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She comes in like a hurricane every damn time-in the romantic figurative way, where she demands his attention as every force of nature does, but mostly with how she destroys massive amounts of property. And he hates to admit it, but he gets swept up in her wake. Every damn time.
It's the way she walks, he thinks. Or maybe the way she smiles like she's fully aware that everyone in the room is looking at her in a mix of fear and appreciation. It definitely has to do with the easy confidence that rolls off of her, the way she's carefree-not because she has nothing to worry about, but because she knows that she's more than capable of coming out on top, if push comes to shove. That's what makes her noticeable.
"Hey," she says, done with causing wreckage for now, content with standing at the bar and twirling the straw she yanked from his drink in her fingers, "Give me your number."
He doesn't say yes, doesn't pull out his scroll to put hers in, because he knows her, which means he knows that this is an ulterior motive for something.
"Why." He tries to keep his glare as steady as his voice, but she just grins at him and slides a napkin over, along with a pen she pulled from thin air.
"As much as I love visiting, Junior, it's a little bit out of my way. Why make a whole trip out of finding out you have nothing to tell me when I can find out in the comfort of my own home?"
She's still flashing him that grin, still twirling his straw in her fingers, still looking like she already knows he's going to say yes.
He grumbles, but he clicks the pen anyway, and somehow, her smile gets wider. When he's done, she snatches it out of his hand and stuffs it in her pocket and drops the straw.
"Great. Bye!" And she's gone so quickly he'd almost swear he'd imagined her, but the bouncer looking sullen while he gingerly touches his nose to assess its brokenness assures him that yes, a Category 5 Yang did come through.
She texts him, eventually, just a picture of a scratch on her bike and a :(. He doesn't question it's hers for a second, even though the number is unfamiliar. He'd recognize that damn bike from a mile away.
He sends back,Are they dead yet?, and only gets :) in return. And that's it. That's all he hears from her in months.
The next time he sees her, she's roped someone else into her chaos. The newcomer follows her around, looking slack jawed just like everyone else she comes in contact with, stupid goggles positioned in a way that's probably supposed to look jaunty. She yells, Goggles is an idiot, they leave, and his club is more intact than any other time she's shown up unannounced.
For some reason, he's not feeling relieved like he should be. He tries to put it out of his mind, this whole visit that seemed like it was all bluster, but he keeps coming back to how off the entire thing felt. After he’s spent an hour being fidgety and annoyed, he pulls out his scroll and wonders if he’s on terms good enough for an answer.
What the hell was that about?
He gets a string of texts in reply.
Teamwork.
Showing off.
Just wanted to see you.
Take your pick.
He feels a twinge of irritation at the fact that even though she's not there, he knows exactly what mannerisms she's using. The casual lift of her shoulders, the almost smirk that tugs at the corner of her lips. The things she does every time she sees him. He doesn't respond. That doesn't stop his scroll from buzzing, informing him that he got sent a video.
It's shaky, obviously filmed while on the move, but it's clear enough. There's a giant robot. A small girl in red stands in front of it, shouts something to another girl with ridiculously long hair, who nods and pulls out a rapier, and then there's the sound of shuffling before the camera view switches and Yang is grinning and holding her scroll out so she's visible, looking like she's having the time of her life. She salutes, and the video ends, and he reads the caption.
Regular Friday night out with the girls!
And he can't help but wonder what the hell she's gotten into. He almost tells her to stay safe, but thinks better of it, just tells her to spend her time fighting robots and not people in his place of business. No promises, she says, and he's nowhere near surprised.
He doesn't hear from her after that. Whatever she's digging into, it takes precedence over showing up to further complicate his life, over sending him videos with snippets of destruction she's in the middle of or causing it in person.
He keeps an eye on the news, even has his own people listening for anything about a girl with hair the color of gold and a will made of stone. What he gets are rumors about a criminal organization that's ripping apart at the seams, whispers about who, exactly, is causing it to violently separate (A girl with golden hair and a will made of stone. There are others, but that's all he hears), fears about whether or not a woman who plays with fire will direct her fury at her own people. He thinks of Yang when he hears that, but what she does with fire isn’t playing. It's just a part of her, as natural as any other limb. She doesn't let it lick at her fingers, doesn't tease it into a force to bend to her will. It consumes her from the inside out and destroys everything she touches, but she never burns.
When the story finally breaks about a series of arrests that involve half of Remnant’s most wanted list, it's followed up with a piece about who, exactly, put them there. Yang's a part of it, because of course she is. He puts out an announcement after that, makes it known that any of these young heroes are welcome at his club and won't have to worry about a tab. It's a bribe, he knows. He does it anyway.
She doesn't come. A blond guy does, with wild hair and abs he casually flaunts, with an arm wrapped around the shoulders of someone Junior faintly recognizes. Goggles, he realizes belatedly. It's Goggles. They flit around, dancing and laughing and generally basking in the atmosphere, before Goggles, flushed and tired looking wanders over to the bar and orders a drink. Junior shoos off the bartender and tells them he'll take this one.
"How's your friend," he asks, voice gruffer than intended, focus on the glass in front of him.
"Uh, he's good. He's over there, I think? I can go get-"
"Your other friend. The one who dragged you here the first time."
He watches as Goggles' eyes widen in recognition, notes how quickly his nervousness is replaced with a small smile, fights down the small pang of jealousy.
"Yeah, she's good. She's really good."
He doesn't ask for clarification. Partly because he feels like that'll scare the guy off, partly because he wants to hear it from her.
"Tell her she's welcome to stop by." He says, sliding the drink towards him. Then he leaves Goggles to it, motions the bartender back over and sits in his office.
A week passes, then two, and there's been no sign of her. He tells himself he doesn’t care, which gets tested every time the doors open and it’s not her. But he adjusts. His head stops snapping up every time he hears the door. He doesn’t even bother getting up to go check anymore. He lets it become the background noise to his work rather than something that he cares about. Open, close. Open, close, make a note to call someone about paying up. Open, close. Open, close. And then he hears the doors slam open, screams of all timbres, and feels a crash that reverberates through the ground before there’s the unmistakable clang as the door shuts. Well. That’s different.
He walks out, and she’s standing there.
“Hey,” she says from where she’s kneeling over one of his people, looking far too happy for someone who is about to knock a man unconscious. And then she stands up and completely abandons the goon, walks over to Junior and sticks her hand out like this is how normal people meet after not seeing each other in ages.
“How about that free drink?”