( mdhvre: )
Apothecary. He’s heard it more than a handful of times now, but the word still rings unnatural to his ears, even more so when it rolls off a tongue that sounds as out of place speaking out under the open sky as the owner looks standing in his shop.
“I’m not an apothecary.”
The man takes up more space than should be possible or reasonable, looming like some day-mare night terror made real, edges just a little too blurry and darkened to belong in this particular reality. Glass eyes narrow in calculation as the shop owner tilts his head slightly, peering up into a madman’s face—how Wonderland can stand to let one like him roam free on its surface without immediately rejecting the foreign contaminant is a mystery.
“Just ‘Ashley’ is fine.”
He knows what Amos is here for before the Caterpillar even opens his mouth again—there is only ever one thing that requires them to meet like this, every Red Moon, an empty vial more sinister than appearances let on resting between them.
“Charge more then, if you’re running out so quickly. This kind of thing isn’t easy to get for me either,” his voice comes muffled from where he’s retreated into the back kitchen, rummaging through the fridge there for the equally-innocuous Tupperware container he set aside a night ago. The three sacs swimming inside hardly seem worth the effort to extract, especially in comparison to what all else the human body has to offer, and yet..
They join the unmarked vial on the front counter, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold just yet. “You’re not using it yourself, are you?”
“apothecary’s the nicest thing i could come up with on the spot,” he counters, leaning against the counter as though it were a bar-top. the surface groans and bows beneath his weight, but doesn’t give. “besides — you wouldn’t want eavesdroppers thinkin’ you were on a first-name-basis with the likes of me, would’ja?”
the amount of effort amos invests into those that revile him is trivial, but he can’t help but feel like a child in ashley’s dismantling gaze. so many times he’d weathered that look from his mother: the curled lip of revulsion, the annoyed indifference, and the bite of a coldness only born in hatred. that look is akin to wading frozen waters, still and deep. unforgiving.
“if i charged any more, i could bring you arms and legs for whatever else it is you’re cookin’ up back there,” he mutters, digging into the blackhole of his jacket pocket.
as ashley returns to the storefront, ill-begotten goods in hand, amos stands (much to the counter’s relief). in his hand is a wooden box. by the look of it, it’s spent a great deal of time marinating at the furthest depths of the ocean, or perhaps growing lichen in a hedge witch’s stores, before it came into amos’ care. next to grandmother’s meatloaf container, it looks rather conspicuous indeed.
“twenty grand,” he says easily.
as he goes to lay his great paw on the merchandise, he’s intercepted. his abyssal eyes blink once & slowly up to meet the withering gaze that awaits. “well. that’s really none of your business, is it, ashley?”
