themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

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.

Mori turned his hand over to give the Tailor's a light squeeze, considering the hands together, but also not looking up but for brief moments. "In the event that you no longer enjoy my company, then I encourage you to cut ties and I will not complain. However, on the single caveat that you allow me to make my own choices as well. I am a grown adult, older than even you, and I can choose whether I dislike the you beneath the pretending. Do not try to take such a choice away from me. Please."

In the most gentle of ways, there was left no room for argument. Mori stood slowly and with a ragged groan, hand guarding the injured side. "Smarts... You asked before, in maybe a bit biting of a tone of which I will not fault you, where to have tea. I would like it in the sitting room. Most comfortable room in the flat, second only to the bedroom. And I promise to sit still, cause less work for you. How does that sound?" Another offered hand, this time inviting to lead rather than asking for mutuality.

"It sounds acceptable," the Tailor finally said, allowing themself to take the hand to stand with them, and resisting the urge to hover. "You taking care really is all I intended, I--"

There wasn't any need to pick at it. They fidgeted, and then forced themself to stop. "Lead the way. I can bring the pot and cups, if--if you'll allow me, I mean." Ah. Still trying to be useful. Hard to stop the habit. "If that's alright."

With a small, accepting huff, Mori nodded. "Just the pot will do. I can hold two cups just fine, I promise you. So long as Tularemia doesn't start feeling snippy again."

Even against a playful glare, the stoat in question looked like the cat that caught the snake, just as smug as can be and more than willing to keep up the streak of success.

"Starting to wonder if she has more intelligence than she lets on. After you." Mori held open the kitchen door with just a foot.

"Considering the Huntsman?" they joked weakly, "Likely." Although they didn't understand why she had fetched them of all people. Surely there was someone more appropriate? Less abrasive? Enough. Enough thinking like that. They carefully collected the pot, wary of the heat, and slipped through the door into the next room, glancing round to examine it.

"Have you sorted out your project for class yet?" they asked, searching for a subject to try to lighten the energy.

The sitting room seemed to combine study, drawing room, and parlor. The fireplace at what looked to be the head of the room was framed by a cacophonic array of books, some pulled out and kept on a side table next to an armchair. The mantle above the fireplace was studded with hooks and the faint shadow of a crossbow that sits there when unused. And, perhaps, a faint outline of a large trophy mount, not as if one was there, but as if someone was planning where to put it, should they capture their prize. The fire tools showed signs of being used as weapons, outside tools, and anything else besides fire.

The armchair did not match the chaise lounge in the slightest, but it didn't seem like they intended to. In fact, they seemed to mirror their favored occupants, the armchair made of dark, rustic materials with plenty of wear at the arms from blades mistakenly placed or boots rubbing up against, and the lounge as ornate as a second-hand furniture piece could be with its faux gold trim, delicate patterning, and careful but useless medical stitching on the areas that required the most darning. A loveseat, short and plush and beaten within an inch of its life, was situated opposite the lounge, covered in an absolutely garish floral pattern, objectively quite ugly, and yet well beloved and well used.

The other side of the room was occupied by a shared writing desk, covered end to end in notes, drawings, maps, and dog-eared books. A coat, worn and darned, sat over the back of the chair sat before it, the chair itself askew with the rapid rush to get to the mirror. A damp wash towel also layed on the back, evenly folded to fit over the eyes and making the cost beneath wet with prolonged contact.

The chest under the writing desk was unlocked and smelled of must and old flesh...

Mori sat the cups on the low table in the center of the room and sat back on the chaise lounge with a sigh. Then a short jerk as he remembered. "Right! The cream and sugar! I'll..." He seemed almost daunted by the prospect of getting up again, but started to anyway.

Another well-loved space. The Tailor drank in the fireplace and its collection, eyes momentarily wide at the number of books, scanning across the seats, catching on the wear and tear and stitching and maps and overall true clutter of living that lay before them.

They decided very quickly that they liked it, in the same way one likes a mean old cat despite oneself. Eyes caught on the chest briefly, but then Mori was moving to get up despite clear regret.

They set the pot onto the low table with care to anything that might rest under it, and then swiftly but gently moved to lean in front of Mori and force him back into his seat, their hands lightly finding his shoulder and his hand on the armrest.

"No, please, let me," they said, without any bite to it. A weak smile crossed their face. "You promised you'd sit still, didn't you? It'll only take a moment, I saw where you had them. In the meantime, you can decide if you'll even answer my question, and if so, how much you'll share with me. Only ever as much as you like."

Edited 2025-07-09 21:06 (UTC)

Mori ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, settling back on the lounge. "I did so promise. I... Ask again after tea. I'll have come up with something to say by then."

It would be with the Tailor's approach to the kitchen that a scratching could be heard on the other side of the door, pushing the swinging mechanism only slightly, though the limb doing the scratching seemed to also do so with a resounding plaap with each contact.

The smile reappeared and the Tailor nodded. Yes, they'd been right then--the Socialite was reluctant to share their plans, if any. That... it didn't necessarily sting, and it didn't have any right to. Both of them had allowed each other their secrets, from first day. The Tailor would let it lie, even if a little piece of them that hoarded secrets wanted to pry and pry. They'd leave it be for now. In the meantime, they stood to full (if diminutive) height and returned to the kitchen door.

Ah. They tsked, expecting to find Tularemia indignant at being left behind. "Now, it's not my fault if you can't keep up," they teased as they pulled it open, "and besides, the biting was very impolite."

A lampcat, a shimmering shade of violet-cerulean, trilled happily as it walked in the door. It was, of course, mildly damp as it rubbed up against the Tailor's pant leg, light and tail standing up in fond greeting. The wet was also remarkably cold for being false summer. It stretched luxuriously and seemed happy to attempt to trip the Tailor by walking between their legs with all the flexibility of an eel.

Mori laughed lightly. "Taph seems to like you. And he also likely left the ice box open. Doesn't do well in this weather."

This creature, odd and dark and consistently brushed and pleased, was undoubtedly, wholly Mori's. Where Tularemia was shared between Mori and Enoch, this was a very Morbid Socialite sort of animal.

Surprised, the Tailor managed not to stumble as the lampcat twisted around their calves, and they hand, which had already lowered to offer to what they had presumed was a wayward stoat, now pressed to cool and wet fur, silky smooth.

"Hello," they said a little haltingly, "You're a very friendly one, aren't you, then?"

An old memory of cat-chasing passed them by. They brushed their hand across the length of the animal in greeting, and cautiously stepped over the Taph to navigate the kitchen and fetch the cream and sugar, making sure to close the icebox as they did. Their hand was cold and damp now, and with a grimace they kept away from the doorway they wiped it on their already damp trousers.

"Do you know any secrets, then?" they asked the creature as they passed through the door again, half-joking. "Any hints you might whisper to me about our mutual friend?"

Sugar and cream were set on the low table, in Mori's reach to prepare as they liked.

Taph seemed oddly silent and a little... dull of wit, compared to the cats the Tailor was used to. He whistled and trilled, going to stand by the door once again with a hearty FLAP of his tail. What an odd creature... It imparts a brief thought with the flash of its bulb, hypnotizing in a gentle way. A traitor's epitaph. It paws at the door once more.

A cork popped out of a glass bottle on the other side just as the door back out opened. Mori poured just a splash of laudanum in the bottom of their own cup, just enough to act as a pain killer. He looked up and smiled. "Ah, thank you. I'll pour the tea. Hopefully, it hasn't been too long. What would you like in yours?" He was already putting two sugars in the bottom of his cup.

Edited 2025-07-09 22:51 (UTC)

"Two sugars as well," they said with a crooked smile, choosing to finally sit in the armchair. It settled around them in a way that felt familiar and nearly correct, even if the size swamped them a little. Their hands fell into their lap.

"You know, I don't think I've properly... sat down, without having work to do, for several days now. I almost don't know what to do with myself."

Tularemia could be found at the head of the armchair, curled as if in sleep, but one ear twitching.

Two sugars and no laudanum was placed in the Tailor's cup, the two cups poured over elegantly with a deeply aromatic, black tea. The heat emulsified the sugar almost instantly and Mori handed the Tailor their cup. "If you're asking, I find reading to be enjoyable. Or sitting in thought. If you're, instead, using it to start conversation, it can be difficult to sit and rest when momentum says you should continue. But I continue what I attempted to say at the lecture, your body will choose a most inconvenient time for you to rest, if you do not choose so first."

Mori laughed behind a hand. "I once fell asleep with my face in a fresh rib cage in university. And, two weeks later, collapsed in the midst of a presentation on parasites and fungus. One of my lowerclassmen attempted to diagnose me with brain worms."

They accepted the cup, sipping slowly and making an appreciative noise. After having so much jasmine from Sophia's and blends from Beatrice's, this was a new and welcome change. The warmth settled in their chest, even as they lowered the cup quietly to snort in an unflattering manner at Mori's expense.

"I've tried reading, a little, but I've always struggled with it. Letters sit still, but I don't. I find I'm always restless." Their gaze lowered and they frowned, voice dropping to a more serious timbre even without their meaning to. "And when I sleep, there are dreams. Even before class, there are dreams. If anything, the ones I have after class are... I don't know." They shook their head. "But if the earlier incident is any indication," they glanced up to Tularemia, and a curl drifted into their face from the motion, "then I should accept you're right."

They tried to tuck the loose curl back, looking back to Mori. "But it's..." their eyes roamed across his face as they looked for the words. "When I want something, when I have a goal, everything in me just wants to run at it. I have to grab it with both hands. Does that make any sort of sense?"

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