[Closed] Don't Need My Blood

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

H
e’d thought he was done laughing. This time at least he’d nothing to choke on. A snort slipped out of him, and then a deep chortle, and then a sort of – breathy wheeze, he was horrified to realize, the kind that reminded him of the way some old men laughed. Whatever the hell any of it was, he’d’ve been hard pressed to recognize himself in it, or Anatole either; he thought it sounded like the incumbent was drunk, and for once, neither of them were.

He was still grinning. I’ve been a lot of things, he thought, but I don’t think I’ll ever be a salad. He cleared his throat, took a drink. “State secrets,” he drawled instead, letting the smile drop into a distinguished frown, “are a great deal more boring, I’m afraid.”

I suppose –

Cerise was frowning at him again. He realized belatedly he’d been watching her face a little too closely; he glanced down and away, busying himself tearing off more flatbread. They were getting down to the last two or three wedges, now. He tore off only a little; the idea of her taking the last piece warmed him, somehow.

There was something familiar about the way she ate. Something in his chest ached when he asked himself why, so he didn’t.

He glanced up midway through a bite of fish, raising his brows. “Oh–?” he blurted, halfway forgetting you weren’t supposed to talk through food. He covered his mouth, swallowed a mant chunk of fish, and then took another drink. Cerise was frowning thunderously; he thought it was the kind of frown that wanted to twitch itself into a smile.

Well, let her yield to it first, he thought. He kept his politician’s frown firmly on his face, no matter how much it strained all the muscles. Funny, but he thought he could’ve kept this frown on his face through nearly anything; she’d taught him so, and she’d taught him how to smile when he wanted to frown, too, and to find whatever grimness or pleasure he felt inside himself and use it.

There was plenty of grimness to be found, if he looked for it. He didn’t want it; he didn’t want any of it. He wanted to pout and pretend it was just this moment and just them and nothing else. He wanted it to be a game, more badly than he wanted anything.

“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” he asked more smoothly. “Well – the matter seems rather –”

Urgent, he’d been about to say, in the same drawling tone. There was a soft scrabbling of claws and a ruffling of feathers; Sish was up on the table, chirruping. His eyes moved down from Cerise’s face, to where Sish was craning her long golden neck to snuffle her pointy nose in the drizzle of sauce where the fish had been. A shuffle of claws and Sish’s nose had found his own fish, of which there were a few shreds and scraps left.

A long tongue lapped out curiously.

“Uh –” He cleared his throat, still frowning. “Urgent,” he said, though he’d half forgot why. “If you’ve time on the six or the seven. I wouldn’t want to – take you away from practice.”

Tentative, he reached out a hand, offering the backs of his fingers to Sish. Almost like a cat, he thought. Almost.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

That laugh threw her off again. Not in the same way the others had, where it was the fact that he laughed at all that startled her. Those had been unfamiliar too, but this was... more. Cerise let her eyebrows pull upward, faintly disbelieving. She didn't think she was that funny. She had never in all her life heard her father sound so much like some kind of drunk old man at a dinner party. She looked down at her cup; it was just water, after all. She was sure of that.

There had been another joke somewhere in her mouth, something about state secrets, but she'd lost it. It was somewhere underneath her "I suppose" and the way he looked at her like he was trying to find something that wasn't there. It had pulled the smile off her face, and he had put on that familiar professional frowning too. She pulled off another bit of the bread, not paying attention to how much was left. There was still room in her stomach for it, and she would take it happily and without reserve. Easier to keep herself from smiling while she ate too.

Harder when he talked around a bite of fish, like he'd forgotten basic table manners. Her thin mouth twitched. He didn't smile either after that, and it felt like a challenge. Who would give in first? Cerise chewed on another bite and thought it might just be her after all. She was already struggling. That didn't seem fair--he was the one acting strange, and what wasn't funny about all of it?

She inclined her head and opened her mouth to speak as Sish jumped up on the table. Cerise glanced down briefly and realized the wood was softer than she would have thought. Sish had already left her mark at the edge of it. At this rate, the miraan was fixing to level all of Thul Ka before they left. Good for her. It was important to have goals. Sish's sudden craving for sauce took her father's attention off of her face and transferred it to the golden head that was trying to steal the last of his dinner.

Cerise kept an eye on the miraan, not sure that any of the spices were really good for her. She supposed she'd find out if and when she found it thrown up on the hotel floor. Or worse (and more likely)--the bedspread. Sish's thin tongue reached out; she shook her head and pulled it back in. But she was not, as Cerise had perhaps hoped, deterred in the slightest.

"The six maybe not--but the seven I should. I don't think we--she's going to take that if you let her, you know." Cerise had looked up from Sish to look at her father; his eyes were still on the miraan. And his fingers, too, reaching out tentatively to her pointed snout. Like the way one approached a cat.

The miraan looked at his hand, drake's eyes gleaming in the low evening light. Cerise held and she waited; if Sish bit him... Well. Normally she was fairly well-behaved, but normally nobody reached out to her so much. She had bitten Em. Eventually. Cerise did smile then thinking about it, a quick flash of something warm and fond. That had been a drastically different circumstance. Nobody was invading what was rightfully the miraan's territory at the moment. Still, one never did know.

Shining eyes turned away, utterly disinterested in either biting or accepting the fingers put in front of her. The drakelet had eyes only for fish scraps, which she lapped up quickly. Like she somehow knew they weren't for her. Greedy little thing. Cerise's frown failed her utterly, watching the whole exchange.

"She might let you pet her," Cerise offered, wondering. "If you would like. Now that the appropriate sacrifices have been made." Her own teeth flashed, promise and warning both. It wasn't her fault if he took his chances. Cerise reached for the last of the bread, still amused.

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

M
m – the seven,” he said, nodding very seriously. He glanced up for just long enough to meet Cerise’s eye, and then back down, because he saw Sish’s head move back from the fish. He knew better than to yank his hand back; never did that end in anything but teeth and claws.

That laoso gnashing again. Whatever look the drakelet’d had on her face when she’d sniffed the sauce, she was at it again with all her single-minded diligence. Little droplets of red sauce and grease pattered on the varnished calypt, along with tiny bits of fish and fish-smelling spittle.

“Hmm? Oh, she’s welcome to it,” he grunted. He’d almost started smiling, but he’d clamped down on it hard; he’d remembered. He blinked. “Unless it’s bad for a miraan?”

When he glanced up briefly, there was a look of concern in his eyes; he blinked and looked back down, to where Sish was tilting her head to snap up the last of the fish. Her teeth rasped on the metal.

Another few loud giggles from the table nearby. He shot a look over his shoulder and saw one of the lasses pointing; when he caught her eye, she looked away. “Tsayita,” he heard a voice lilt as he turned back.

“It’s on the table!”

“Orozem!”

Little flooder had turned her nose up at his hand; he didn’t draw back, but his arm was tired, so he leaned his elbow on the edge of the table. “I’m not working at all on the seven,” he went on. “I could come in the morning, before it gets busy, or the afternoon, or whenever you’re free. Meet you in the middle at the Walk of Tsed’tsa – Cinnamon Hill isn’t too far from Dejai Point, and then it’s a hop and a skip by the cable cars to Nutmeg Hill.”

A hop and a fucking skip. He was frowning so hard it was hurting his face, now; it was preposterous, with the little drake still gobbling up his fish, and that only made him want to smile more.

He blinked up at Cerise in surprise, and saw a broad grin on her face, almost as sharp as Sish’s. The frown fell off his; he laughed, looking back down.

Somehow, he hadn’t expected her to break first, but this felt less like a breaking and more like a victory in its own right; that hatcher’s grin always felt like a victory. He wondered if that was how he looked when he grinned, and he’d never thought of that before, and it made him feel very strangely.

“You think it was enough of one?” he asked. Sish was snuffling at the only thing left on the tin, the last of the greens, but she didn’t seem too interested. Her tiny jowls worked, and her tongue flickered over her lips and snout. There was a twitch of the feathers at her wings, and they caught the light, bright gold.

He’d often wondered what they’d feel like. They looked soft underneath Cerise’s fingers; he wondered if they’d be softer than the feet he’d felt on his shoulders, or the scales and ridges that looked so pointy. It was hard to imagine, but they looked soft, sometimes.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Cerise reach for the last of the flatbread. His smile warmed even more.

He reached out, slowly, showing Sish his hand again. He moved as if to stroke the scales on the back of her neck; if she let him, he’d work his way down to the feathers.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

"It could be--I haven't the faintest idea. I don't think it should do anything more than make her throw it back up later. I'm not aware of anything that people can eat that would prove more harmful than that." Cerise shrugged, watching Sish fall on the scraps of sauce-covered fish. As always, she had started to attract attention. Positive attention, at least. Mostly. She thought she saw a frown or two. Not everyone appreciated Sish's unique charm. They were alike in that way, although Sish found more success than Cerise did. Little monster.

"'A hop and a skip'--are you skipping straight to your dotage? I think that phrase is reserved for after one has grandchildren. You're not there yet." That was a picture Cerise couldn't hold--her father, an old man indulging his grandchildren. In her mind, they were Eleanor's children. The whole thing got far too clocking absurd if she tried to picture her own.

"But the morning should be better than the afternoon, I think... If you have that much free time on your hands. I can be there," she agreed, easily. Surprisingly easily, all things considered. She leaned back in her chair, trying to shake herself of the mental image she'd conjured up the minute before and the twisting in the bottom of her stomach. Just a normal outing, to visit a local godsdamn tailor. She didn't know why she'd agreed to it, other than she was slowly suffocating in her uniform.

Her father asked if the offering of his leftovers had been enough to permit Sish to pet him; Cerise shrugged her thin shoulders again, hands spread wide. "Only one way to know," she informed him cheerfully, not in the least concerned.

Even if she took sudden offense to the attention, Sish only rarely bit hard enough to do real damage. The risk seemed low, considering she had been fed twice now--and she'd been happy enough to sit on his shoulders a while, a betrayal Cerise had yet to quite forgive her for. Maybe the miraan had known something she didn't. Cerise polished off the last of the bread and greens in front of her, attention keen. Just in case.

Flecks of fish and bright sauce dotted that golden face where her tongue couldn't quite reach. She didn't react to the bony fingers that made their way closer to her neck, not until contact was made. Then she preened happily enough under the attention, quiet little chirping sounds filling the air. When he got to the feathers, she spread her wings out happily, knocking over Cerise's cup and anything else in her way.

"Sish!" Cerise hissed, quietly and without any force behind it. Mostly she just scooted out of the way of the water before it ended up on her lap. She shot an exasperated kind of look to the miraan, who had scooted away a few inches but otherwise seemed unbothered. The metallic sheen of her feathers caught the light as she batted her tail back and forth.

"Can't take you anywhere, can I?" Cerise meant to sound scolding, but she failed. It was difficult to get too upset, when she looked so pleased with herself. Clocking adorable little monster, that's what she was.

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

M
y dotage,” he snorted, shooting her a sharp glance and a sharper quirk of the eyebrow. But it was hard enough to hold onto that irritation, with her grinning so at him and Sish. He looked back down at the golden drakelet, hesitating before he stretched out his fingers to the scales; she was nosing about the remains of his tray, still, investigating the smells of yats bygone.

Grandchildren, he thought.

It tangled tight and knotted inside him, somewhere separate from all his laughter. He felt it like a buzz at the edge of the light, like movement in the shadows just over the edge of the rooftop. He felt it like the kind of ugly secret you sit on and laugh through, the kind where the keeping is worth the ache of holding.

Children, he thought. He supposed he didn’t have any of those; he supposed, being honest, he never would. Couldn’t’ve even gotten halfway to grandchildren.

Only one way to know. He grinned, feeling Sish’s scales smooth and ridged underneath his fingertips. He raised both his eyebrows and looked up at Cerise, as if to say, well?

The last of the flatbread was gone; both of their tins were demolished, nothing but the smeared remnants of sauce and lentil and greens left over. It sat warm in his belly, and there was something fair fine about the thought that she was full, too, and breathing in all the same spices, and sitting comfortable enough amid the chatter, in spite of the weight of that messy braid and the holes in her sleeve. Hard-won, those, he thought.

He wondered if she’d’ve eaten otherwise; he hoped so. It was none of his business, he reminded himself. All the same, he liked the idea she’d go home with a full stomach. Him, too; there were nights he barely knew what he’d forgot, only he was all curled round the clawing inside him. He wondered if she ever had nights like that. You never slept well, like that.

Sish wasn’t too much unlike a cat. The long, elegant muscles of her neck moved underneath his fingers, rippled the scales glittering gold in the phosphor light. He felt strangely giddy, like he was getting away with something. He moved cautiously to the ruff of feathers at her wings, and –

Cerise’s glass toppled over. He didn’t jump when she hissed; there wasn’t much force behind it. Those wings were spread and glittering bright, and he felt oddly breathless, running his hands over the feathers. They were soft – they were sharp, too, at the edges, with their hollow fluting bones – soft and sharp, all at once. They were unlike he had thought they would be.

He went on stroking the miraan, running his fingers along her throat, scratching her chest. “She seems to think,” he said, “you ought to take her wherever she likes.”

Sish was holding her pointy head up high, swelling with the attention. That long gold tail whipped back and forth, curling through the air.

“If you can be there, then I can be there,” he agreed, grinning up at Cerise again. He met those chilly grey eyes opposite him, and his smile didn’t falter a whit.

“Bajea!” cried a voice. It was the voice from earlier, the woman who’d called Iki’roh down. “Why is the drake on the table?”

“We’d better – uh.” He drew back, darting a glance at the glass lying on its side and all the water on the floor. There was a cascade of giggles from behind. He paused, grinning his narrow sharp grin at Cerise. “If you handle Sish,” he said brightly, “I’ll handle ada’na Uloma.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

Her father seemed not in the least deterred from continuing to give Sish the attention she so clearly was in dire need of, not even after she had knocked over Cerise's cup with her wings. He just kept on petting her as if nothing had happened, like there was nothing more important in the world. And of course the miraan, spoiled little creature, didn't pay the least mind to Cerise's hiss either. She should be annoyed, at least with one of them. Cerise just grinned indulgently, unwilling to look at that too closely or put it away.

"She absolutely does, because she's spoiled clocking rotten," Cerise snorted. Her eyes flicked up briefly, some instinctual reserve about her language kicking in--but, no. It didn't matter. She looked away again, back to Sish. Happy as Cerise had ever seen her, tail lashing back and forth through the air. "Can't think of how that happened."

For once, she thought, when her father looked at her and smiled, it held. Didn't dim or skip or slide off entirely; Cerise decided to resolutely ignore the flicker of gold she felt thinking on that too long. Absolutely clocking ridiculous. What was she, a child? She didn't want, or need, or--

"Then it's a plan. Morning of the seven. At the--" Anything else she might have said was lost. Her dark head turned, a new curl coming loose to fall down the side of her neck. Cerise raised her eyebrows. That, she thought, did not sound like a particularly pleased voice. Sish didn't win with all crowds any more than Cerise did, and it seemed that they'd found someone who was not as charmed by the miraan as the girls at the table nearby. Cerise ran a finger over the nicks in the edge of the wood, from where Sish had used her claws for leverage.

Upon reflection, that had probably not been the best idea to encourage. Much like the blouse, or any of the other things she let the miraan do. The grin that spread across Cerise's face wasn't apologetic in the least. When Cerise looked over, she felt a little like she were looking in a mirror. This time the feeling wasn't so irritating.

Cerise stood, scooping up Sish. The miraan squirmed a moment, until Cerise lifted her back up to her shoulders. Then there was a flurry of feather and claw as she settled. Surveying the damage to the table, the glass, the water dripping all to the floor--it didn't look too bad. Not as bad as it might have been. Not ideal, but... Yes, overall, it really could have been worse.

"Should we," and here she gestured to herself and the miraan, "take this as our cue to exit? Or do you need a witness, in case it turns ugly?"

She remembered the way back to the hotel. She had only the slightest idea where the Walk of Tsed'tsa was, but she could find out before the seven. Certainly she wouldn't ask her father, not now. He had bigger fish to fry. Angrier fish, possibly, from the sound of it. "Oh and I wouldn't mention the fish, were I you."