themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

"Ack-!"

When the Tailor had stated they would find a chance to speak with Mori in the week following class, they had not expected the chance to find them instead. They only stumbled for a moment, and then tried to shake off the stoat, before realizing just what or who had barrelled into and up their pant cuff.

"Tularemia?! Goodness--stop it! Alright!"

They were clearly being tugged in a direction, but the handling was unnecessary! "Alright, alright, I'm following, what is the matter with you?!"

The sound Tularemia made could've been described as a bark or a squeak, but was either way quite insistent. She scampered off and turned around just at the edge of where the Tailor could see her, standing on her hind legs and giving an urgent and a bit annoyed look. 'Come on!' she seemed to say with just her face. And then she disappeared.

A little irritated, the Tailor huffed at the little thing, and then followed it. "Bloody bossy beast," they muttered, quickly taking pursuit to keep her in their sight. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

Tularemia stopped only occasionally to look back, taking the Tailor through all the passageways and thoroughfares that suited her best, but would not suit a grown human. Down streets that shouldn't exist, over shops with odd contents, over fences and under pipes and- was that the Shuttered Palace? Wait, there's Wolfstack Dock's just seconds after. Onward and forward and on and on until there came a quiet corner of residences between the Flit, Spite, and Veilgarden. She stood on the window ledge of a small flat and scurried into a hole between the bricks.

These routes were not wholly unfamiliar to the Tailor, but for that they were short for their age, they could no longer quite fit into the narrow spaces they had been able to slide through as an urchin. With grimace and swearing, they found the alternate paths needed to follow, past half of London in every which way.

Tularemia was perched on a narrow ledge, but they lighted with ease onto the spot she had rested moments prior. These were not the best shoes for it, but needs must, clearly.

Hesitantly, the Tailor squatted on the ledge and rapped against it with their knuckles. "I swear, that stoat better have a good reason..." came the grumble.

The Tailor's knuckles barely made contact with the glass before the window was opening, the person on the other side unfamiliar, rugged, and severe. Their face was turned away, speaking with someone out of view of the window. "I'm certain Tularemia will be back with help any moment now."

"I don't need to be watched," came Mori's voice from out of sight. "Not only am I a grown man, I have a doctorate."

"That you haven't renewed." The person in the window finally turned and pelegin eyes met a matching shade, bright and experienced and too clever by half. It suddenly became clear that Tularemia was not wholly Mori's stoat and, in fact, fitted more perfectly with this person than anywhere else. The stranger blinked once, then called back to the unseen Socialite, not taking their eyes off the Tailor. "One of your stalkers is here, dearest."

"Firstly, they're suitors, not stalkers, and secondly, if it's the Struggling Artist, tell him where he can shove it."

The stranger hummed. "Actually, this one seems far too young. What can we call you, lad?"

Tularemia held tight to the Tailor's sleeve, promising that if they fell or fled, the stoat would follow and continue to pester them.

A small flush made its way to the Tailor's cheeks at a number of things heard and seen, not the least of which was being called young. "Stalker was my profession, not my past-time," they said shortly, meeting the gaze as evenly as possible. Yes, that did explain Tularemia on the whole, didn't it? "I'm a class-mate of Mori's. I had assumed he'd sent for me? Or that Tularemia had developed a mind of her own."

They were balanced on the sill, hand lightly braced against the window frame, but their free hand went to Tularemia without looking at her. "I would not imagine he's mentioned me, but I'm a Tailor primarily, and that's how I'm referred to." The words they'd heard caught up to them, and they clicked their tongue. "He's still recovering, then? And he was nearly chiding me."

A flash of recognition sparked behind the stranger's own pelegin eyes, but their attempt at speech was interrupted by a thump, several thuds, and suddenly being shoved out of the way by a welcoming and confused Doctor Mori Malodrema, not at all dressed for company, but still decent and a touch bed-headed. "Tailor! What are you doing here, luv? Come in, come in, you'll catch your death of spore fever. I'll put the kettle on. Do you fancy a darjeeling? I still have some vanilla rum cake, if you like."

"Mister Malodrema, you better not have opened your bloody stitches with a stunt like that! Don't go about hosting when I'm reprimanding you!"

"It's doctor and I thought we agreed on Kozlova-Malodrema."

"We kept our own names- Damn it all, Mori, sit down!" It was too late. Mori had fled to the kitchen, leaving the stranger and the Tailor in the room. The stranger looked at the Tailor and sighed. "So, you're the adoptee I've been hearing so much about? Enoch Kozlova, the Devoted Huntsman. It's good to finally meet you. I see Tula's taken a real shine to you, too. She does have a mind of her own, that one."

"Ah-!"

Mori moved so bloody quickly for an injured man, damn him! Sheepishly, the Tailor slipped in through the window and offered a hand politely to their unexpected host. Said hand caught in the air at the statement.

"Adopt...ee?"

Their dark eyes went wide, and then the flush returned fully. "Oh, no, goodness! I--what's--"

What. What?! The hand that had been offered now pressed to their brow and they squeezed their eyes shut, taking a deep breath. "Charmed, Huntsman." Their tone was controlled, even if the flush remained. "Did you need me to keep an eye on one wayward doctor? Ex...doctor?"

"You don't have to correct yourself, I just tease him with it when he does something stupid. Which is a lot of the time, admittedly." The Huntsman took up the bag on the floor by the window and settled it on their shoulder. "I don't feel comfortable leaving him here alone while he's this injured. Tula seems to have chosen you, but don't feel forced to stay. Just make sure Tula goes back out and finds someone else before you go. I will be back by noon tomorrow. What do you say?"

Mori stuck their head out the swinging door to the kitchen. "Don't believe a word they say, I'm perfectly fine."

"You're bleeding again."

"And I have the thread and needle in here with me. See? Fine."

The Huntsman gave the Tailor a look, as if to say 'I'm sorry to leave you with this mess.' Or perhaps it was a 'Can you believe I fell in love with this man?'

The Tailor exchanged the glance with the Huntsman, already weary. They'd half a mind to argue, but Tularemia was still on their arm and they could imagine her displeasure. What they said, then, was a bark at Mori.

"If anyone will be doing stitching this evening, it will be the one whose job centers on it!"

They huffed a bit, then addressed Enoch again. "I'll do what I can to wrangle the fellow. Go on, he'll keep."

"Medical stitching is different from regular stitching!" Was the response through the kitchen door.

The Huntsman huffed a laugh and shook their head. "I know he will. Best of luck to you, Tailor. I'll let you know how the hunt goes." With a wink, the Huntsman fell backwards out the window. Was the whole family this dramatic?

Tularemia looked up at the Tailor and scrambled onto their shoulder. This was to be quite the night.

The Tailor watched the Huntsman disappear, and sighed. What HAD they gotten themself into.

Clicking their tongue, they pet the stoat's head gently. "C'mon, let's go make sure he doesn't kill himself trying to feed me," they told her gently.

And then, as they pushed the kitchen door open, they stated loudly, "Multiple types of stitching used in tailoring originate from the medical field! Whatever it is you think you're doing, stop doing it and sit down. I can make myself tea!"

Mori looked up from a lifted shirt, his curved needle half way through his skin and poking out the other side. He winced, half out of pain and half out of being seen in such a compromising position. "I have it handled, luv, please go sit. A few stitches aren't going to stop me from being a good host."

That was not, in fact, 'a few stitches'. Huge gashes, four to a set, trailed raggedly from the middle of their ribs to their hip, one open a touch wider and weakly bleeding around the start of healing. Mori was skilled in suturing bodies, that much was clear, but he evidently was not skilled in keeping those stitches intact.

"Putting a kettle on doesn't require much hip work, I assure you."

Ah.

There was a brief widening of the eyes. Then the Tailor set their jaw and their brow furrowed. They pried the stoat off their shoulder gently to set her on the table in the room, only to pull off their coat and set it on a chair.

"This is not up for debate, actually. You will either sit to finish your work, and I will sort the kettle myself, or I will do your stitching for you. Or," they said, trying for a dry tone even as they brokered no argument, "You can insist on being stubborn, and I'll see about sending you to the Boatman myself. It would solve the issue of you opening the wound."

Honestly, if the work had been on fabric, done by any tailor, that craftsman would be wildly offended to see their work stretched or snapped so insistently by the wearer.

The wound did not look good, they noted. It looked clean enough, done by professional hands, but-- "The work of a marsh wolf," they said with quiet certainty, opting to move through the kitchen themself and find a chair for their host. "That's going to keep opening if you insist on repeated quick movement around it. Sit, your muscles will thank you for it."

They weren't a doctor, but they'd seen how wolves hunted. They'd seen other hunters become overwhelmed by packs while hunting the elusive white wolf. Blood wasn't a horrible surprise. What mattered was to get the hunter out of harm's way and keep them from exacerbating torn muscle and tissue.

And if Mori insisted on continuing this behavior, well, the Tailor would have to resort to drastic measures.

Finding no flexibility and no recourse, Mori sighed and nodded. "There is a thermometer on the counter. See to it that the water does not breach ninety-six degrees. Just below boiling. Remove it from the heat then and I shall tell you the rest of the instructions."

Mori did not sit, but did not move to assist. The clothing was nicely cared for, of course, even as a cheaper, thinner shirt. The body was not, covered in various scars and marks. Even still, each stitch was careful, deliberate, the needle sliding between the parts of torn flesh with ease. Standing allowed the Socialite to reach the whole wound without it stretching or folding and creasing the 'material'.

In the silence, the Tailor could take a moment to observe their surroundings, if they so pleased.

Relieved, the Tailor obeyed the Socialite's instructions, moving to the counter to fetch the thermometer and monitor the pot. They stood by it, glancing around the space, though their eyes continued to catch on Mori's body. It was impolite to stare, so they forced their gaze around.

Eventually, while they looked around the room, they said, trying for light but edging on a little sheepish. "So. What's this about my being adopted?"

They hadn't the time before to take a look at the sitting room, but the kitchen was small, a touch cramped and cluttered, but in the lived-in sort of way. The ice box sat next to the standing curio, the varied array of dishes arranged on vertical racks so that the prettiest of each set faced outward. The table had permanent place settings for four, though only three were ever so slightly askew, the fourth a pristine and parallel perfection. Pots and other cooking utensils hung on hooks and the dry ingredients sat on a shelf just above them. Notes and items littered any space not being used for immediate cooking, scattered as if the person using them were leaving at a moment's notice. A mostly eaten cake sat under a glass cover, pastel and delightful.

As the Tailor spoke, Mori's hand slipped and he yelped, the needle going in quicker and deeper than intended. He breathed and slowly pulled the needle out of the skin. "So, Enoch mentioned that. It's... You're not really... Not unless... Dinah has a terrible habit of taking in stray urchins. Eight hundred strong now, by her count. Enoch likes to joke that anyone younger I care for must also be adopted. Regardless of age or maturity. I apologize for the, erm, confusion."

This was a well-loved place, that much was obvious. It was a proper home and not just a space where someone slept. The Tailor felt a mix of confusing emotions about it all--it was warm, it was homely, it was cared about and real, it wasn't like the kitchenette in their tiny flat where they kept little more than kettle and icebox. It was nice. They liked it. And yet, they felt disconnected from it. It wasn't for them. They were a strange little intrusion inside it.

Their fingers tightened around the thermometer, and they turned their back to the space to frown at the kettle.

"Hell of a joke to throw into an introduction," they said flatly. "If your Dinah was looking, you all missed the mark by several years." They didn't dance around the implication, letting it sit there. It wasn't as though they hadn't been very obvious with questions and comments. And if Mori was around urchins often, then there'd likely been signs even when the Tailor had been trying to keep it close to their chest.

Eight hundred. Likely an exaggeration, but something in them clenched in anger at the number. It implied a long time, many children, and if Mori's spouses were anything like Mori, probably loved and cared for well. Many, many bratty little urchins given a soft place to land. Not this one, though. Not ever this one. Not bloody good enough for--

They sighed.

"The water's ready. Tell me what's next."

Mori wouldn't mention the mental connection made, nor the implications. It was too late to fix it. The arrival of the three had been only slightly after their time, too late to find a young child and bring them into a warm home or advise in traversing the Flit or teach how to shoot a crossbow. Too late to save them. Not that either knew that; not directly. The Tailor embittered at the loss. The Socialite ashamed at the delay. Was there room to repair the potential?

"There's a couple teapots in the curio, the cabinet over there." Mori nodded in the direction. "Pick whichever you prefer and, before the water settles, pour just a splash into the pot. We want to warm the pot so when we pour in the water, it doesn't shatter in your hands. As well, pick a favorite cup."

Tied and snipped, Mori quickly wrapped with clean bindings. "I'll find the darjeeling. Don't! Reprimand. The tea is on the counter, no stretching or bending involved. I'll be preparing four teaspoons. Do you take cream and sugar?"

It was what it was, things were as they were, it was nobody's fault and nothing more than repeated rejection fueling their unnecessary bitterness. They were grown now, and there was nothing for it.

"I know how to pour a pot of tea, Maury," they said firmly, but they obeyed in any case, quickly fetching a pot to warm, and a teacup they found pleasing. It didn't necessarily match the pot, but it fit well in their small hand.

They sighed at their friend's insistence, setting the cup onto the table at one of the used place mats and avoiding the untouched spot, but not yet sitting. "Sugar, yes. Is there a place you prefer I sit, or will you insist we move to the sitting room? I'm not so posh I'll be offended if we go where you're comfortable. You know that, don't you?"

The Socialite halted. His eyes searched the Tailor's face, but found he couldn't peer past the walls being put up. He straightened, firming his own gaze, and set down the cup of leaves harder than was strictly necessary. "Five minutes. The steeping time required is five minutes. Would you care to serve yourself cake as well, if you're quite capable?"

Tularemia, for one, was quite sick of the tension. She wasn't sure of language, but she could practically taste the defensiveness. She refused to let it grow and, thus, nipped hard at both of their heels like a shepherding dog. She may not be able to force them to bond, but she could at least urge them both not to get snippy and spiteful.

Mori yelped, of course, making it clear they were both being nipped at. Luckily, it was the uninjured leg, but that did nothing to stop the hurt her tiny, carnivore teeth were capable of.

"Ack!"

A foot retreated from the bite and the Tailor turned sharply on their heel to bare their teeth at the undoubtedly unaffected stoat. "Stop doing that!" they snapped, sick and frustrated. "I haven't done anything!"

And then they remembered they were mad at a stoat. They pressed a hand to their face, and pushed it through their hair, forgetting themself and mussing up the very tidy job they'd done of pushing back the curls.

"Sorry," they said quietly to her, and then louder for Maury, "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, I'm just." They rubbed their face again, suddenly feeling very tired. "I'm just trying to help, I know I'm not good at it but I'm not just some... helpless child. I know how to do things, I can be useful."

They could be useful, and if they were useful they would have a reason to stay, and they'd been told to help, and they had been trying to take it seriously, but something had gone wrong. They'd done something wrong. Said the wrong thing again. Sang the wrong notes.

They slumped a little where they were standing. Maybe they had been working too hard at their studying. They couldn't even find the energy to be angry like usual.

They didn't look at Mori, or even Tularemia, when they said weakly, "I thought I could be useful. I'm sorry."

Edited 2025-07-09 05:42 (UTC)

Mori was soon to apologize himself, but got caught on a word. "Useful?" Something rang starkly in the sentiment, a tone or an idea Mori himself had repeated and heard repeated over and over and over. Enough was enough.

"My dear Tailor, you needn't be useful. You must simply be." He ushered their conversation to two chairs at the table, not bothering to set them properly, merely using them for the time being. "I would also like to apologize. I was so caught up in... in my own head, in attempting to teach via all I know, to mark each step as if on a checklist, that I- I forgot just who I was talking to. You're not a helpless child and I would do well to remember that. You're a grown person and a quite capable one at that. Competent and knowledgeable in a wide array of subjects, you deserve to be treated as the skilled young adult you are. I was blinded by... by memory, perhaps, or what one might call instinct. It was wrong of me to presume and it was wrong of me to fight against your help. Or anyone's, for that matter; I admit that I may be a bit of a stubborn and prideful fool at times. Regardless, I'm sorry. You're very right, that I shouldn't be treating you like a child, and I'm sorry that I have been."

"But," Mori's hand reached across the table, an offer, "if I may still treat you as a friend, I must ask: useful? Your worth to me, in this house, is not based on usefulness. Whosoever put that thought in your head, be it one man or the world at large, knows not the value of the soul or simply good company. Put my spouse's words from your mind. Your presence here would not be allowed by any measure, if your only purpose was to help and be useful. I would have none of it. You are a guest, not a servant, and I would accept no help otherwise. Useful or no, you are welcome here. I ask you, please, to remember that. I will repeat it as many times as is necessary to imprint it in your mind."

They'd shown a little more than they meant to, and they felt a little caught for it, but Mori was always catching the things they never meant to share, wasn't he? Either their facade was much weaker than they wanted it to be, or the Socialite was just very perceptive.

Or maybe they had more in common than the Tailor could possibly know.

They dropped into the chair wearily, elbows and forearms on the table. Bad manners, something in them chided. Sit up straight, head up, look at your companion. They did none of these things, eyes on their hands.

Mori's outstretched hand looked inviting, even if there was a trace of blood under the nails from treating their wound. It would be rude not to take it, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it be horribly impolite to turn down such kindness? Didn't they want to feel welcome?

"I'm not a pleasant person. If you wanted me to just be, as you say, you wouldn't enjoy my company. I pretend, we both pretend and I know that, but the truth is under your mask you are genuinely well-meaning, and under mine I'm--" They stared at the hand, brows pinching. Finally placed a one of their own over it, as a little concession to themself, if only to try to lower it.

It was so hard to drop this mask, because they were certain nobody would like the person wearing it. They could only ever manage to do it in pieces and every piece felt like tearing away a soft strip of fabric that was wrapped around something with jagged edges. Even when they did do it without thinking, all that seemed to do was make people angry with them.

"You're a good host. I'm a terrible guest. We're both stubborn. I don't... want the tea to over-steep."

They didn't mean to make Mori drop the subject, it wasn't an intentional wall, but the Tailor was struggling to meet them in the middle, and he'd been so eager to serve them too.

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