Bel, Erskin, and Jethro: Be celebrities.

"I was right," you muse, looking around, hands in pockets, "this is that shop. Someone from here decided that I was the root of your problems and trolled me in a froth. I was too worried about your health to play along for more information, but it did help me triangulate."

Lainey arrives on the tail of that. "Who's playing what now? Was this place a clue in your Sex Quest game?"

"Sort of," you say uncomfortably. You wouldn't mind Lainey knowing the whole story, except that Erskin's understandably a bit sensitive about it. So you pass the buck. "Erskin's call whether to explain, I'm not going to spill it."

Go you, says a little Pancho voice in your head, learning to delegate and shit, you deserve a donut.

 

"I was tired when I stopped in here last, and my temper got the better of me," you say shortly to Ms Gawker. "I just thought I'd pop in and make amends— ah!"

It's the chap. Lowblooded but extremely pretty, with strong horns and very smart hair and an immaculately crisp outfit— he certainly doesn't look like he was just pulled off his lunch. You feel very scruffy and wild, in comparison, you feel every inch your Lady's sad and ill-tamed pet.

"Hello," you say, nervously, rubbing at one of your fins. "I, er. I'm sorry I. About the mess. I'm very sorry. I'd like to, er, to pay, for any damage. I didn't hurt you, did I? I think I broke the changing rooms..."

"Yeah, the changing rooms are toast, but you missed me with all the claws and stuff," the fellow says, almost distractedly, and his bright brown gaze scours you up and down, your scrapes and bruises and the hair you forgot to comb, then focuses behind you at Bel.

"He got you back, huh?" he says to you. "How's the Lady Vhines feel about that?"

"Well, er, she's dead," you say, awkwardly, and the fellow, Kohoal, seems to puff up to twice size and step sharply in between you and Bel, his horns lowering.

"Is she now," he snarls, glaring at Bel.

"Er," you say. You think you may have lost the plot, a bit.

 

You focus on him, trying to figure out if he's really going to try this. "Yes," you tell him seriously, "she is, because she mistreated my kismesis, tried to kill his moirail, and for other reasons that are also none of your business. Erskin is making you an apology which, in my opinion, he does not actually need to make, as he was in serious medical distress at the time and your reaction was to troll me, call him a spoiled highblood brat, and try to pick some shit. The least you can do is look at him."

Lainey has produced an actual bag of popcorn from somewhere.

 

The chap looks at you, still all puffed up and fight-ready, and you, unfortunately, blush. Lowbloods make you nervous. Exceptionally handsome lowbloods make you very nervous.

"I wasn't in medical distress," you protest. "I'm a good deal sturdier than a chap who would be in medical distress from some shopping. I was just a bit snappish and tired, and it all worked out alright in the end, didn't it? Or, I mean, it, it didn't, but I'm trying for it to?"

"You couldn't even keep upright before you—"

"THAT'S ENOUGH," you snap. Lainey is hanging on every word, looking like 12th perigee's has come early, and Bel and Jethro have looks of sick pity in their expressions. And this fellow, who you owe some amount of respect to, certainly, some amount of apology, but this isn't his business to tell. You'll share your misadventures when you want and how you want and not at all if you fucking well want. You tilt your horns, square your shoulders, flare your fins. Narrow your eyes. He steps back— nearly everyone takes a step back.

"I'm here to make amends, sir," you say determinedly. "So we can put all of this behind all of us. How much, do you think that will cost?"

The shoptroll looks between you and Bel, then leans in, puts his hand on your arm. He smells like fresh night-lilies. "Look, I'd pay you if you'd just come home with me. I could keep you safe."

You stare at him with—not pity, but, but contempt, revulsion. "No, you couldn't," you say. "And anyway I'm not currently for sale."

"No, I meant— not like— that—" he stammers, but you've turned sharply on your heel to stride back out of the shop, before you can tear it up all over again.

((maybe bel and lainey can chew the guy out and/or make sure he drops the whole issue? and jethro can go off for hug duty))

 

"Did you seriously just call him a whore?" you gape.

Before the shoptroll can reply, Jethro marches up to him, takes a slow haymaker swing that the guy dodges, and uses the imbalance of his dodge to flip him over the counter. Then he stalks off after Erskin.

You can't quite stifle your laugh. "Okay, Jethro's had his say, I think we're done here."

"Not quite, Mr. K.," Lainey chirps. She hops up to sit on the counter, crosses her legs, and examines her perfectly manicured claws. "We're still waiting on an estimate for damages. With repair reciepts, right? And our new buddy with the inappropriate crush is gonna have to sign an NDA, isn't he?"

She seems to have a pretty good idea what to do here, and knowing when to let specialists work their magic is one of your better leadership qualities. You sit down in one of the fancy little chairs scattered around the place and get out your husktop. "I'll have Sergeant Pancho send me the boilerplate."

((i have factually zero clue how this works, so i'm gonna cut to jethro))

 

You catch up with your moirail and glomp him before he can talk himself into thinking he shouldn't get a hug. "I hope you ain't lettin' that jerk's jerkitude take up space in your pan. I flipped 'im over the counter, bee-tee-dubs."

 

You laugh, startled, and let the momentum swing you both around. "I'm perfectly alright," you assure him, and when he looks skeptical you add, "now that you're here," and press your foreheads together. His bristly strip of hair is extra prickly and sticky-up today, so you run your fingers across the velvet fuzz to each side and just enjoy standing with him, his arms around your ribs, yours around his shoulders, breathing one another's breaths.

Someone whistles, a mocking low woo-ee! note, and you raise your head to snarl a dire warning. This has the benefit of convincing everyone for several yards to leave you the hell alone, and convincing one impertinent indigo to leave the shopring entirely.

"Sorry," you murmur, going back to gently petting his head fuzz. "Short temper, today. I keep meaning to smooth everything over but everyone just seems to get angry regardless. Even me."

((SCANDALOUS FUCKIN MAKEOUTS))

 

"Everything happens too much," you sympathize. "I don't blame you, babe, you was tryna do the right thing an' that guy got weird on you. Anybody'd be cheesed off."

Taking his hand, you draw him along to sit on the rim of the fountain, where you can lean together and dabble your fingers in the water and to hell with anyone who thinks that's too much public display. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

 

You bare your teeth unhappily. "I would think you can guess," you say. "You've seen me, er. Not at my best. Not... handling certain situations as well as I might. Er. Gone... you know, wild. Mad."

You watch the water beetles in the fountain's basin paddle and glitter.

"I hope Bel never sees me like that," you say quietly. "I wish you hadn't. I certainly wish that fellow hadn't, either."

 

"If anybody's gotta see you at your downest, best it be me, right? I won't never hold it against you. I'm sure with you about that store dude not seein' it, though, ain't his business. Plus he's a weirdo." You bump noses with him to make him smile, and change the subject to one less humiliating. "I'mma hafta knit you a sweater to go with your new togs. What kinda style you like best?"

 

"Regular....?" you hazard. This is apparently not a specific enough preference. "Er. Black, with my sign on it, like, er, like how sweaters are?"

 

"I'm bettin' you don't like high collars cuz they'd tickle your fins," you muse. "You like cables, like this one I got on? Or smooth, or ribbed maybe? Loose for layers or tight for showin' off your bod? Huh, I reckon I could make your sign into a yoke motif..." You trace his sign thoughtfully with your finger, trying to work out how many stitches you'd need to make it readable.

 

His hands tracing your sign does a terrible fluttery thing you your insides, and you have to cup his face and rub yours against it, purring just slightly. You want to bundle him up and carry him off to the nearest collection of soft items and not get back up for a million sweeps. He's certainly amenable, if the way he grips your shirtfront is any indication, and you can feel the glitter of his psi dancing just under the soft skin of his cheeks, and it feels just as sweet as all the rest of him.

"I don't care what you knit me," you tell him, low but very intent. "I'll love it, and I'll sit next to you for every stitch, and bring you tea and cookies and the heads of dragons and I'll weave emeralds and peridot into your hair. You're splendid."

 

"Oh," you say, a soft sound of amazement, because no one has ever looked at you like that. Not even your matesprit -- Sigs often looks delighted, or amused, or horny, or like you're one of his kittens, but this kind of intensity, no. You've seen Pancho look at Bel a little bit like this a few times, you think, when he wasn't watching, and Bel at Galley a lot, but it's so different when it's your own beloved looking at you that way.

"Can we find a yarn store?" you propose. "Cuz I like that plan a whole lot. Mostly the part where we snuggle up an' I knit you a prezzie an' we have cookies. I am so into that."

 

"Yes, absolutely," you agree immediately, but then, hesitantly, you ask, "...Could we, perhaps, go tomorrow night, sort of thing, possibly? We can make a whole trip of it, I think. Look up where the best store is and go out for lunch and all. I, er. I'm..." tired. Sore. In need of another drink. But you can't quite bring yourself to say any of that sort of thing.

You work up a smile. "I'm game to go tonight, if you want."

 

"Shh. Ain't no shame in bein' wore out, darlin'. You just got your new leg yesternight. Takes time to settle in. We can't be runnin' you ragged." You squeeze his shoulders to take any sting out of the scolding. "Tonight I can work on the design. Gotta measure you an' do the math afore I know how much yarn I need. I can sketch up a few ideas an' you can tell me which ones you like best. We totes gotta have cookies though," you add with a grin.

 

You are pathetically grateful, and you rest your forehead on his shoulder with a deep, relieved sigh.

"Alright, yes," you say. "We can— we'll order in, we'll spend the whole morning on the couch..."

There's a significant sort of throat clearing sound. The sort of throat clearing sound a large blue pain in the ass might make when he wants attention but would also like to be as unpleasant as possible about it.

"We were having a moment," you grumble, mostly into Jethro's shoulder.

 

"I can see that," you say. "And so can the rest of the commerce aggregate. Not that anyone's objecting, I'm sure. I just thought you might like to know that the business with the shop is all taken care of. Ms. Gawker has a rare talent."

"Flatterer," she beams, and bashfully punches you in the kidney.

 

"Oh?" you ask, interested despite yourself. "Did she set that chap on fire?"

 

"Better. She made him do paperwork."

Lainey flourishes a printout and hands it to him with a little bow. "You've only paid for the damage that was your fault. He tried to ding you for a new cash register but Mister K stared at him and he changed his mind. And he signed this paper saying he won't run his mouth about you or pester you or your quadrants, so if he pursues his little club fantasy you can sic the legislacerators on him." She strikes a proud pose with her hands on her hips. "Go on, boss, admit it, I did good."