themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

A soft smile could be heard in their voice as they whispered: "Can't you be lucky, too?"

The wrist in the Tailor's light hold shifted until it became a hand, thumb rubbing along the back of the Tailor's. It angled down with a tight, then relieved sigh. He sat on the floor, back up against the loveseat, hand still in hand. "Sleep, luv, I'll stay. Hours're short 'til morn."

A squeeze, a promise repeated. "I'll stay..."

Can't you be lucky, too?

("I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else." The Garden's not for you.)

No. They couldn't. A lifetime said so. But they were too tired to want to argue the matter, so they let it be. Swallowing the emotion lodged in their throat, the Tailor returned the squeeze and tried to sleep, and when they finally did, they didn't have any dreams they would remember.

The morning didn't start with a sunrise, not that the Tailor would expect one, nor did it start with a cockerel crow or the smell of breakfast or the tittering of birds. It started, as not many things do, with a stoat biting the Tailor's nose in her sleep. Somewhere between a nibble and a chomp, her teeth sunk into them from where the rest of her body laid across their eyes.

There was another cut off shout, and a hand snapped from where it lay to grab the stoat and wrench it free out of instinct. She did not get thrown across the room, but it was a near damn thing.

The wrenching did mean, unfortunately, that the process was probably a little more painful than it needed to be. Blood beaded from the spot, and the Tailor scowled at the sleepy little beast that they now held in the air.

"You," they said, voice thick with tired irritation, "have a biting problem. D'you know that?"

Tularemia was so very sleepy, barely able to open her eyes. She gave a wide yawn, showing off the tiny, offending teeth, and licked, ending in her tongue sticking out just a tad. She squinted, bleary and still mostly asleep. How could you blame such a small beastie?

It was, however, morning, as evidenced by the brightening glow of the lamps outside and the lazily awakening bustle of the city.

And the Tailor's other hand was empty.

Grumbling, the Tailor set the offending creature back on their chest and thumbed the spot of pain. They examined the smear of blood on their thumb and then stuck it in their mouth, and glanced round the room. Their hand clenched and unclenched, empty, and they tried not to take it to heart. They usually woke up alone anyway.

Well. It was free, so they took the opportunity to prop their elbow on the cushion and try to pull themself out of the sinking plush trap. It was a better angle to take in their surroundings.

"M...Mori?"

No response. The dust motes in the air danced in the lamplight, swirling undisturbed and gracefully around each other. Silence was the only thing to greet the Tailor. Silence and the warmth of a new morning.

SNOOOOOORE!

... Or just the warmth of a new morning. The noise was profuse and almost loud enough to wake the dead, perhaps an evolutionary method of scaring predators from young.

No one could accuse the Tailor of jumping from the noise, because it certainly didn't happen and if Tularemia saw otherwise, well, she was a stoat and nobody was going to get a word out of her about it.

Clearing their throat, the Tailor sat upright fully, trying to slow their suddenly racing heart. Goodness, what a sound. What a snore! But where was its source, anyway? Had they made it back to the lounge seat at all?

Enoch absolutely could, but they wouldn't tell a soul. Tularemia, grumpy as she was, moved to perch in the Tailor's hair again, sleeping making it more nest-like than before.

The sitting room was empty, it would seem, but the snore had been so loud and so close. Perhaps if the Tailor rose to investigate? Perhaps they weren't looking at the lounge close enough and the overly opulent Socialite had blended into the overly opulent chaise lounge like camouflage.

Hm.

Careful of the mustelid on their head, the Tailor leaned over and double-checked the floor. Where Mori had been last they'd spoken.

You know. Just to be cautious.

Caution is duly rewarded, as the Morbid Socialite himself was right there, half curled on the floor under the loveseat, one hand held behind him in a way that could really only be possible, if it had previously been held up vertically and simply fell. Had the Tailor followed instinct, they would have surely stepped on him.

As it were, Mori was unstepped-on and very much still asleep. Another, somewhat quieter snore stuttered out as he breathed. That would be the source of the noise, then.

Yep. That's what they figured. Poor idiot was going to be stiff as all hell when they woke up. The Tailor clicked their tongue lightly. He hadn't needed to do that.

With an abundance of caution, and a grace that came from years of roof-hopping, they folded their limbs over the side of the loveseat and climbed over it near-silently. Their socks made no noise on the wooden floor, at least, but even still they were cautious about where they settled their weight to prevent creaking.

They were... a little stiff, from sleeping in their layers, but they would manage. They stretched, popped their neck, and then examined the sleeping fool.

Mori would probably wake up if they tried to move him. They might have been able to carry them, the Tailor was stronger than they may have looked, but the jostling? Wouldn't be good for the injuries, at the very least.

They settled for pulling the blanket free from the loveseat, and settling it gently on the body on the floor. It wasn't much. They knew it wasn't.

Hm. What to do...

Their eyes scanned the room, across the writing desk and the chest, over the armchair and the bookshelf and the lounge sofa. They gave a swift nod, mind made up, and got to it.

Mori slept for a good while afterwards, doomed to a stuff back and knees from their twisted position. Eventually, though, sleep ran out and the snoring stopped.

With a groan, Mori stirred, slowly coming out of sleep. If anything was happening, it would be best to finish up before Mori awoke fully.

There was a gentle tsk from roundabouts the lounge where the Tailor was crouched over. "Slowly, go slowly, your body is not going to thank you for your choice of bed. I'll be over in a minute, I'm nearly done with this patch."

In the time they were taking, Mori would be given the opportunity to get their bearings and take in the room. The chair at the desk had been adjusted, pen in a different place and chest lightly moved more into the light, though seemingly undisturbed otherwise. The laudanum from the evening prior had been located, as well as a small bottle of tincture, and both were set beside a glass of water placed on the low table, close to Mori.

The Tailor had pulled their suspenders back into place, but their sleeves remained rolled, and indeed had been pushed up to the elbows entirely. They were darning a spot in the lounge seat, and close examination would show two other small patches already complete. Tularemia was still asleep in their mess of hair. They'd not seen fit to remove her.

"I've prepared the kettle but I didn't start it, I didn't want to make you have cold or over-steeped tea on waking. We may want to check your bandages, but you didn't toss and turn by the looks of things at least."

It took a while for Mori to process what was happening and why, eyes squinting at the slightly adjusted room around. A drowsy yawn and a slow pop of their back pushed Mori into moving to sit on the loveseat. "Sorry to have left you to your own devices this morning..."

His gaze lingered long on the chest until he could determine that, no, it was not opened. But it would need to be moved back into the shade, which they were not particularly excited about. That could be a problem for later Mori. Their gaze focused back on the Tailor. "So, did you sleep well? Or sleep at all? I admit, I nodded off not long after sitting with you."

Tularemia did occasionally wake to adjust herself, but otherwise stayed safe and curled in the Tailor's hair.

The Tailor shrugged, barely seeming to look up from their work. "I'm restless by nature. I slept fairly well up until your little shite of a stoat--" and their eyes crossed on trying to look up, as if trying to spot her to no avail "--bit me square on the nose." There was no heat in the insult and if one looked, one could see the beginnings of a drying scab of blood from how they'd pulled. They shook their head, finishing the patch and standing. They arched into a stretch, hand on their lower back, and sighed quietly.

"There. Your work was offending me," they said dryly. "It's a lovely chair, and it should last." It was a tease; at least, they hoped it would be taken as one. "If anything, I should ask after your own sleep. Do you need anything? I can go start the kettle, but I want you comfortable first."

They raised their hands, still with thread, needle, and embroidery scissors in hand, and added, "I know, I know, I'm the guest, but consider: I want to. You can only keep me still so long."

The child in them from last night was hard to see in them now, but that was less a matter of walls, and more a matter of habitual self-reliance.

Edited 2025-07-12 05:31 (UTC)

Mori chuckled at the mention of the bite, but listened to the Tailor talk and considered the reawakening memories of the night previous. The sleeplessness, the Tailor's evident nightmare, the vulnerability they shared. Every word spoken had been without overthinking, without fear or shame, without practice or poise. Stubborn and restless and both nothing like and everything like the youth that attempted to help them, even after a nightmare.

Mori found themselves smiling, hoping there was an understanding, that the Tailor was well on their way to becoming family, that a father's heart could be big enough for all his children. "If I cannot stop you, then I will not. I'll make us a small breakfast, if you can fix up tea and set the table? You've already done too much this morning, just rest a wee moment."

Mori made the effort to stand, a prolonged action that required a multitude of strange sounds and joints popping, but eventually got Mori into a standing position. He checked the watch left on the desk as he wound it and tucked it into his pants. "You'll want to wake Tularemia as well. She'll be by with word of Enoch's return, if we set her on course now."

"I'll do what I can to sit still more than five minutes," they said with a crooked smile, hands lifting to their hair to gently pluck the stoat out of the nest she'd made, "but you mentioned cake last night, so if you take too long you risk me helping myself."

Their hair looked a mess of a thing, curls every which way, and it always made them look several years younger. They set Tularemia onto the armchair as they passed it. "Yes, I know you're groggy," they told her, stroking her little head, "but we all have to earn our breakfast, don't we?"

In the doorway to the kitchen, they stopped, their back still to Maury, and they didn't turn but they spoke over their shoulder. "I didn't open it. I just wanted to pay my respects. You were looking last night, and I know better than most how big a ten-year-old is. We used to play hide-and-seek in a similar way."

And then they'd slipped into the kitchen to put away their things and start the kettle. On the desk, below the transcription of the song they'd remembered last night, a note was added in a hand that was not Mori's.

ELDER CONTINENT

Edited 2025-07-12 06:14 (UTC)

Mori let the silence settle and carefully bent to put a hand on the trunk. He was rather glad the Tailor hadn't opened it. The girl inside hardly looked a girl anymore, even wearing her favorite dress, curled and carefully encased in cushioned silk. It would've simply been distressing, even if the removal of organs kept her from rotting. As well, it was better for her body's continued preservation that the seal remains airtight. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," Mori whispered. "You'll see light again. I promise." And the trunk was carefully moved back to where light couldn't reach, where the cold and dark could keep her safe.

Mori moved through to the kitchen, stuffing that dull pain down deep in his chest. He put a hand on the Tailor's shoulder, a silent gratitude, a few seconds to let it rest.

"You are welcome to the cake, though I do pride myself in being a semi-decent cook in the least. Acceptable enough. And I was thinking, over breakfast, we might discuss our plans for next week, should you feel comfortable doing so." The implication was there. 'I intend to follow your song. I wish to talk it over with you.'

Meanwhile, Tularemia, shaking off sleep, found her way through the crack in the brickwork and on to the streets of London.

"Long's you're gentle with yourself," the fellow said from the stovetop, the kettle already in place and the thermometer in hand. Their sewing supplies had only made it as far as the small dining table, set by their coat and vest. "I'd be fine discussing it, though I worry I won't be much further help, if I was at all to begin with."

They stretched their back again, pressing their wrist to their mouth to conceal a rare yawn. "I don't suppose you'll let me at an iron and board? Or am I pushing my luck too far?"

"The iron will be with the board in the bedroom. You have my permission to enter, there's nothing damning. And nonsense, you've been plenty helpful. But my main concern in this respect is your request from the night previous. If I'm to do something reckless and dangerous, then I should call on you, is what you've requested. I am holding to my promise."

Mori knelt carefully to retrieve ingredients from the ice box and rose to grab more from the pantry. "How do you feel about blood pudding? I'm afraid the eggs may have gone bad in my bed-ridden state. Breakfast, before today, has been an effort too far, it would seem."

"Ha! Fair enough," they said, not at all expecting to be called on so soon. "Black pudding will be fine, and I'd like to stress again to only do what your body can handle, at the risk of sounding like a broken clock. If you need to sit, please do."

They moved from the stove, allowing Mori space to it and the kettle. "I'll work in the other room, call me when it's ready, or if you need anything, alright?" They, for once, returned the shoulder squeeze. "And then we can discuss whatever's in your head already."

Mori nodded with a smile. "I look forward to it. Best of luck at the iron and I'll be sure to call for you, should I require assistance."

With that, Mori started on breakfast, trusting the Tailor to use the iron with care. He did, of course, leave a burner open to heat the iron, but the rest became occupied with back bacon, toasting bread and mushrooms, and beans. One personal- not social- thing Mori liked to dedicate funds to were spices and seasonings. His mother had imparted in him a love for decadent flavor that the whole of London didn't often share. If there was one personal indulgence he'd allow himself, it was a dash of paprika and cumin in the beans and a sprinkle of salt, black peppercorns, and a dash of chopped garlic with the mushrooms. It would... likely take a while to finish cooking, the plating quite ambitious, but why would he skimp against a guest?

That breakfast would take time, decadent as it was, would work in the Tailor’s favor as they went to work with the tools they were familiar with. The iron board set up, they had plenty of opportunity to press first the rumpled articles their host had left aside on the lounge the evening prior.

When it came to their own attire, there was some small hesitancy—not out of any real modesty, mind you. It was complicated. But they did eventually put on a stern expression and strip their shirt and corset to let their spine breathe, and their body relaxed immediately. Sleeping in the latter garment had been… well, they’d done it before but it did leave them stiff and aching.

They set the thing aside and pressed their own shirt, suspenders of their trousers looped over their own loose combinations.

The smell of the meal was getting to be enticing as they worked, and they were struck with the discomfiting notion of how domestic the entire scene was. They were trying to recall when someone had last cooked a meal for them in such a way outside a dinner party when they finished the shirt and slipped it on sans corset to do their trousers with a modicum of decency. Breakfast for them was usually a simple affair, and they hadn’t been given an option to be terribly picky but they’d never put a terrible amount of thought into what they ate.

They popped their head in, curious. “I thought you were making black pudding? Smells like a hell of a lot more.”

Mori looked up from the cast iron pan containing the back bacon with a wide-eyed expression, only a fraction like an animal caught causing a ruckus in the dark. Instead of absconding, however, Mori smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Just black pudding for breakfast? When we only had tea last night? I may be injured, but I'm certainly not going to turn down both showing off and treating you to something special."

Some of the showmanship had returned, but it was somehow more honest, like a man showing who he wanted to be rather than who he needed to be, with a touch of self-aware comedy, over enunciating the claim of showing off, as if mimicking a character seen in a play. It was Mementomori and Socialite blended into a strange characterization of himself.

For the sake of comedy.

It wasn't a side often seen in them in class or even in hosting. Playful, kidding, a joke at one's own mask. Of course, the Socialite would wish to show off, but the true purpose of it was spelled outright just seconds later: treating the Tailor to a nice breakfast.

Mori turned back to the pan. "And it's no bother. It keeps me upright, avoiding folding the stitches. The only issue is the leg and, as you can see," they leaned back in a gesture at the chair they had their knee propped up on, "I've found a solution to that. It's almost ready, if you wanted to finish up the tea. Your choice this time."

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