Text borrowed from Halo: Cryptum, Halo: Primordium, and Halo: Silentium by Greg Bear.
Images are borrowed from various Halo sources, mostly located via Halopedia. (The pictures of the large magellanic cloud and the seedpod I edited for a cover are from wikimedia.)
I got to draw for theoctopigeon on ig this year, and it's been a blast
I just wanted to do a simpler piece this time around, just chilling, then 12h30mins later we're here, and my simple plan didn't really work
Thank you so so much to the wonderful @leidensygdom and the secret satan mod team for organising, this event is such a highlight of the season, GO BUY THEM A KO-FI THEY DESERVE IT
Bonnie stares at you, a little too alert to have just been sleeping, her hair pulled back into too sharp a bun. She’s in sleep clothes all the same, though you spy dried ink and paint on her finger tips that she tucks into her palms a moment later, teeth clicking as she shuffles in place. Her shoulders are drawn up tight, muscles in her jaw standing out in prolonged tension. You nearly ask her what’s wrong, then think better of it.
You know what’s wrong. You’re the problem-- and the murder, maybe, no matter if time has passed since then. Bonnie probably thinks about it still, if she hasn’t convinced herself it was a fever-addled dream. You wouldn’t blame her if she did, actually. You wonder if you should ask her why she didn’t just move away.
“It’s late, Michael,” Bonnie says. “What are you doing here?”
“Maybe it’s just early,” you try, smiling. “KITT and me are off the clock, thought we’d stop by…”
That’s not the whole of it, but you’re not lying. You haven’t been sent on a case in a week or so, but you’d taken your time hopping back across the country anyway, reluctant to come home to debriefs and business. Then KITT hadn’t seen Bonnie for anything recreational in awhile. Then you remembered you got a little stabbed at some bar in fucking Utah a couple days ago and, well.
“Just get in here.”
She retreats into her apartment. You duck inside, immediately casing the place, scoping out the changes from when you were last here. There’s a vase of flowers on the coffee table-- several more, actually, in just immediate sight-- and the last of the moving boxes are gone. The television plays quietly but you don’t recognize what’s playing.
“Lotta flowers. What’s the occasion?”
You trail after her into the kitchen. She rattles around her cupboards, sleeves sliding down her arms as she reaches for a tea kettle on the top shelf.
“Norman. Apparently, he’s a groundskeeper of sorts. Keeps bringing me clippings from the courtyard. Tea?”
Ah, Norman. You haven’t yet apologized for shaking him down.
“You know he has a crush on you?” You can’t help but mention it, sliding in to fill the empty space beside Bonnie. “And sure, I’ll take tea.”
“I do know that,” she chuckles. “But we’ve talked it out. It’s fine. Chamomile okay?”
“Absolutely,” you say very seriously, drawing out the third syllable.
“Good. It’s all I have.”
She moves around you, only meeting your eye when your elbows brush. She puts the kettle on before grabbing the mugs, then nudges you aside to get at a folding box nestled beside the microwave. From there, she produces two little teabags, gripping them by their brightly colored tags. This close, you can see the bags under her eyes, the slight shake to her posture.
You resist the urge to touch her.
“You doin’ alright, Bonnie?” You say softly, unable to stifle your concern.
The mugs clink against the counter top. The stovetop clicks away, merrily trying to boil the kettle. Bonnie drops her head, a momentary lapse in vigilance.
“I’m fine, Michael. Just-- a touch of insomnia. I’ll get over it.”
Your left thigh is a dull ache from the knife. Bonnie looks like she’s aching all over despite her clean, polished edges, too neat for the safety of her own home. You reach out slowly, bringing your open hand to rest atop her shoulder instead of clasping it, gentle, restraint eroded.
She startles, then relaxes, giving you a bemused look. Her muscles bunch tightly when she rolls her sleeves up high. The kitchen light brings her stained hands into sharp relief.
“Working on something?”
“Something like that. Unfortunately, I can’t really tell you anything. It’s classified,” she says, voice lilting like it’s a joke. “S’why I haven’t been at the estate for a bit. Not-- that you’d know that,” she adds, frowning. “Did you two just get back in town tonight?”
You rub at her shoulder idly while she talks. You have no idea what she does outside of FLAG, aside from her brief stint in San Francisco. Classified, though-- that’s interesting. That sounds above even Devon’s pay grade.
“Maybe,” you say, chancing a grin. “Straight out of Utah. Why? Worried about me?”
“Hardly,” she scoffs. “I hope you didn’t plan on crashing here--”
“I’d never be so presumptuous,” you mock, throwing your hands wide in a placating gesture and leaning back. Your weight rolls onto your bad foot, sending pain zinging down your leg. You bite back a hiss. “I was gonna fetch a hotel. I just-- we just-- wanted to see you.”
You can’t save face. Not with KITT’s feelings on the line, nor yours. You drop your hands, letting the early-late hour bog you down. Now that Bonnie’s mentioned it, the ten-some hours you’ve spent driving are starting to take their toll, drawing out the cramps that KITT’s seats inspire.
Bonnie’s expression softens, but the kettle shrieks. You arrange the mugs and tea bags for her to pour the hot water over, humming as heat leeches out of the ceramic into your finger tips. Her grip seems a little steadier than before.
Carefully, once the tea is poured and steeped, you both creep to the sofa where the television is flickering and the flower vase casts odd shadows. The cushions practically crumple underneath your weight. Your thigh twinges, a burst of pain radiating up and down your side.
“You’re bleeding, you know,” Bonnie says suddenly, face hidden behind her mug of tea.
You raise your eyebrows, delay your response by taking a long drink. It’s herbal and bitter and green-tasting. KITT would probably enjoy it, but less so if you gave him a day-old teabag to analyze. It’s not the thought that counts with him.
“I am?” You get out, glancing down.
The light in the apartment is low, but you can see what she’s talking about. A dark blot of red in the swell of your jeans. That explains the persistent ache and the strange tacky dampness that’s been following you for the past ten minutes. You hurry to your feet, suddenly embarrassed, worried that you’ll bleed all over her couch.
“Shoot! You got a first aid kit anywhere?”
Bonnie rolls her eyes. She’s already on her feet and moving, beckoning you along with a wave of her hand like you’re a particularly unruly dog. A part of you is surprised that she’s not more alarmed-- or worried-- but it is two in the morning. You can barely muster up the energy to be anything more than inconvenienced.
Her bathroom is as cramped as you remember it. A glorified closet with a bathtub inside it. You watch her rifle through the compartment behind the mirror from just outside, favoring your bad leg for the first time tonight. She doesn’t speak, mouth drawn into a focused line, only humming when she finds what she’s looking for. She tosses you a chunky plastic box stamped with a red cross that you catch with one hand.
“I’ll be out in the living room. Let me know if you need anything,” Bonnie says, voice clipped, at odds with her slightly pained smile.
It’s only after she pushes past you that you remember-- she can’t stand the sight of blood.
---
Approximately twenty minutes later, you’re wandering back out into her living room. She’s leaned onto the arm of the couch, a dense book nestled between her hands and legs, mugs steaming on the coffee table. You linger at the threshold between hallway and open space, suddenly so aware of the silence your heartbeat pounds in your throat. She licks her thumb to turn a page.
“I didn’t get anything on your couch, right?” You ask quietly.
Bonnie shakes her head without looking up. You return to the couch, settling just beside her. The mugs are full again, filled with a darker liquid. You won’t drink this batch.
“Want to try going to bed?”
You’re tired now that the novelty of being here is gone. Granted, the dreary reality of having a stab wound also saps what little energy you had left. But you know she’s just as exhausted-- she’d startled when you came near. You have a feeling she’d never been the jumpy sort before.
Bonnie closes her book with a solid fwip. Her fingers drag across the elaborate hardcover, nails catching on the raised embossing. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened and grown more intense while you were gone. She shrugs half-heartedly.
You’re again possessed of the urge to touch her. To hold her. You rub your hands together to try and alleviate the feeling.
“I’ll keep watch, if you sleep,” you say, low and urging.
She looks at you sharply, listless fatigue suddenly calculating. The muscles in her jaw twitch with the grind of teeth. You drop your gaze demurely, frightened that you misread her countenance and she’s taken umbrage with it, despite her temper being usually KITT-oriented. But this isn’t the Foundation, or the trailer, or work, so you truthfully have no idea how to read her, or how she’ll behave.
Her eyes dim slowly from their alertness. She sinks down into her side of the couch, tension easing out of her bunched up shoulders, a table-side lamp casting long shadows across her face and chest. You watch her uncertainly, mouth thinning into a fine line. Her book is discarded to the floor. A slip of striped paper falls out of it.
“Do you keep watch for KITT, too?” She asks in amusement, head tilted back, eyes closed.
She hefts her legs up, drapes them over yours. You wring your hands, frozen with a long-buried recollection. Stevie used to come home and do exactly this-- lay in your lap and rest her eyes. You painstakingly lower your hands over Bonnie’s calves, lungs tight.
“Sometimes. Did you know he sleeps?”
KITT denies it, of course.
“It’s not sleeping, per se,” Bonnie starts, but you interrupt her.
“He dreams, Bonnie,” you say softly. “Did you know that?”
It’s not just dreams. It’s night terrors, violent enough to match your own. Fitfully, you start running the flat of your hands across her legs, cursing yourself for your loose tongue and weakened resolve. Her muscles flex beneath your hands until her foot is jabbing your stomach insistently. You push it away reflexively, staring at her.
She stares back. Her exhaustion has drawn to a fine point of grim apprehension and despair.
“We can talk about it in the morning, Michael,” she says. “Okay…?”
You nod slowly. Tension leeches out of her all at once. The couch creaks as she sinks into it, eyes now fixed on the ceiling, arms crossing loosely over her stomach. Absently, you continue running your hands over her pants, restless with anxiety and nerves.
You didn’t mean to tell her about KITT. You’re not sure what you’ll do when you find out what she thinks.
But she falls asleep first. The lights are still on, your painkillers haven’t kicked in yet. Exhaustion bears down on you just as heavily, so you sink deeper into the couch until your neck has a modicum of support. You’ll wake up with one hell of a crick, but it’s worth Bonnie dozing off so handily, either soothed by your presence or worn out by your antics. Either option works.
Eventually, you doze off, too, but not before whispering a quiet good night into the half-dark.
