Work Text:
Zhang Qiling has always been a light sleeper. It’s part a necessity of her line of work, part natural sleep rhythm enforced into habit. When the Iron Triangle is on a job—as rare as that is, these days—, she’s always the one who snaps awake at the slightest sound of a scuffed boot, or a buzz that indicates the occurrence of possibly deadly insects, or the whsh of displaced air. It’s a trait that’s served her well, kept her and her companions from death on more than one occasion.
Zhang Qiling finds herself smiling slightly as the sounds of footsteps, muffled but distinctive to her sensitive hearing, drifts into the bedroom. Oftentimes, she wakes early, takes time to climb one of the many trees behind the cottage or take a walk around the perimeter, but the previous night passed in Pangzi and Wu Xie’s arms, their proximity lulling her to a comfortable, if light, sleep. That very same proximity is also why she had immediately woken up when Pangzi and Wu Xie had tried to rise from the bed without disturbing her, though she had made sure to keep her reactions hidden, curious as to what they were up to.
Apparently whatever it is requires to use of the printer, an ancient thing kept in the guest bedroom-turned-office, its customary wheezing whine kicking up as if it’s about to give out at any moment— dramatic fuck, Wu Xie has called it before, Pangzi laughing at the descriptor—an indication that it’s in use. With her companions out of the room and far enough away to not notice the sound of movement, Zhang Qiling rolls over and stretches her arms, yawning. The air tastes crisp, the seasons on the brink of autumn, and Zhang Qiling takes a moment to lazily think about the likelihood of Pangzi and Wu Xie trying to convince her to come on a picnic with them.
A few moments after the printer ceases its death wails, there’s a sudden, loud thud, and a yelp—Wu Xie. “ Shh, ” comes the hissed response—Pangzi. It’s endearing, that either of them think they can go about whatever it is without waking Zhang Qiling. She finds her lips twisting with fondness.
After that, the sounds of movement approach. They’re returning, then. Well, Zhang Qiling will give them what they’re hoping for, then. Closing her eyes, she rolls back over into her initial position, face half-buried in the pillows, the faint scent of Pangzi’s shampoo lingering even in her absence. A moment later, the door creaks open, and then there’s a hand on her shoulder. Zhang Qiling turns her head, lets her eyes remain heavy as she blinks as if she was only just awakening; pushes herself into a sitting position. Wu Xie is half bent over the bed, her expression soft and half-awed, and Zhang Qiling, unable to help it, leans forward to press a gentle, close-mouthed kiss to her lips.
“ Xiaoge, ” Wu Xie says, “you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet!” But her tone is light and playful, and she says, “Pangzi and I have a surprise for you.” Her hand has found Zhang Qiling’s cheek, and she leans forward, kissing her forehead lightly.
“You can’t hog all of Xiaoge’s kisses,” Pangzi complains, settling on the bed a moment later, eliciting a laugh from Wu Xie. Zhang Qiling smiles as well; shifts so she can lean against Pangzi; presses a kiss to her cheek before resting her cheek against her shoulder. Pangzi looks at her for a moment, and then sighs. “You’ve been awake the entire time, haven’t you?”
Zhang Qiling hums. “Whatever your surprise is, I don’t know that,” she offers, which seems to be sufficient placation, because Pangzi huffs a laugh, and then reaches for Wu Xie, dragging her down next to them. Wu Xie goes with only a token protest, and a moment later, Zhang Qiling finds herself pressed between the two of them.
“Here,” Wu Xie says, producing a slightly-creased envelope and holding it out to Zhang Qiling. Zhang Qiling takes it; inspects it for a moment. The envelope is the same paperstock as the ones Wu Xie uses when she writes letters; whatever they printed must be enclosed within. The flap is only lightly tacked down, and opens easily when Zhang Qiling slides a finger under it. Wu Xie and Pangzi are watching her, the weight of their gazes palpable, but not in the way that speaks of anything dangerous. It makes Zhang Qiling curious as to what’s contained within the envelope—what could have prompted them to take the time and planning to do this.
When she slides the paper out of the envelope, it becomes clear: a printed copy of a request from one of the dozens of publishing agents they’ve contacted in the past few months in an attempt to publish the novel Zhang Qiling had written first on a whim, then rewritten with more dedication as she had realised the influences of real-life friends and acquaintances on the characters that she had put to paper. “The email came this morning,” Wu Xie explains. “I thought we might hear back from this one, so I set an alert on my phone in case anything came in from them.”
“Congratulations, Xiaoge,” Pangzi says, and she’s grinning, eyes crescents, crow’s feet in the corners. Her arm’s around Zhang Qiling, and moments later, Zhang Qiling finds herself engulfed in a hug by both her and Wu Xie, their weights against her comforting. Without meaning to, she finds herself first smiling, and then grinning. It’s the first step, after which many more will follow, but it means something, that the harebrained idea she had had a little more than a year and a half ago has gotten to where it is now—all with Pangzi and Wu Xie’s help, support, and encouragement.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, and then presses her face into Wu Xie’s shoulder, and hugs them back, basking in the warmth of their embrace.