Summary: Olive attempting to convince Charles to change the title of her role in the Prophecy.
Background Info: Olive's role in the Prophecy
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"I don't understand what the big deal is."
Olive merely received a sigh in reply. Charles stood facing away, preoccupied with overseeing the replacement of a stained glass window, only half listening to her argument.
Undeterred, she tried again.
"Seriously! Adjusting sacred historical texts to fit the leader's interpretation is, like, the cornerstone of most major religions!"
That remark earned her an amused grin and a side eye, at least. Deciding to stretch that inch a mile, Olive stepped up next to him, innocently clasping her hands behind her back, pretending to be just as interested in the window installation as Charles.
"Olive… I can't just, ah, alter a prophecy that has existed for centuries."
"It's just one word."
"Yes. It, ah, it is just one word. So, why does it matter so much?"
"You know why it matters."
"Do I?"
"Yes!"
Turning to him with an exasperated sigh, Olive crossed her arms, scowling.
"For fuck's sake– whatever dickwad scribe was in charge of illuminating this at The Church of the Black Klok Scriptorium 600-some-odd years ago was pissy he hadn't been laid in decades, and now here I am, stuck as The Wench?"
Charles attempted to hold back a chortle of amusement at her display.
Attempted.
"It's not funny!"
"No. No, I ah, I know," Charles' hand raised to straighten his tie out of habit, but was met with cool metal in place of silk, "...it's your wording, not, ah, your situation."
With a huff of indignation, Olive chewed at her lip, turning her attention back to the stained glass re-installation. Rays from the Doomstar shone through the shifting panes of red and orange and yellow, the colors dancing ablaze across the stone floor in fiery mockery of an aurora.
"...this is stupid."
From the corner of his eyes, Charles took in the dark bags under her eyes, how her vibrant hair had faded, the length to which her dark roots had grown out, her bottom lip cracked and peeling from chewing at it.
"Hypothetically, if I were to, ah, change your title…" Dark eyes shot to his with newfound hope, her whole face lighting up, hanging on his every word. Charles' heart fluttered against his ribs, and he swallowed, throat suddenly dry, "…ah, what would you prefer instead?"
Considering a moment, Olive shrugged, "Honesty? Didn't think I'd get this far."
This time, he didn't attempt to suppress his amusement, chuckling as he turned to her with a raised brow, the ghost of a smile curling his lips.
"All that, and you don't know what you want to be?"
With a tilt of her head and a small smile, she stepped into his personal bubble, arms coiling around his waist. Charles' brow raised higher at her bold move, as they had remained largely nonphysical in the church so far, yet his hands curled around her shoulder blades in a loose embrace, expecting only a swift hug in thanks.
"Feels kinda weird to name myself…” considering for a moment, she hummed, “I trust your vocabulary skills. Any ideas?"
Ah, there were a great number of nouns and adjectives that flew through his head when he looked at her — many of which he had called her already — though those would hardly be appropriate, nor less demeaning than wench.
“...I’ll, ah… I’ll think on it.”
As Charles went to release her, she held tighter, melding her soft, warm curves flush against him. The room was suddenly ten degrees warmer, his robe entirely too hot — perhaps it should come off. He stared down into deep, dark eyes, breath catching in his throat.
Yes. Yes, the robe should come off. But…
Charles' eyes flicked to the workers.
"Olive, there are peop-"
"Dude," she rest her chin on his chest, smirking up at him with a twinkle in her eye, "it's the fucking apocalypse. Who cares?"
