A request for anxiety
"You sure you don't want a flower? We got twenty percent off silversage. Twenty-five since I like that butt."
Chet cast himself languidly over the store counter of the Stormwind flower shop, dragging his fingertips just-sensually-enough across parted lips as he zoomed in on the guardsman’s hips. In a hurry, he had cast off his armor and stuffed it in a bundle behind the counter, throwing on some of the shopkeeper’s own clothing he’d found upstairs. Being slight of physique, he found he was just able to truly succeed at wearing her skirt; one of the shopkeeper’s shirts that was too small had been done in a tie-up to flaunt his smooth belly. The likeness of a rat was burrowing in to his belly button as though to hide a precious score. The tattoo was one detail of his body he didn’t have time to disguise in his outfit and looked all wrong on a flower shopkeeper, so he drew attention to it instead, rolling his abs at the guard.
The guard was tired. “That’s really not why we’re here, m--sir. Just call to us if you hear of or see anything suspicious.”
“Well okay, but I think I’ll be seeing -you- tomorrow.” The man cooed, dabbing his fingertip on the air in a come-hither fashion as the guard, not coming hither, turned and left. “Call me!” Chet chirped after him, and was ignored as the door swung shut.
“Heheh. How we doin’?”
“We need to go.” Came the voice of Lucille from beneath the counter. “The shopkeeper’s almost always back by 8:30.”
“And what do we got?”
“8:35.”
Chet glanced at the ceiling, giving himself the same one second to process that information he gave himself to process any. He looked towards window; a man and a woman were talking. Shadows moved and iron footsteps headed back towards the door.
One broken window and eighteen complicated alley turns later, Chet counted dried herb pouches on the floor of the barn. Lucille paced back and forth, eyes fixed in blazing intensity on the ground, fingertips desperately clutching her forehead and temple, in case shielding her face from the world could give her some solace.
“That went terrible!” Lucille complained.
“That was hilarious.” Chet dismissed.
“He’ll know our faces now! Forever!”
“He’ll know my face. It’s a good face.” Chet grinned, looking up from his work to tap the bone of his eyesocket, calling attention towards and taking the usual needless pride to his favorite genetic quirk. “Now I’ll run a more convincing distraction.”
“He’ll remember you for the rest of his life!” Lucille stressed, turning squarely upon him and clutching the empty air emphatically. Her needful hands told Chet of the concern and seriousness that he should have been filling her arms with.
Chet tipped his head. Something emotional was happening, but too much practice entertaining and not enough practice listening got the better of his lips before he could process it. “Maybe that means he’ll call me.”
“UGH.” Lucille punched Chet just as hard as she could on the arm. When he laughed, she swatted him. “I mean it! Listen. Chet, you -know- I’m not talking about what happened at the flower shop. Why don’t you -worry- ever? You can get hurt, you know.”
Chet supposed that laughing in response to genuine distress reminded himself too much of the kind of man he hated the most, so he at least slacked his smile and made a face that went with revving up the part of his brain meant for listening. From that effort alone, he forgot the question. “Why don’t I worry?”
“Why don’t you? I’d just feel a lot better if every once in a while, you seemed concerned that you put yourself in such danger.”
They’d had this conversation before. Lucille was an unusually passionate advocate of Chet not killing himself. She had a point, and he respected her, so the conversations had a way of making him self conscious without changing much. Why didn’t it ever change much?
Emotions poked up like seedlings in his chest. He loved failing. It fascinated him. Every moment of seeing something go wrong was like seeing a new side of the world--and a chance to use the skills that made him feel the most important: his adaptability, his wit, his resilience, his resourcefulness. But putting it in to words made him uncomfortable. In Thalassian, at least, he knew the words exactly, and some approximation of it could be suitably referenced in street common. Yet, by his own vice, he found it more compelling to fail miserably at expressing what he meant.
“Failing’s hilarious.”
Lucille gave him a bedraggled, accusatory look and slumped down, pulling her knees to her chest. “One night after acting, you came home bragging about how that Caterina lady said--’his lack of anxiety might be a disorder’. All the other girls in the troupe were trying so hard. Their hearts must have been pounding before the play. You like girls and I know it. Weren’t you concerned about letting any of them down?”
“Haha, what was I--” Chet began, but the laugh earned a commanding glare from Lucille. He stretched his jaw in embarrassment, bowing his head. “Still, what was I gonna do? Even if I goofed it, that’s flavor for the play.”
“What if you ruined the scene? What if they were all mad at you?”
“Then I guess they wouldn’t’ve liked me. Guess they wouldn’t’ve wanted to be my friend.” Chet grinned, and meant it.
“What if -no- one wanted to be your friend?!” Lucille harped, and now a certain moisture was welling in her eyes.
“Then I wouldn’t have anyone to disappoint by indulging myself until I died.” Chet showed still more of his teeth, thumbing at himself.
“What if I don’t want to die?!!”
Chet paused, hanging his hand. The personal question had led to a realization. Tonight, she wasn’t mad at him for his daring. She was self conscious of her own struggles living up to the same. Oh. So it wasn’t always about himself being a scumbag.
“Oh. Shit. You look up to me, don’t you?”
“Of COURSE I look up to you, you JERK. Are you absolutely dumb? Don’t answer that, I know you’ll say yes and smile about it for a week!”
Chet glanced off to the side, pinching his lips hard. He was trying not to smile. Lucille appreciated the effort; it meant he was thinking about it. He took a deep breath and looked back at her. “Okay, okay. You’re right. I...Look, I don’t know.” And now Chet took a turn massaging his face. His brain felt like it was trying to stretch its way out of his skull. He could feel the pressure against his ears. He was thinking, which he did occasionally. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“How?”
“Like...Not in a good way,” he laughed.
Lucille shook her head. “How is that not good? Everyone wants to be that.”
“Hey, thanks.” Chet beamed. Lucille pumped her fists against her knees.
“Yes, I know, you’re very clever, but we are talking about me right now, so forget it for a second!”
Nothing got by her. Playing her for compliments could wait, then. Chet took a longer moment before speaking this time, to Lucille’s satisfaction. A whole ten seconds past. Ten full Chet-cycles of taking in the entire world, deciding what it meant, and coming up with a plan. Maybe if enough were put together it could all become more than an impulse?
“I’m pretty fucking proud of how fearless I am.”
“I know you are. I want to do it too.”
“I’m scared of you being like me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m ready to die.”
“I know. Teach me how to do it without dying.”
Chet blinked, then broke in to an enormous, sunny grin. His whole body lit up with an excitement and purpose that he hadn’t had since the morning. “-Fuck- yeah. Okay. I’ve got a plan.” He didn’t. “We’re gonna clear my name again, and you’re gonna play the lead actress this time. Here’s how we’re gonna do.”
And so, inspired, he set to work describing to her a plan he hadn’t even thought of yet. He spoke faster than he could think, and one by one her criticisms of his nonsense led to the formation of an actual plan and not just the bluff of one. Later that week, Lucille would have a chance to practice her confidence--but that’s another story.