Bel: Visit even more rainbow drinkers.

There is a resurgence of giggling. "I'm not getting the damage deposit back on this one either, I guess!" Just now it's the funniest thing that's ever happened.

The thought of cleaning up, or even moving at all, is just not appealing. You guess you can have a little nap. The windows are fogged up, so that's a nice little privacy screen right there, and the fluffcheep isn't making noise in the cargo area so he's probably asleep. Ideally, you'd get the violet stain off the seat before it sets, but who are you kidding? Either it's stainproof to begin with or they're going to have to replace the upholstery; an hour or two won't make a difference.

By the end of this logic train your fingers have gone still in Erskin's hair, your eyes are closed, and your breathing is slowing. After that, the train takes off into illogic in a happy looping wander, and you end up dreaming about traveling the galaxy in search of lush vacation worlds with Erskin, in a ship that is Galley even though Galley is also beside you on the bridge, holding your other hand and evaluating each planet based on its otter-friendly qualities. It's one of the best dreams you've ever had.

 

You're worn clean through but it's not safe here-- the thought of all the other trolls in the area who know where you are, where you're drowsing, spurs you up out of your cozy stupor.

You gently rearrange Bel so you can slip into the driver's seat with his head on your thigh-- he hardly stirs-- and lift the flyer as smoothly as you can into the air. There's an oasis about a hundred miles north, a tiny burble of underground stream that fetches up through some rocks. But there's tall grass, a cluster of scrubs, and the water is sweet and cold. You land the flyer, throw dust all over the dark shell, and go take a long, long drink. You fill your canteens and take one, beading with condensation, back to Bel.

You tug his hair a bit, until he mumblingly stirs.

"Drink." You tell him. "Then you can conk out."

 

"Mmkay," you reply, and obey pliantly. The water is so good, cold and pure. You drain the canteen in one long draught. It wakes you enough that you notice your surroundings as you hand it back, and squint in confusion. "Where are we? It's pretty."

 

"Oasis-- we weren't followed, I don't think, I jinked about. It's safe."

No one knows where you are-- except Bel. It's dashed strange to feel this secure with another troll in your hide, but, there you are. You shake a fur out over the long grass and curl up with him on it-- less padded than the flyer's seat, but you want to feel the wind and moonslight as you drowse.

"Morning," you mumble, and that's it for you.

 

Before you go back to sleep, you take a selfie with your snuggled rival, and a pic of the oasis with its tall grasses waving against the moonlit desert horizon. You send these to Pancho with a few lines of text.

CH: * I used to dream about this kind of thing. Being taken to a hidden beauty spot, shagged rotten and then taken care of in safety and comfort.
CH: * I thought it would be a matesprit who did it, if anyone, and I let go of the idea when I fell for Enkidi, because it didn't seem like his style.
CH: * It turns out, Erskin is gracious in victory. :D
CH: * P.S. I think we're coming home soon. <>

Just as you're nodding off, your phone beeps, and you lift it to see her response:

SL: you're fucking adorable. troll me with an e.t.a. when you set out and i'll have a feast waiting. <>

Smiling, you join Erskin in insensibility.

 

You're awakened by an insistent, high-pitched alarm. You fumble out your phone and poke at it for a few seconds, trying to turn the alarm off, before you realize it's not your phone, it's the fluffcheep. He's killed a spider and wants you to eat it. Since the spider is only the size of your palm, and you don't have the wherewithal to batter and deep-fry the thing even if there were enough of it to be worth the trouble, you sincerely wish he'd eaten it himself rather than pestering you. But his concern is rather cute.

The solution you hit upon, once you've had a good stretch and yawn, is to get out your little alcohol stove and some assorted travel food, and toast various things over the flame, sharing them with your pet, in such a way that he ends up eating the unseasoned and rather tough spider himself, while you feast on sausages, stale bread that turns out to be fairly palatable with some cheese melted on it, and a leftover slice of Pancho's leek/apple/crabmeat pizza you don't remember putting away, but which you savor with immense relish.

It's only after you've finished eating every single piece of food you can find in your modus that you realize that not waking up Erskin to share with him, or saving him some, is really unlike you. What's gotten into you lately? You're getting kind of weird about food. You've been eating like a pupa lately, but when you pinch the skin on your stomach, there is, if anything, less fat than usual over the starkly defined muscle. And there wasn't much to begin with.

Must be all that sex you've been having.

Speaking of which, you reek. You rinse out your shorts in the tiny creek, drape them over a bush to dry, and sit down on a rock to give yourself a thorough handkerchief-bath. The Fluffcheep, no longer immobilized by a meal the way he was the first couple nights after hatching, splashes happily in the shallow water, chasing dragonfly nymphs and minnows. Every so often you scan the horizon for predators or weather; somewhat more frequently, you observe Erskin's snoring sprawl with a sappy smile. What a lovely, lovely night it is.

 

You wake slowly, migrating bit by bit up against Bel's side till you're mostly awake and he's playing with your hair. It's unlike you, when you're out and about, but you feel good. Finally you have to admit to yourself you're awake, and you grumblingly get up, take a long drink from the creek, and have a wander around the big rocks ringing the creek. The fluffcheep's doing well for himself: you watch, fascinated, as he crouches on the water's edge in a clumsy approximation of Reggie's ambush pose, waiting for a little frog to swim close enough— pow. A hit with his oversize, paddle-like paws, but he fumbles and the stunned frog squirms away. Reggie would have snapped his neck out and speared it, then gotten his claws in, but you're not sure if the little lump has any cervical vertebrae whatsoever. His anatomy is... indistinct.

It's still disorientingly strange to see the traits of your custodian in another. Lusii are meant to be unique, aren't they, like fingerprints— but he's got Reggie's face, written small and squashy, and his back paws aren't too different, either.

You flick a little pebble at the fluffball, hitting him squarely on the head. He turns sharply and hisses— that's not a sound from his bearer's repertoire, too rough, it pitches wrong at the end. You flick another pebble and he charges you— can't get up the rock you're perched on, poor little chap. He leans up on his hind legs and scrabbles and jumps, chattering and shrilling— the shrilling's Reggie's, it almost makes you feel as if you're actually in trouble— but he gets precisely nowhere.

Well, it's good exercise. Little things need lots of that. You flick another pebble to keep him good and angry.

 

You'd assumed the fluffcheep's hissing was just his usual antagonism to anything that moves other than you, but this time you look up in time to catch Erskin taunting him. You pitch a proportionally-sized rock at Erskin and hit him square on the sternum. "See how you like it, you bully," you scold. "He's no bigger than your hand, what are you thinking?"

 

"I say!" you say, affronted. You're still in the altogether so that really smarted! "Yes, I know he's a titchy little thing, that's why I was only tossing titchy little pebbles! I'm not out to really hurt him."

You lean over the rock. "Aren't I, little fellow? Yes. Yes. I am. You just keep trying, now, good job! That's the ticket."

He snaps at one of your fingers— falling well short, but you appreciate the sentiment. "You nearly had me," you encourage him. "Come on, spitfire, go again, jump!"

The fluffcheep roars at you in rage and frustration and you grin proudly at Bel. You doubt the little thing will ever have anything like an intimidating stature, but he's certainly got a bhemoth's share of fire.

 

You soften, and stop trying not to smile. "I have to confess, it's a relief to see you notice him, let alone play with him. You took such good care of his egg, and then... well, I sort of thought you were... made to forget."

 

"Of course I'm noticing him, he only looks half like my custodian, I keep thinking I'm going to get a real scolding when he hits the proper pitch. Why would— why." Your eyebrows draw together. "Why would I...?"

It's like waking from a dream— already whatever it is Bel just said to you is slipping away. And that's— that's not right, is it? That's. Whatever just happened. Is happening. It's not right.

"Why." You repeat, trying to get at it.

 

Oh, hell. Your guess was right. You scoot over to him, look seriously up into his face, trying to keep his eyes focused on you. "Why would Cloris make you forget about Reggie's egg?" you prompt "Keep hold of it, Trouble, you're stubborn, you can do this."

 

"Cloris," you repeat, picking out the word. Why— something, something. Cloris. Your Lady. Under the horror of knowing the truth her nature is still the bloom of love for the woman who saved you, cherished you— and under that, further horror, how long has she— had she— something.

You shake your head. "She. My— she did. Something. Dreams..." You wave your fingers at your head. "'s all dreams with her, isn't— wasn't it— feels like—" you've lost it again. You scrub your fingers through your hair, pull on your horns, frustrated.

There's something wrong, something terribly wrong, and Bel knows— there's something wrong. The way he looks, the way he sits.

"There's something wrong," you say, trying to pin down— you don't know what it is, but you know, you, there's an it. "There's something wrong."

 

"Yeah," you say softly. "You really can't keep hold of it, can you? And if someone as stubborn and pigheaded as you can't crack it, it can't be cracked from the inside. Listen -- no, listen, let it ride for now, we'll get you some help. I know you don't trust Sigmah much, but he's very firm about consent, and also he's your moirail's matesprit so he has reason to want you safe and healthy. Or..." You're not sure if you should suggest this, but he looks so distressed, and it's just not right. You like him strong and fierce and full of vinegar. "You can dreamwalk, though I sincerely dont understand how. You could come fetch me into your dreams, and I could see if there's something I can do."

 

"Do? About wh— what. What's wrong. About what's wrong." You lean into him, pressing your face to his shoulder. "There's— it's me. Something's." You shiver, can't stop shivering. Something's wrong. Something's wrong. You're repeating it silently to yourself.

"We'll fix it," you say, unsteadily. "Yeah? What's wrong. We'll get it sorted. You're smart."

 

"Your head's been messed with, yeah. But we'll fix it. You and me together, we're unstoppable. We'll handle it." You fold him in your arms and run your claws through his hair, rough and invigorating. "I knew she couldn't keep you down for long."

The fluffcheep has picked up on the change in atmosphere and stopped trying to attack Erskin. Instead, he's come around the rock and put a questioning paw on your knee. You scoop him up and lift him where he can see Erskin but can't peck him. "See, little guy, it's okay, Erskin's not hurting me. We like to fight but he's not an enemy. I trust him. Okay? Only peck him for play, not for real." The skeptical creature scrambles up your arm and hides in your hair, which you suppose is good enough, since it's not trying to attack Erskin.

The distraction doesn't seem to have lifted Erskin's mood any. You ruffle his hair some more. "I don't know if I can fall back asleep just now. Could you?"

 

"No, but if you suggest another round of concupiscent exercise I'm going to geld you," you say, and attempt a mean look.

 

"Really?" You let a grin begin to widen. "Had enough? Have I worn you out?"

Not that you could probably summon a wiggly for Kewpid himself at this point, but you're damned if you'll pass up the chance to tease your rival about sex.

 

"No, I'm just bored of you," you tell him, grinning, and shove him in the face.

 

You grab his wrist, and with that and your other arm around his neck, hook him off his rock and into the creek. Sharp claws prickle your neck as the fluffcheep flees. You hold Erskin down -- face-up in an inch of water -- and make a Very Serious Face. "Drowning you now."