After everyone leaves, and after the Magpie is asleep, having done as much of her homework as she is ever going to do, Artemis tiptoes to her back kitchen door and closes it softly, softly behind her.
She is still in her caftan, that beautiful pink silk that clings to her, shows off every curve, every muscle, and feels like comforting water as it slides across her skin, like a freshly drawn bath against the chaotic flame that is her interiority. She pulls on her coat as she descends, but her legs are still bare, her feet only in flimsy sandals. She looks at her phone. It’s the proper time. She pushes the door to the building open and the frigid air hits her, ripples goose bumps over her legs, her neck. Her nipples get hard.
Rico is leaning against the wall, waiting for her. He is in his full drag king getup underneath a trench coat. His lips and eyebrows are glittered, his chest still exposed, inviting. Neither of them say any words. They fall into each other. They run their hands over everything.
The alleyway is fairly private as far as Brooklyn is concerned. No one is taking the garbage out this late, or this early, and that is the only thing they share space with. Banana peels, milk cartons, half-rinsed cans. Not one iota of skin goes ignored. Hands are slid down sleeves and under shirts until there is only one thing left to do. Rico slides his hands up under her slip, lets his fingers linger on the lace; Artemis pulls his loud shirt untucked, undoes his giant showman’s belt buckle. They stroke and fuck and Artemis sucks on Rico’s ear to keep from making noise. Rico buries his face into her collarbone, the soft spot right above it. He breathes deeply.
Rico doesn’t have Awakened Power, and this is the closest he can get to feeling it on anyone. Artemis smells like rose, lavender, secondhand cigarettes, cinnamon, and sex. She feels like supple leather that bends and shines in his hands. When they come apart, Artemis has picked up a little more glitter in her beard; Rico’s lipstick is entirely gone, butterflied onto her neck. He wants to say something about how beautiful she is, how much he enjoys her, maybe even something about love, though he knows that’s a risk. Instead what comes out of his mouth is something he knows he will regret: “I want more than this.”
Artemis looks at him, her eyes hidden under a cloak of sadness and responsibility. “Like what? What kind of more?”
“Like I could come upstairs. We could talk, just us, sitting down—you know I’ve never seen the inside of your apartment? This is amazing, but it’s not—it isn’t the only thing I want with you. You have to know that. The stuff that’s for show, the hamming it up in front of people? It’s all honest.” He pauses, wipes makeup off his teeth with a finger. “I hope this isn’t the only thing you want with me, either.”
“No! No, it’s not. But—” And there is a kindness here in her eyes, too, and Rico knows to look for it because he knows her as well as she’ll let him. Kindness toward Rico. Kindness toward herself. Artemis, as much of a bristly bitch as she is and loves being, is also overflowing with compassion, with love. She feels so deeply, like the coals under a fire. Everything she does is rooted in it. She feels it so much it hurts sometimes and that is the problem. Artemis is no stranger to intimacy; she was reminded this evening, after all, trying to cast with the new kid. Intimacy like that, intimacy with point and purpose? That is a risk she can understand. What is the point and purpose with Rico? Mere enjoyment? How can she take the risk—both for her and Mary Margaret—if the payoff is just a bit of fun? “I didn’t ask for this, this surprise sort-of-parenting. I didn’t request it, but I have it and I’m committed to it. That girl, she needs a stable house, and I’m the mother in it. No matter what she says she thinks about it, I can tell that’s how she sees me. And I’ll give it to her. Even if I have to sacrifice for it.”
Rico shuffles his feet. “I’m not sure if I can keep doing this, then, as much as I love it.” He is careful not to say “you.”
“I’m not rejecting you, Rico, not forever. It’s a temporary sacrifice. She’ll be out of the house before you know it, before I know it. She’s seventeen! I’m saying wait. I’m not saying no.” What she is also not saying: she is scared. She is hiding behind the child. Rico isn’t Awakened, but he is the most magic person she knows. He doesn’t shine bright in her Eyes, but he shines bright in her eyes. That counts, too. That counts more. A real relationship with Rico could be the best thing that ever happens to her; that’s why it’s imperative that she does not do it.
“I’ve been waiting a minute already,” he replies, and his inclination is to look away, but he doesn’t. He looks straight into her beautiful brown eyes. He says what he means and stands firm in it.
“A few minutes more” is all she says back. And she thinks she will leave it there, but his face is still hurting, still sad, and she keeps talking. “I can’t bring men upstairs, Rico, if I’m asking her not to do the same. I can’t be fucking in my bedroom while she can hear me on the couch.”
“I have an apartment, too, you know. Which you’ve also never seen.”
“And you know it’s deeper than that as well. I can’t take my eye off the ball.” Truth and a lie at the same time.
Rico pauses. Then he kisses her. “I know, baby, but I’m worried you’ll never not be playing a high-stakes game.” He squeezes her hand and walks out of the alleyway, into the night. Artemis holds her breath. From the dark, Rico says: “I’ll wait. I have to.”
Artemis exhales.