You take his hand carefully in yours to drink, and it’s— good, it feels good. You press the side of your mouth to his wet palm, afterwards, and a sharp shiver goes through you at the feeling. You whine and turn your face into his touch and close your eyes and you want him, actually. You want him to be looking at you like this, crowding you like this. You tuck him closer against your side and let him pet you, gently, his hands very warm but soft. Not taking anything out of you, not demanding, no claws. Just pressing this softness against you. “Jethro,” you remember. That’s it. That’s him. “...hello.”
"Hi," you smile, tearing up again. "I missed you." You lean in, and he lets you kiss his forehead. "I'm here now. I'mma stay with you now." This is no time for all the things you want to say to him, unfortunately. There probably isn't even time to let him rest up. You're unsupervised for the moment -- you're pretty sure Cloris doesn't have Bel's electronic surveillance skills, you tested that when you told her you were going to call Pancho and then called Bel instead and she didn't give you grief for it -- so now is the time to make your move. "We should get out of here, Erskin. Before she comes back. Cuz I dunno if I can fight her even hand to hand, an' she made me ditch my sylladex, I got nothin'. We gotta get to a store or somebody's hive an' borrow their phone, call somebody for a ride. Okay?"
You frown against Jethro’s hair. You’re not getting it all down, you know, even though you’re trying hard to concentrate—on him, on the calm night breeze, on the soft white noise of water. “You’re here now,” you say. “I don’t... why would—” you growl, frustrated with yourself, angry all over again. “You’re here, we’re alright. Stay.”
"Shh okay, okay baby." What the fuck did she do to him. "I ain't goin' anywhere. When you wanna go home, we'll go together. Where's Reggie?"
Shit. Probably a hostage, then. You can't leave Erskin to go look for him, and Erskin is in no shape for searching. You're stuck. And that's assuming Reggie is still alive; Erskin's lack of concern about his missing lusus is really, really fucked up, and you're starting to wonder if Cloris just killed the inconveniently protective beast and then fried Erskin's pan until he forgot about it. So he might not even remember about the egg, but you try to reassure him anyway: "Bel found the egg. He's taking care of it. Keeping it warm and everything." He just… stares. "Oh babe," you say softly, and tuck your chin over his shoulder so he won't see you cry.
“Hey,” you say, pulling him into your lap. “No, shh, don’t.” This is— comfortable, familiar, you know how to do this. You hold him and pat his bristly hair and go shhh for him, until he isn’t quite so upset. Crying isn’t a thing you like to be happening, and after enough fussing it mostly isn’t. “I’m hungry,” you say, after enough nuzzling and patting has been enacted. “Are you hungry?”
"I could eat," you concede. You've never been one of those people who loses their appetite when they're upset, and it's been ages since the bagel-and-smoked-fish you had for breakfast well before sunset. And if you're going inside anyway -- "We could look for Reggie on the way. He's prolly worried about you."
“Mm. Right. Let’s get you— there’s. I know where the, the kitchen– the eating block. Is.” You slide Jethro gently off of you, then lever yourself to stand. Without such a singularity of purpose as getting free driving you, it’s a difficult proposition to keep your feet. You grit your fangs as you test your weight against your bad leg, and— it’s still bad. Worse, maybe. You’ve scuffed it badly over the last— the last— the past however long, the past little while, it’s all scrapes and dings, and where your flesh meets the metal is bruisy and raw. You growl softly at yourself, and rummage through your sylladex for a walking stick. “Here,” you say to Jethro, who’s hovering, and show him the tall length of wood. “Trim this? It needs to be—” you indicate the level with a claw scratch.
"You got it, bro. Psi happening." You feel the first twinges of the too-much-psi-today headache behind your eyes as you cut and smooth the wood, but you ignore them; doing this with a knife would take too long, if he even has any to loan you, and might leave splinters. He's been through enough already without splinters on his walking stick. "Your new leg don't fit right," you observe. "We gotta get you a better one. I mean, that one's pretty, but it don't fit." You hand him the stick. "That good, or you want I should take off another inch?" He tries it and nods acceptance. You still hover close on the trip to the food block in case his leg gives out on him. You fuss him into sitting down and letting you bring him food. There's lots of meat in the thermal hull, thank fuck -- you were prepared to find nothing but bottles of blood, or like, tiny hors d'oeurves with flowers on them or some shit. You don't bother making anything fancy, just rub some steaks with salt and pepper and pan-fry them real quick. You bring Erskin his with a big glass of water and set the salt shaker down next to him. "You been keepin' up with your salt, bro?" you prompt. "Don't reckon Cloris knows how much you need, an' you been partying. Might wanna salt your water. Or I could make you salt coffee?"
You shake your head, pleased but a bit overwhelmed at the questions— it’s too much to sort through, to think about. You catch his hand and press a kiss to it, then gently push him towards the other seat. You unscrew the saltshaker and simply pour the entire thing over your plate, before remembering— “Oh, do you...?” and guiltily trying to scoop a bit of salt back in for him. It doesn’t work— your hands aren’t quite at a hundred percent just yet— and finally you just laugh and shove your plate over for him to take a pinch if he needs any.
Your answering laugh is a bit wobbly -- relief, and exhaustion, and so much anxious love -- and you take a pinch for your steak even though it's salty enough from the rub you cooked it with. He's clearly even hungrier than you are; you're eating with steady determination, but he's really shoveling it in. You refill his water glass as often as he empties it, and begin to wonder if you should fry up another steak or two. Every so often, the afghan slips from his shoulders, and you pick it up and re-wrap it. Maybe he's not cold without it, you don't know, but it just freaks you out seeing him all nakedy and scuffed up like some old-time pirate's fuckslave.
You’ve finished a second portion of cooked meat and are chasing the last bits of salt around with your fingers when there’s a rustle of skirts just on the edge of hearing. You look up and it’s— it’s your Lady, coming hesitantly into the room. And you love her and she’s so beautiful and looks so sad and you want to go to her immediately but— you remember how she looked at you. Just before everything went really bad. How angry she was when you told her no. You hunch down in your seat, just a bit, and look to Jethro.
Hooboy. Welp, here we go, you think, and straighten your shoulders. "Miz Vhines, you wanna give him some space awhile," you say firmly, resting a protective hand on Erskin's shoulder. "Whatever you done to him, he forgot my fuckin name, an' his leg don't fit, an' basically if you don't want him flippin' out again you gotta let me take care of him." She stares at you for a long moment, her brows furrowed. There is no outrage there, only a frank bafflement--not that you would order her around, but that you would speak at all. She looks no less confused than if your chair had burped and said ‘excuse me’. Then Cloris flicks her eyes away from yours, a clear dismissal, and smiles at your moirail. “Hello, darling. It’s wonderful to see you feeling better.”
You smile back, hesitantly. “I... yes,” you say. “Jethro’s been. It’s been. Nice.” There’s nothing to her expression but concern for you, and love, and the marks of worry and sorrow and you were— you were so angry at her. She doesn’t listen to you, she doesn’t take care of you, the things you believed of her weren’t... they weren’t accurate. You can’t trust her or— or yourself, even. But... Jethro’s here, now, and you can trust him, can’t you? So everything might turn out just fine. “Are you alright?” you ask.
You watch her face change, and it's like staring into the headlights of an oncoming drama truck. Oh no you don't, you think, and cut her off before she can start playing victim. "Where's Reggie? He needs his lusus." Her eyes flick; she's going to ignore you again. "Where's Reggie." She only smiles at you, obviously not listening to a word you say, and turns back to her matesprit. “Your lusus is napping in my respiteblock.” "Wow," you say quietly at her unbelievable rudeness, but you shut your mouth and wait to see what Erskin wants.
“Good. That’s... good.” You look at Jethro, worried about his obvious anger. “Could you... could you bring him over, do you think? I, I think that Jethro might, er. Might like to see him. Please.” She beams sweetly at you and pats your hand. “Of course I can, my pet, I’ll be but a moment.” Without giving your moirail one glance, she exits and heads upstairs. You press into Jethro’s side, tense and unhappy. You don’t know what to say— I’m sorry, I’m angry too, I’m tired, I’m happy you’re here, I’m worried about both of you— and you almost wish you were simply and cleanly furious again, instead of all this muddle. “Are you alright?” you finally ask. You should have asked it sooner.
You give a soft, bleak laugh. "Not really, but I'll be a whole lot better when we're home safe. I hadda leave Paw behind an' I dunno if he can find me here. I'm scared for you. What she been doin' to you, it ain't right." You take up one of his hands and trace the little punctures on his wrist. "A real matesprit don't let this kinda thing happen to their sweetheart, Erskin, let alone hand 'im over an' cheer for the assholes doin' it. This… this ain't right. I wanna take you home." You sniff sharply and take a deep breath to calm yourself. He can't deal with you breaking down right now, he's way too messed up for that. "As long as we stick together, shit can't get too bad," you say firmly, and hope to God it's true.
“Mmm,” you agree, and twitch your wrist away from his fingers. His touch to the bites sends a shivering heat through you that isn’t right, for moirails. You cup your other hand over the marks, feeling flustered and a bit sick, and cast around for something else to talk about but being on your back with your Lady sinking into you like you— like you already want again, badly— “Where’s home?” you blurt out. “I don’t— your home? I don’t have one.”
"Someplace safe. Your hive, my hive, my prowler -- hell, even Bel's hive'd be safer than here. Or if you wanna be free, out in the open, we can do that, get my camping shit from the hotel an' just go roamin'. Anywhere that ain't under the thumb a Lil' Miss Bitey who pretends I ain't present when I speak."
