Gideon doesn’t do great with being outright told what to do. She doesn’t react to the flippant proclamation super well in the moment. She may have said one or two four-letter words and may have made a gesture to emphasize where he can shove certain things.

And yet, a mere half an hour and a single slice of cheesecake later, she still finds herself in John’s room, arms folded and leaning against the wall while he digs through his closet.

Her reasoning feels solid: if she can get him to give her the sword he isn’t using, it’s better than nothing until she gets her hands on something better. Besides — she had, unfortunately, set herself up for this. She said it herself: she’s a soldier trained to be a cavalier replacement, and he is a cavalier-less necromancer, even if this one is a total nut job.

Fidelity, or something. She’s fairly sure that’s the feeling she’s supposed to be having about this.

“How are you going to judge what I can do, exactly? Want me to go wave your toothpick at Sixth?”