grayson answers after checking with Abdul. “But they have goat and chicken as well, if you prefer.”

“Oh, I’m not picky.” Vi lifts the sample dish of red adasi and smiles at Abdul. “This is good!”

Abdul beams, then nods his head in appreciation. “Thank you.”

There’s a commotion in the kitchen –the sound of quiet chatter, followed by dishware clacking. Then, footsteps approach. One of Abdul’s sons-in-law, Badir, appears with a small dish of shawarma style chicken. He places the dish atop the deli case, on the tray with the other samples. “She should try shawarma.”

“One moment!” A few seconds later, Badir’s wife –a short woman named Shohreh—jogs out of the kitchen with a small plate of pickled and fresh vegetables. “You forgot the toppings, silly,” she admonishes her husband. She rolls onto the balls of her feet to set the plate on the crowded tray, then smiles at Vi. “You take the bread,” she explains in English, holding up her hand as an example, “and then you add the meat, and then the vegetables. There’s pickled onion and cucumber, sauteed spinach, and tomatoes.”

Vi nods along as she follows the instructions, then folds the flatbread around the meat and vegetables and crams a decent bite into her mouth. She chews, and then her eyes roll back in her head. She lets out a pleased groan. “Oh man.” She holds the back of her hand over her mouth, then continues once she’s swallowed. “I could eat this every day.”

Grayson finds herself smiling along when Abdul, Shohreh, and Badir all grin.

There’s more noise from the kitchen –and then Abdul’s youngest, a son named Hashem, pokes his head around the corner. “Do you want to try a goat eye?”

“For shame!” Shohreh hisses and swats at her younger brother while scolding him in Farsi. “Don’t gross her out. Have some sense!”

“Wait, like, actual goat eyes?” Vi’s eyebrows spike towards her hairline. She looks at Grayson. “They have those?”

“The practice is to use the whole animal –or as much as possible, at least,” Grayson explains. “So, when you have the head, you can roast it whole, then break it down afterwards. Jowl meat, tongue, and the brains are all fair game. The eyes are edible, but they’re not necessarily… common ingredients, as it were.”

“Huh.” Vi mulls it over, then nods and turns back to the counter. “Yeah, sure.”

Abdul, Badir, Shohreh, and Hashem all freeze.

Abdul recovers first; he blinks rapidly, then frowns cautiously. “Are –are you sure?”

Vi shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Hashem laughs and sticks his tongue out at his sister, only to get shooed and berated back into the kitchen. He returns a couple moments later, though, with a roasted, cloudy, glistening eye and still attached, cooked through ocular muscles on a small plate.

“It should have a meaty flavor,” Grayson says as Vi gives the eye a once over.

“Yeah, it's the same with fish,” Vi reasons. “Tastes like what it came from.” And, with that, she plucks the eye up with her fingers and pops it into her mouth. She chews, nods, and grunts with approval. “‘S pretty good!”

Grayson chuckles, then shares a shrug with a slightly stunned Abdul.

…

They wind up in the corner of the deli, sitting at a table clad in a fine, white linen tablecloth.

They start with some yellow lentil aush, taftun bread, finely sliced lamb seasoned with spices, and a side plate of fresh and pickled vegetables. Then, Badir comes out with shawarma style chicken and a small dish of borani for Vi to try. Another family member follows a few moments later with a dish of savory saffron rice. A few minutes later, Shohreh comes out with two cups of fragrant mint tea.

“You’re going to have to roll me out of here,” Vi jokes. She follows Grayson’s lead, loading up a piece of taftun with some shawarma chicken, greens, and borani as a sauce, then folds the bread around her fillings of choice and bites down. She groans, nods, then chews and swallows before saying, “Janna, this is fucking good. I gotta tell Cait about this place.”

Grayson swallows, then chuckles. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I’d eat this for the rest of my life, if I could,” Vi says, unabashedly earnest. She takes a sip of her tea, then asks, “You’ve brought your wife here, yeah?”

“Many times,” Grayson answers with a nod. “She met my mother and grandmother here, and we’ve been here on several dates.”

“Oh, shit.” Vi glances at the reversed lettering on the front window, then frowns, confused. “Is this your family’s place?”

“No, no.” Grayson waves one hand dismissively. “No, the Cheriquis are just old family friends. My mother and her mother used to bring me here for tea and lessons in Farsi every week –to keep me connected with our culture.”

“Oh, okay.” Vi nods, mulling the information over. Then, she laughs and smirks. “Did your lady ever take you to Jericho’s?”

Grayson laughs and nods. “That she did.” She leans back in her seat and shakes her head. “It was… quite illuminating.”

“I bet,” Vi laughs. “Did you get sick after?”

“Like a dog,” Grayson answers with a grin.

Vi cackles and shakes her head. “I bet. You gotta grow up with that shit, or it just goes right through you.”

“You aren’t kidding.” Grayson smirks ruefully, then shakes her head when Vi laughs again. “She took good care of me while I was sick. And it was a good experience, in sum. It was… eye-opening.”

“Yeah.” Vi leans back in her seat. She watches Grayson for a long moment, drumming her fingers against her thigh, then asks, “Was that your first time in the Lanes?”

“It was,” Grayson answers with a nod. This was bound to come up eventually. “It was my first time in Zaun, actually. I’d only been on patrol in the Piltovan shopping district before then.”

Vi’s jaw tightens. “Why’d you become an Enforcer?”

The venom dripping from the word “Enforcer” is palpable, but Grayson keeps her expression neutral. “To be honest, it was a way out.” She shifts her gaze to look out the window, towards the shoppers passing the deli by. “My family…” She grimaces, then lets out a tired laugh. “They were planning on having me marry well. Do all the things that daughters traditionally do.” She looks down at the table, gaze scanning the fine texture of the tablecloth. “My father hadn’t come around by the time I was eighteen, so I enrolled in the law enforcement academy.”

“...Did your father disown you?”

“No. However, things weren’t exactly happy for a long time.”

Vi nods, expression solemn. “Did you get what you wanted, in the end?”

“I did.” Grayson nods and smiles. “I met my wife, married her, had a life with her, a career… I don’t think I could ask for more.”

“So, your dad came around?”

She shrugs and chuckles faintly. “More like my mother put her foot down.” She grimaces, then sighs. “I don’t think their marriage ever really recovered.”

“Shit.” Vi shifts in her seat. “Sorry.”

“It’s old history,” Grayson assures her with a wave of her hand. She sits forward in her seat and starts filling her plate with rice and lamb. “And, once I was old enough to know better, I stopped worrying about what my father thought.” She meets Vi’s gaze and smiles ruefully. “Some people just aren’t worth the stress.”

Vi shrugs, then loads another piece of taftun with chicken and lamb. “What’d your mom think of your wife?”

“Oh, she adored her,” Grayson replies without hesitation. “I think my mother liked her more than she liked me.”

Vi laughs, but it trails off into a strained sigh. She spoons more borani onto her plate, then mutters, “I don’t think I’ll ever have that problem with Cait’s mom.”

Grayson goes still. She considers for a moment, then reaches across the table and places one hand over Vi’s. “For what it’s worth…” She waits until Vi looks at her, then smiles reassuringly. “Her father likes you.”

Vi’s face scrunches up. “How would you know?”

“Word gets around. Official functions, that sort of thing. And everyone on the council is a massive gossip.” She retracts her hand, but when Vi’s despondent, disbelieving expression doesn’t lift, she adds, “Besides, it’s clear that Caitlyn adores you.”

Vi’s face goes as pink as her hair. She ducks her head briefly, then grins, crooked and bright. “Yeah. Cupcake’s really something.”

‘Cupcake?’ She quickly bites back a grin, but still makes a mental note to tell you about it later. That is precious–

“How is everything?”

Grayson looks up, then bites back an amused smirk when she sees Abdul approaching the table with yet another plate in hand.

“It’s amazing,” Vi gushes. “At this rate, I might just move in.” She takes note of the plate, then leans forward and cranes her neck. “What’s that?”

“Goat kebabs.” Abdul lowers the plate so Vi can see. “Would you like to–”

Vi nods and starts moving plates and bowls to make room on the table. “Bring it on!”

Grayson helps make space, then waves to Abdul as he heads back to the counter. “Alright, so there’s an easy way to get the meat and vegetables off the skewer. Hold the kebab on one end–” She picks one up to demonstrate. “And then you take your fork and push from the base so everything falls on your plate.”

“Right.” Vi mimics her, then stabs a piece of meat and grilled squash with her fork before shoving the food into her mouth. She lets out a satisfied sigh and slumps back in her seat.

Grayson grins. “Good?” She chuckles when Vi lets out an enthusiastic groan, then adds some pickled vegetables and onions to her plate.

“I hope your wife knows you’re here, Grayson.”

Grayson turns in her seat, then smiles when she sees a squat, white haired woman clad in a flowing skirt and royal blue blouse with gold embroidery shuffling over to their table. “Aunt Roshie.” She stands, steps around the end of the table, and greets the elderly woman with a kiss on each cheek. “It’s so good to see you. How are you?”

Despite being nearly ninety, Roshanak Cheriqui’s dark eyes are still clear and bright. “It’s good to see you, too, kid. And I’d be a hell of a lot better if people stopped asking me how I am. It’s the only thing anyone asks you when you’re my age! It’s boring!”

Grayson chuckles, then turns and gestures to Vi. “This is Vi. I was helping her with a tux fitting for the Snowdown Gala today, and I thought it’d be nice to bring her here for lunch. Vi,” she says, switching to English, “this is Roshanak Cheriqui. She opened this place with her husband.”

Vi glances between them, then blinks a few times before standing. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Cheriqui,” she says, holding out one hand.

Roshanak shakes Vi’s hand, but scoffs all the same. “Everyone knows me as Aunt Roshie,” she insists in heavily accented English. She clasps Vi’s hand and pats the back of it warmly. “You are enjoying lunch, yes?”

“Oh –it’s amazing,” Vi confirms with an enthusiastic nod of her head. “Everything tastes incredible.”

Roshanak beams, eyes crinkling around the corners. “Good!” Then, she glances at Grayson before leaning towards Vi and smiling conspiratorially. “You know, I have known Grayson since she was this big.” She gestures to her knee. “She used to come here every Saturday with Mahshid and Nasrin for our traditional tea service.”

“Yeah.” Vi nods. “She told me about that.”

“Did she tell you that she hated the dresses her mother made her wear?”

Grayson sighs and places one hand on the back of her chair to steady herself. “Aunt Roshie, I don’t think we need to–”

“One time,” Roshanak continues, undeterred, “when she was three, Grayson decided that she had enough–”

“I don’t think Vi needs to–”

“–and she got halfway out of her dress at the table before her mother stopped her.”

Vi presses her lips together and nods, though she can’t quite stop the slight snort that escapes her.

“You didn’t stop there, either.” Roshanak grins, entirely amused, up at Grayson. “Once you were older, you kept trying to sneak your tights off and get rid of them in the bathroom trash.”

Grayson sighs, resigned, and grumbles under her breath in Farsi, “They were itchy and terrible.”

“So you kept saying.” Roshanak winks at Vi, then faces Grayson. “What is it about my deli that turned you into a stripper?”

Grayson stares down at the elderly woman (who looks like the cat that caught the canary). She can feel her eyes bugging out; if you were here, she knows you’d be falling over in gleeful laughter.

Vi, to her credit, is far better versed in stoicism. She coughs quickly and presses the back of her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders and chest jump in jerky movements, but otherwise she stays composed.

Apparently satisfied with the carnage she’s wrought, Roshanak turns back to Vi. “You come back anytime you want, okay?” Once Vi nods and promises that she’ll return, Roshanak turns to Grayson and pats her arm. “As for you, bring your wife here, soon. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her.”

Grayson briefly clasps the elderly woman’s shoulder as Roshanak starts to shuffle off. “Yes, Aunt Roshie.”

“And keep your clothes on!”

Grayson closes her eyes, inhales deeply, then lets out a ragged sigh. Decades of service to the city and devotion to my wife, but that’s going to be my legacy, isn’t it? She opens her eyes, then points at a red-faced, silently snickering Vi. “Not one word.”

Vi holds up her hands in a placating gesture, then sits when Grayson does. She giggles a little, takes a long drink of mint tea, then asks, “So… Butch from the start?”

“Decidedly.” Grayson shakes her head, then drinks some tea to soothe herself. “You couldn’t move in those damn dresses. I would’ve given my left eye for a pair of trousers.” She takes another sip of tea, then adds, “I cut my own hair when I was ten.”

“No shit.” Vi cocks her head to one side, like she’s trying to envision it. “Was it long?”

“It was down to my fucking ass. It took ages to brush and braid! It was completely impractical!”

“So, you just–” Vi mimes a pair of scissors with her fingers “–had at it?”

She nods. “I took my mother’s sewing scissors, snuck into the upstairs bathroom, and started cutting everything until it was above my ears.”

“Oh, I bet that looked great,” Vi teases with a grin.

“It looked terrible,” Grayson admits with a laugh. “I think I made my mother cry. She loved styling my hair when I was a young girl.”

Vi nods, then smirks. “I tried my first side shave when I was thirteen.”

“Oh, really? How’d that go?”

Vi laughs and shakes her head. “Well, I didn’t know to cut the part I wanted shaved first–”

“Uh-oh,” Grayson interjects with a grin.

“Yeah. And, to make things worse, the clippers I were using were real fucking old, so they kept dying, like, every five minutes!”

Grayson chuckles. “Oh, great.”

Vi snorts, then shakes her head. “Vander caught me halfway through. The entire left side of my head looked like it’d gotten caught in a blender, the sink was full of hair–” She cuts herself off with a laugh. “Vander helped me finish the job, in the end. It didn’t look half bad.”

Grayson nods and chuckles. Then, she lifts her cup and holds it towards Vi. “To unconventional style choices.”

Vi grins, then lifts her cup and lightly taps it against Grayson’s.

…

They finish lunch with saffron ice cream and bamie –deep fried dough soaked in sugar syrup. Once they’re done eating, Grayson leaves a semi-comatose Vi at the table and heads to the deli case to pay the tab.

“No, no.” Abdul holds up one hand and shakes his head. “I’m not going to charge you for what we brought out to you of our own accord. It’s dishonest business.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” she argues back in Farsi, “but we nearly ate the whole menu. It’s not reasonable–”

“As the person in charge of the business, I think I get to decide what’s reasonable.”

Grayson levels him with a flat look. “We both know that your wife decides what’s reasonable. If she didn’t, you’d still have those ridiculous sideburns.”

“They were perfectly stylish! Besides, Esther isn’t here, so that leaves me.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure that leaves your daughter.”

“Well, she isn’t part of this conversation.”

Grayson raises one eyebrow, then leans to the side so she can see into the kitchen. “Shohreh!” she shouts. “Come talk some sense into your father!”

“What?” Shohreh’s voice echoes out of the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Abdul shouts back. “Ignore this poor, senile old woman.” He grins when Grayson glares playfully at him. “She has dementia! She’s imagining things!”

“I’m not imagining those ugly-ass loafers you promised Esther you’d get rid of.”

Abdul purses his lips together, then shuffles closer to the deli case to better block any view of his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smirks. “If you don’t want your wife to know what I’m talking about, let me pay the tab.”

Abdul places one hand over his heart and feigns a gasp. “Blackmail? From the Sheriff?”

“If we’re talking misconduct, what you’re doing could technically be construed as a bribe–”

“Oh, enough, both of you.” Roshanak shuffles to the front and fixes both of them with a stern, matronly glare. “I could hear you two from the pantry. Aren’t you two too old to be bickering like children?”

“Sorry, mama.”

“Sorry, Aunt Roshie.”

Roshanak purses her thin lips as she looks between the two of them –apparently none too satisfied with their unrepentant expressions–then scoffs and waves one hand. “Brats, the both of you. And as the co-founder of this establishment–” she turns her focus to Grayson alone “–I say our hospitality is ours to give.”

Grayson relents with a sigh (and makes a mental note to put what’s left of the tab in the tips jar Hashem has out for his Academy fund). “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

Roshanak nods, then sets a pale yellow, square box on the counter with the family name in dark green on the side. “And these are for your wife.”

Grayson peeks through the cellophane window on top of the box –more bamie and baklava–and smiles. “Thank you. She’ll enjoy these.” She considers, then says, “But I am paying for these.”

Roshanak shakes her head. “No–”

“She would want me to,” Grayson insists –because you would. She smiles when Roshanak relents with a sigh and a wave of her hand, then turns back to Abdul. “Now, what does this leave us at?”

…

She walks Vi back to the trolley, then takes a longer route home. It does a world of good –if only because she’s less likely to pass out on the couch from the sheer volume of food she ate for lunch.

You’re in the back of the house, where the two of you keep the bulk of your books and the record player. You’re curled up in your arm chair –a plush, quilted emerald green seat–with a book in your lap and a cup of tea on the end table between your chair and hers. You smile and look up when she walks in –then your jaw drops when you see the box tucked under her arm. “You went to Cheriquis?”

“I took Vi there for lunch,” Grayson defends herself. “She was a bit overwhelmed after the initial tux fitting –speaking of, don’t let me forget to sleuth out the color of Caitlyn’s dress; Agatha needs a swatch to work with.” She walks over to your chair, bends to give you a kiss, then holds out the box to you. “Aunt Roshie sent these home for you.”

“Oh, bless her.” You slide your thumbnail through the sticker holding the box shut, then lift the lid. You select a perfectly round bamie, bite through half of it, then close your eyes and let out a blissful groan. “I haven’t been to Cheriqui’s in forever and a day. And, if we’re on the topic of reminders, don’t let me forget to book a reservation there for my senior’s final’s study group.”

“I’ll do my best.” She sits in her chair with a muted groan. “How has your day been?”

You wave one hand dismissively. “Literally nothing has happened. I’ve been utterly unproductive.” You grin when she chuckles, then finish off your bamie before holding the box out to her.

Grayson holds up one hand to turn you down. “Gods, no. We practically ate the whole damn menu.”

“Oh.” You blink, then smile. “Oh. Was it Vi’s first time trying Persian food?” When she nods, you laugh lightly. “That was a dangerous admission to make. I nearly passed out the first time you took me to Cheriqui’s.”

“Vi was in a similar state to you when we left,” Grayson says. “But she enjoyed herself –and the family enjoyed her, too.”

“I can’t fathom how she wouldn’t. I’m glad they liked her, though!”

“I’ll say.” She smirks. “I think they were all impressed when she ate a goat’s eye.”

Your eyes widen, and your brows spike towards your hairline. “Yeah, that’d do it.” You laugh. “How’d she handle it?”

“Apparently, she’s familiar with fish head stew, so it didn’t faze her.”

You nod. “The food in the Lanes is definitely rustic.”

“You don’t say!” She grins when you laugh, then shakes her head. “She met Aunt Roshie, too –she wants you to stop by soon, by the way.”

“Oh, twist my arm. What did Roshie think of Vi?”

“I think she liked Vi –but I think she liked telling Vi stories about me trying to get out of my dresses and tights as a kid.” She pauses when you snicker, then sighs and adds in a resigned tone, “And she definitely liked asking me ‘what about her deli turns me into a stripper’ in front of Vi.”

You burst into delighted cackles and clap your hands together. You rock back in your chair –hard enough that your chair scoots back slightly. “She did not!”

“Oh, she did.” Grayson grimaces. “In English.”

“Oh, Janna!” You clutch at your sides as tears of mirth stream down your face. “Bless that woman. I absolutely adore Roshie.” You wipe your cheeks, then your eyes, all while giggling. “Oh, I wish I could’ve been there for that!”

She can’t help but smile, exasperation aside. “I don’t doubt it.”

Once you regain some coherency, you shift so you’re sitting properly in your chair once more and look at her. “How’d the fitting go?”

“It went alright. I think Vi was overwhelmed, though.”

“By Agatha, or by the process?”

“By the process.” Grayson drums her fingers against the arm of her chair. “I mean –I know how things were for you, at the start. You certainly know how they were for you.”

“I do,” you agree while nodding slowly. Your expression is grim, lips pressed into a tight line. “I also know that they don’t always get better on a bigger scale.”

“I know.” She sighs, weary, and folds her hands in her lap. And Vi doesn’t seem like the type to take the route of “blending in.”

The first few years of your relationship had been a brutal, rude awakening. Not just in seeing the destitution of Zaun for the first time –and being lightly hazed with what Jericho thought was passable as food–but realizing just how much Piltovans hated anyone from the Undercity.

You’d had to scrape and fight your way through university; she hadn’t witnessed it personally, but you’d told her horror stories about professors docking points because you didn’t have a surname to list on your assignments. Or marking you down during presentations because your accent was different. Or refusing to let you attend office hours without security present because they were “concerned” for their “wellbeing.”

She’d heard stories about you getting harassed at work by colleagues and bosses, only for human resources to do nothing. She’d witnessed the harassment once –one of your male coworkers had slapped you on the ass–and she’d had to go up the chain of directors and presidents as a Captain in the ranks of the Enforcers before any recourse was afforded.

She’d had extended family members sit her down for countless interventions when she’d proposed to you. They’d cited rampant crime and drug abuse in the Undercity, how you’d bring unbearable baggage with you, how your reputation and “status” would harm her career and ability to climb the ladder. Hell, she’d had ex-girlfriends come crawling out of the woodwork and try to interfere with your relationship, only to later find out that several meddling aunts had orchestrated the whole nightmare. She’d married you anyway –and sent them all notices in the mail that they were not invited to the wedding or reception.

People used to nearly walk over you in the streets. Men would catcall you, or call you a “bitch in lady’s clothing.” Women would whisper to their companions and laugh at you, regardless of whether you were in earshot or not. People would come up and talk to her without once addressing you, or even looking in your direction.

There was one glorious incident, shortly after she’d been promoted to Lieutenant, when she’d gotten a call from her patrolmen about a drunk and disorderly complaint. She’d shown up at a local shop, only to find you in cuffs –and utterly sober, no less.

She doesn’t remember much of what she said while dressing down her patrolmen. She’s heard, however, that she made one man throw up afterwards, just from sheer terror.

It’s not as bad as it used to be. The people who remember you as an Undercity hopeful aren’t really around anymore. You’ve got the right clothes, a respectable career, and several awards and accreditations in journalism under your belt. People know you as a professor now. As her wife.

Somehow, I don’t think Vi wants to be known just as Caitlyn Kiramman’s wife, she thinks to herself.

“Gray.” You squeeze her hand. “Where’d you go?”

She inhales sharply as you drag her out of her reverie. “Nowhere, really.” She clears her throat. “I was thinking about how things were for you when we first got together. How… how hard it was.”

You smile reassuringly. “It wasn’t all bad. I had you.”

Grayson smiles back, then takes your hand in hers. “I’m flattered, but we both know it was terrible.” When you wince, but don’t say anything else, she continues. “I suppose I’m worried that Vi will have a harder time of it. You…” Her voice trails off, and then she grimaces. Shit. How do I say this without being insulting?

“I blended in better?” you surmise with an arched eyebrow and a smirk.

“I don’t see Vi adopting popular hairstyles or covering her tattoos,” Grayson allows in an attempt to be tactful. “Or attending university.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” you point out.

“I know,” she agrees. “I just…” She sighs, then squeezes your hand. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt powerless like this. I haven’t missed it.”

You coo softly and cock your head to one side. “You’ve become very fond of her.”

“She’s a good kid,” Grayson admits, emphatic. “She has a good heart. And I’d hoped this city had grown out of its prejudices over the past couple of decades, but…”

“But it hasn’t,” you finish, soft and sympathetic, when her voice trails off.

“But it hasn’t,” she echoes wearily. She rubs the bridge of her nose with her other hand. “I’m so tired of the fucking bureaucratic bullshit.”

“Easy, love.” You rub small circles against the back of her hand with your thumb. “Focus on what you can do, not what you can’t.”

I’m the Sheriff of Piltover. I should be able to do whatever I damn well like. She huffs, but sets aside the mental grousing for more productive lines of thinking. “I might get a new tux for the gala.”

You blink a few times, then frown. “...Okay?”

“Vi went with a charcoal colored tuxedo,” she explains. “In all due fairness, Agatha recommended it.”

“Ah.” Your confused expression settles into a small, melancholy smile. “A non-traditional color choice.”

“I think I’ll pick up something non-traditional, too. Just so Vi isn’t the single odd duck out.”

Your eyes crinkle around the corners as your smile grows. “That’s sweet of you. What color do you think you’ll get?”

She shrugs. “Maybe silver. It’d be a winter color, at least.”

“Ooh.” Your eyes light up. “You’d look good in silver. Very distinguished.”

She grins at you. “I’m glad you have your approval.”

You grin, then wink. “I bet you’ll look good out of it, too.”

Grayson laughs, heartfelt. Then, she leans over and kisses you.

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