there's no leg day in the ninth house.

[shadessaint]

❝ don’t embarrass me this time . ❞

@bonesaint !

     Sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ be offended. Maybe she would have been: years and years ago, yearning for friendship with the only other kid her own age, but this was several bruises, cuts, broken bones and nights spent freezing in her cell ago. No: she's not offended. Or surprised. Or anything of that matter. She does merely look at her necromancer, makes an effort to roll her eyes overdramatically (not that Harrowhark could potentially tell), and twists her lips into a grin. It's not a friendly or polite one.

     "Oh, Nonagesimus, I am totally going to embarrass you."

[shadessaint]

❝ unhand me ! i do not need your help . ❞

@bonesaint !

     Iᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ғᴜɴɴʏ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ. Given how much high and mighty Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend's Daughter, Ninth House Pride and Joy, Most Scary Witch In The Fucking Haunted House Slash Living Mausoleum (TM), had worked on even getting her here, despite the fact Gideon could think of fifty things she would rather do — although seeing living breathing girls that knew how to dress without it involving bedsheets was great and she spent a great deal of her time staring at their asses and tits, maybe — as little seemed the precious Saint of the Tomb to be happy to have her here. It was practically free fuel to tease her. Endless, even. Someone just needed to think about the possibilities of witty answers and comebacks, of telling her about the irony of the whole situation. Could even give her a lecture or two.

     Gideon adjusted her shades (she really should bent the temples a little to fit better), opened her mouth, and what came out was: "Sucks to be you."

     Smooth. Nailed it.

[shadessaint]

❝ and i made soup . ❞

@bonesaint !

     "Yᴏᴜ? Cᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ? I'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ sᴜʀᴇ ʟɪᴏ̨ᴜᴇғʏɪɴɢ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ's ʙᴏɴᴇs ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛs ᴀs 'ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ sᴏᴜᴘ'."

     She's joking, of course, but that doesn't mean that the mental image isn't still absolutely ridiculous to her. She sits with her legs up on the table, chair tapped back, dangerously close to tripping over, and Harrowhark of old wouldn't have hesitated to make sure she would. Right now, she seems awfully proud of telling her adventures of varying degrees on the awesome scale, and Gideon's not quite sure where to put her necromancer's ideas.

     (If things went how they were meant to be, this conversation wouldn't be necessary. Or happen at all.)

     "Did someone die? Please tell me someone died. I feel like that's the only way your cooking could go down. I know I'd drop dead upon seeing you play domestic housewife."