notes: black lagoon's been a pretty consistent obsession of mine for like three years now, and man, rock/revy is an otp if there ever was one. i've literally put so much thought into revy's character throughout the series i love her so much. this is set several years after the end of the series (more than five years at least), so i tried to write the characters like they were a little older. or at least, how i assume they'd be? title is a song by the national, the atmosphere of that song encompasses that whole bittersweet nostalgic weird kind of feeling 10/10 vibes would recommend. but who knows maybe i'm the only one that gets that kind of feeling from humid summer nights. (disclaimed.)

green gloves

;;

falling out of touch with all

my friends are somewhere getting wasted

hope they're staying glued together

i have arms for them

;;

She hears it every now and then, on the occasion that she actually goes out for a drink alone. It's the attempted whispers and not-so hushed tones of the Yellow Flag's usual types from behind their glasses.

Is that her?

The woman from Lagoon?

Revy flexes her fingers idly, rolls an unlit cigarette across the bar top. If she keeps her back to the voices, maybe she'll be less inclined to shoot them.

Not that she really would. Not now. At least not over so little; it would take a hell of a lot more than the drunken musing of retired mafia goons and hookers to make her waste the bullets.

But still. The commentary gets old.

"It is her—Revy Two Hands."

"You can see her guns."

"Whatever happened to her?"

She snorts audibly and knocks back a shot of Bacardi. "Good fucking question."

"That can't be her," one of the voices chimes in, and Revy can hear the cheap red lipstick in her shrill tone. "She doesn't have that guy with her."

The comment makes her bristle instantly. Her fingers twitch instinctively for the trigger. Even if the years have mellowed her temper enough to know better than to shoot up the Yellow Flag for less—which she has—, there can always be room for exceptions.

"Right, that businessman—."

"The Japanese guy—,"

"The cute one."

That's the it, the point where her glass clinks back on the bar top and Bao gives her a warning glare, his mouth loaded with the threats of violence he'll impose on her if she shoots anymore holes in the joint.

Only she doesn't reach for her Berettas. She laughs mirthlessly, for the spectators to hear, then slaps a couple of dollar bills on the counter and takes the rest of the bottle with her. It's not like Bao can do anything besides bitch at her for it, but then what else would be new?

She strides past the group, who all silence hastily and cower and stare at her with gaping eyes. One hand, the one that's not holding the bottle, rests imposingly on the grip of a gun, a silent warning just in case any of them have any more pointless words to throw in her direction while she leaves alone.

She misses having a drinking partner.

Which really, really sucks.

Outside the bar is less appealing than inside. The night air is thick and humid; the kind that wraps around her bones and is somehow as chilled as it is suffocating. It envelops her entire body and makes her feel too heavy to move. She lights a cigarette and trudges through it anyhow.

It's late and she's tired, which she thinks is fucking hilarious.

She remembers a few years back, the night would've barely begun. Right now, she'd probably be getting hammered and playing cards at the church with Eda until one would pull a gun on the other, and in the morning they'd wake up on the altar, the sanctuary smelling of spilled rum and gunpowder, laugh it off, and plan to do it all again next week.

Or, she thinks bitterly, she would've been somewhere else, with someone else.

The cute one.

The girl's words echo in her mind, swirling around with the alcohol. She can just picture Rock's face if he'd been there—a blush blooming on his cheeks as he tries to play it off and on a good night, she berates him for it or on a bad night, she draws a gun on the poor girl.

On second thought, she doesn't want to think about it.

Instead, she wanders the streets of Roanapur, drinking Bacardi straight from the bottle, daring anyone who crosses her path to say anything.

It's been like this a lot lately.

The Lagoon crew's been out of the game for a while. First it was no new jobs, then it was new players who came along with new skills, and suddenly the four of them were obsolete. Or she was, at least.

Because Dutch had been working in Roanapur for years before Lagoon, and Benny has his computers, they're both valuable assets to anyone looking for skill.

Revy was only ever a gun (and there's no excuse for a fool with a gun).

Dutch still checks on her every few days, mostly out of habit. He

makes sure she's not drinking more than eating. Which she is, of course, but one day she'll appreciate him for trying, maybe.

Secretly, Revy would kind of like to get old. Dutch reminds her of that sometimes, just being there with his wise words and taciturn demeanor. Not that Dutch is old. Just old-er. Just, probably, older than she'll ever be.

And yeah, it's kind of sad because Lagoon was the closest thing she's ever had to a family. A good one, at least. Marginally good.

The roaring drone of water falling pulls her out of her goddamn head for a second. She finds herself beside the fountain at the plaza, the one with the statue of a half-clothed woman posing valiantly at the top. Or she would be valiant if she weren't smeared with seagull shit, dripping down the sides of her head in white tracks.

Next to the noose out front, it's a damn good metaphor for the city.

Mostly, Dutch asks about Rock.

Good, she thinks. Great; she's thinking about Rock again.

And she thinks, why should she care how he's doing? Rock took his puppet master hero complex straight to the top and is pulling so many strings she's lost track. She's done her time worrying over him, keeping his evident death wish from ever actually claiming his life, never expecting anything in return for years only for him to forget that he would've died a hundred times already if it weren't for her.

Rock doesn't need her anymore.

Fuck Rock, she spits at Dutch through a mouthful of bitterness.

She could've left him in Japan—she should've. Let him life a nice quiet life in the suburbs with a pretty white-collar rich wife named Sakura and have white-collar rich kids that complain and cry all the time. Then maybe one day in fifty years, he can come back to hell and leave a marigold on her grave and see if she cares—

And then her bare knee is crashing into the stone edge of the fountain and, fuck, that hurts.

She glares down at it. The skin is scraped raw, already turning purple at the edges and red in the middle. A teardrop bead of blood oozes down over the white scar on her shin, from the sword, from Japan, from a lifetime ago.

Good, she thinks. Great.

She wishes he were here.

Revy doesn't know what it is—the humid air, the Bacardi, or the stinging ache in her knee—that puts her on autopilot, the lights of the city blurring in a haze until she's shoving open the door of Rock's permanent motel room and stumbling over the threshold.

Why is she doing this why is she bothering what's the fucking point—

"When are you gonna lock your fucking door, Rock?" she sighs. There is no bite to her words.

Light from the hallway cuts across the floor between her heavy boots. The thin beam traces a line across the floor and the paper and empty beer cans. It climbs up the side of the bed. And it ends, slicing Rock's face in two.

One brown eye, the one in the light, opens sluggishly.

The door closes and the beam is gone.

"Revy?"

Rock is sprawled out on his stomach on the bed in the middle of the room.

She gives no response because he doesn't deserve one and also because she wouldn't have one anyway. Instead, the sound that fills the room is her heavy boots clunking on the floor where she drops them by the door. Her holster is next, shrugged off of her tired shoulders. Her berettas scrape along the floor before coming to rest by the edge of the bed.

Rock's eyes are on her, she can tell, level with her thighs and the bruise on her knee.

The now empty bottle hits the floor and then she is flopping down on top of him.

The bed creaks.

Rock gives a soft grunt on impact but doesn't complain. Good. She wouldn't care. Instead, he mumbles, "hi", voice muffled in between the pillow and his partner. Ex-partner? Ex-parter-ex-best-friend-ex-something.

There's another lag before a response, the sound of their mismatched breathing filling the room instead. And then-"Fuck you, Rock."

Then: "Hi."

She thinks it's funny, vaguely, how little the room has changed. The Hawaiian shirt she bought him all those years ago hanging on the wall still (why would he keep it, why is it still fucking here), in the midst of his hastily scribbled notes in his cramped business man writing.

Her cheek is sweating where it's pressed into the crook of his neck and Rock probably can't breathe and somehow it's all more comfortable this way.

The things she wants to say sting the back of her throat worse than rum ever could, but she can't even get the words right in her head, and god, it's late, and finally all that comes out is-

"You should've left."

Rock sighs. "Revy..."

Because she's said it so many times. It's something safe, something easy, something that comes spilling out of her mouth with no effort at this point. Every time she has a feeling she doesn't want to have, doesn't know how to deal with.

"You never shoulda come here, Rock."

The words are weighted down with exhaustion.

How many years has it been?

Rock gives a kind of quiet laugh and replies, "You keep saying that, but I'm still here."

(I'm right here where I'm sitting, Revy-)

Rock says, "I'm not anywhere else."

He squirms under her, and she gets the message, and shifts her weight onto her forearms and knees enough to let him roll onto his back before collapsing back down again. His chin rests on the top of her head and she can feel his pulse on her cheek and it's familiar.

It's an unwelcome thought that goes involuntarily through her mind, of all the times the two of them have been in this same position, which isn't that many, but enough to make the feeling of his hand on her back a comforting one. The time she wants to think of the least, the last night in Japan, in a shitty motel, her skewered leg bleeding on the sheets.

"You wouldn't fucking need a gun there," she thinks, out loud, without realizing.

"Maybe not," Rock sighs again in that tired, tired voice. "But I need one here."

Her gloved hand tightens in the fabric at the collar of his shirt.

Maybe she's kind of bitter, maybe he should act like he still needs her if apparently they both know he does, maybe he should come back down from the top, maybe she should tell him this.

Rock says, "I'm still a bullet, aren't I?"

The things she's wanted to say die in her throat.