"I do NAWT, Hester, I just have to— oop. Aw, not the carryout again...."
LOOK AT THIS
BEHOLD
My beloved villains got the honor of being drawn by my friend @tixdixl , and I love love love how they turned out! Look how perfect Hester's little nose is. My beautiful girl. And you can practically hear PJ whining as she carries him away, it's fabulous!!!
I am so touched and happy to get this, I love this!
Characters: Marshall Eton (my OC,) Mac and Wesson Nightwatch (@/tixdixl's OCs,) Hester Suzhen and PJ Lackland-Plantagenet (@/twstinginthewind's OCs) and Bobbi St. Robins (@/ramshacklerumble's OC)
Additional notes: This one really got away from me. At some point it pumped the gas and I was just racing to catch up with it. Was meant to mostly be silly and showcase how the five (Chucklefuck Trio + PJ & Hester duo) interact but oop, looks like we dug a bit at PJ's issues.) Typically I don't watch events ahead of them hitting the EN server but I wanted to get C&D Diner accurate within reason and not just wing the entire thing. I'm sure I got a few things off, so I apologize.
"There's a good spot, sir!"
"I dunno, bro, I think they're going to be pissed if they hafta take the chairs 'stead of the booth. Boss?"
"If they complain, boys, we just tell them next time they need to get here first."
The lunch rush at Crisp 'n' Dips Diner was petering off when the trio of young beastmen sauntered through the doors in anticipation of the meet-up they'd planned. With the seat-yourself sign placed at the front, they moved through the place until they'd made a turn and Macadamia Nightwatch had pointed out the recently-cleaned table. A partial, with two chairs facing inward, and the opposite side featuring a crescent-curved booth with a high back, with just enough seating for the three of them.
At Marshall Eton's comment, both of the Nightwatch twins managed to hold back their responses. While they were still getting to know Hester Suzhen and her temperament, they'd known PJ Lackland-Plantagenet for a good number of years now, and he'd undoubtedly gripe about not getting first choice of seats. But of course, Marshall wasn't the type to let that bother him or be intimidated by PJ's tantrums, so they knew there wasn't a point in bringing it up.
Marshall slid into the booth first, gently nudging the tabletop so he had space to move and breathe without an issue, and Mac promptly hopped in next to him on his left side, while his twin Wesson slid in to sit at Marshall's right. The diner was still relatively new, but recently it had made an addition with an arcade room, resulting in another boom in business. The trio had wanted to make it out for some time now, but through whatever combination of their collective absentmindedness, the diner's business boom, and the general tendency to just forget something when it wasn't in front of you, they hadn't. It was only their third time there, and it was entirely at PJ's and Hester's insistence they wanted to try it out.
"I dunno, boss, I gotta feeling the owner won't be too happy seein' us in our uniforms and them in theirs," Wesson remarked, his tone tense as he slowly glanced around them at the rest of the diner's interior. "Maybe this was a bad idea."
Wes had a valid point. The founder and owner of C&D was a Night Raven College alumnus, and while he certainly had nothing against serving students from Royal Sword Academy (money was still money, after all,) the generational hatred of RSA still ran deep. And given the trio hailed from NRC while PJ and Hester attended RSA…
"They might not be thrilled if they see," Marshall agreed quietly, "But it's not as if they can really afford to alienate their customer base for who they choose to sit with. They just dumped a bunch of money into the expanded space and the arcade games in it. Even if they get a slight boom to business for a handful of weeks, that's probably not gonna be enough to cover the cost of all that. Plus, if I have reason to complain about discriminatory treatment…"
He let his words trail off and it clicked for Wes, whose shoulders eased up…somewhat.
"Right, your dad can make life hard for 'em," he said, breath huffing out a little. "Good point."
Pleased, Marshall crossed his arms.
"And besides," he went on, "don't think anyone who sees us talking with them would assume we're friends, y'know. D'ya even think of them as friends, Wes?" Sensing Mac about to make a comment, Marshall's hand shot out and clamped over the vulture beastman's mouth. "Button your beak."
Wesson gave the question some thought, his expression uncertain and a touch conflicted. Eventually he gave a massive forward shrug with his slouched shoulders and said "'s complicated."
"Precisely," Marshall agreed, his ears giving a slight flick as he removed his hand from Mac's mouth. "Go ahead."
"Well I think of 'em as friends!"
This received nods from his twin and the wolf, but before either could offer comment, a server approached their table with a stack of menus.
"Ah, there'll be five of us in total," Marshall told them after they'd greeted the trio and started handing out the glossy menus. "We're just waiting on the other two members of our party to arrive."
"So just drinks for now?" the server asked, placing down two additional menus and retrieving a pad and pen from their waist apron.
When the server left again, the boys sat back and resorted to their usual activity of people-watching. One vulture stared at nothing and nobody in particular, his gaze somewhat dreamy in a pleasantly content way as he bobbed his head on occasion to some rhythm only he knew. His twin opposite scrutinized every inch of the diner he could see with a slow, careful sweep of the eyes, and the wolf's attention seemed to jump around in a bored fashion that was belied by the shifting motions of his ears. There was never any prior discussion to this activity when it occurred; the three had simply been on a wavelength for so long with one another that the people-watching was something near-automatic.
And when PJ and Hester arrived, they knew at once.
Granted, it did help somewhat that the Royal Sword Academy uniform stood out with glaring dazzle. The crisp whiteness of it was hard to miss, even from their secluded spot.
"They made it!" Mac exclaimed. He stood slightly, waving an arm to get their attention, though it was a moment or two before they caught sight of the table. Unsurprisingly, PJ's eyes narrowed and he barely managed to put on a dignified air as he all but stomped over to them. Hester, expression unreadable, slithered behind him dutifully.
"You could have waited and let me have first choice of seating," he snapped, crossing his arms.
"Get here first next time, Percy~," Marshall returned in a poisoned-honey voice.
PJ glowered at the nickname but any correction he was used to giving was forestalled by Hester patiently offering, "You can always choose which of these two seats you'd like, sir."
"Mmnnh." The noise was audible even through a closed mouth as PJ dropped into the seat nearest Mac. Hester had barely settled herself in the chair next to him when PJ started reaching across the table and grabbing numerous objects, pulling them towards him and setting them up like he was forming a blockade wall.
"Sir?" Hester prompted, tone puzzled.
"A necessary precaution," he insisted, throwing a suspicious glance at Mac, who only smiled back at him in the oblivious way he had.
Hester raised a brow but didn't press the issue. Silently, the trio shared a mutual thought that she must already have gotten used to some of PJ's quirks if she accepted this so quickly. That was good; this was the first time they were really getting to actually see how she was around PJ in a more relaxed fashion, and the way she was rolling with what he threw at her hopefully meant she'd gel well enough with them all as a unit.
The server came by again, having spotted them taking the chairs, and took their drink order before hurrying off to fill it. PJ immediately went for the menu, but Hester took a moment to look around, her brow furrowing. When the server returned in seconds with their drinks and asked if they needed a moment or so to order, she finally picked up a menu and started to study it.
"It seems they have quite a variety of options to choose from," she remarked, in the tone one might use when politely describing something as alarmingly haphazard.
"Oh, we ain't picky!" Mac volunteered.
"Food is food," Wes agreed.
Hester's brow furrowed even deeper as she glanced from one twin to the other before looking over the menu again.
"Eugh, they serve coffee here twenty-four-seven? And they dare to call it artisanal?" PJ said, curling his upper lip in disgust.
"It's not," Marshall declared. "The quality isn't the worst I've had but apparently you can buy high-end cold brew and espresso machines and claim that makes the coffee better or artisanal or whatever."
"Your sacrifice for the rest of us is noted Eton, though I'm not sure I respect it in this case."
"Watch it Percy, I can still take you outside and hunt you for sport."
"Are you two always sniping at each other like this?" Hester asked in a too-pleasant voice, lowering her menu so her eyes could flick between the lion and the wolf.
"Since the day we met," Wesson confirmed, setting down his own menu.
"Yeah, 's how they show they're friends!" Mac chimed in, getting very mild but immediate denials from both PJ and Marshall.
"Hardly."
"Never in my entire life!"
Mac then beamed at Hester, clearly feeling his point had been proved. She only winced back at him like she'd suddenly had a headache come on.
The server returned abruptly to take their orders, prompting Mac and Wes to speak up and give the others time to finish deciding. Marshall was right behind them with his order, and the twins watched him closely before their eyes zeroed in on Hester as she ordered, then PJ. For once, the young lion didn't seem bothered to be served last, and took his time asking a few questions and being particular about his choice and how he wanted it made.
The Nightwatch twins didn't stop staring at him the entire time, eyes gleaming as he described the food he wanted.
As the server collected their menus and prepared to leave, Marshall spoke up again, his voice sweet and apologetic.
"I'm so sorry, is it possible for us to also get an additional large basket of the steak fries and jalapeño cheese dip?"
"Of course, sir. Would you like that as an appetizer or with—"
"With the rest of the food, please. Thank you!"
The server left again, and Hester turned a quirked eyebrow to the wolf.
"An extra large basket of fries?" she prompted.
"It's absolutely necessary," he insisted. "You'll see."
There was a low hum from PJ, who was finally looking around with a blatant expression of disdain. His eyes were half-lidded, unimpressed, as his nose started to crinkle in the middle.
"I didn't think it would be so…" He paused, lip curling up again. "Squirrel-themed. There are squirrels and chipmunks everywhere."
Hester took the opportunity to glance around them as well, taking in the patterns on the ceiling, floor and the various chairs and tables. "And acorns and leaves and fur patterns," she added. "I knew there were the mascots outside but this is somewhat overboard."
"Can't focus on it too much or my skin crawls," Wesson remarked. "Not to mention it gets hard on the eyes, it's too colorful."
"Really??" Mac looked at his brother in open surprise. "I think it's fun."
The phrase "of course you do" was chorused around the table between Wes, Marshall and PJ, at once expressed with exasperation and yet a sort of long-term, well-cultivated patience. Hester noted this, then looked up at the ceiling once again, a pensive frown on her face.
"Well, clearly there's some sort of reason behind the theme," she began.
"Children's story," Wes supplied.
"'Boutta coupla squirrels who go on adventures and get upta mischief!" Mac added. "Pretty sure we read it as kids. Those mascots sure do look an awful lot like some o' the pictures in book, don't they, Wes'n?"
His twin shrugged. "Don't remember the book too well, just the cartoon. But I guess so, yeah." He seemed distracted, and just as quickly as he'd answered, he went back to looking around suspiciously, like he was waiting for someone or something to cause a problem.
"Of all the things for a diner theme…" PJ scoffed. "And from a Night Raven College alumn? Strange choice."
"I don't disagree, sir," Hester said, picking up a straw wrapper and starting to fold it absently as she looked at him. "If you're dissatisfied, we could leave."
"We just ordered, we can't leave now."
"As you say, sir."
Both vultures looked at them with unusual focus and anticipation when they'd said that, but resumed their usual postures with rapidity, and Mac even looked a little crestfallen.
"You don't like Crisp 'n' Dips?" he asked in a wounded voice, like this was personally on the verge of breaking his heart. Surprisingly, PJ did seem a bit awkward at that, and focused on swirling the ice in his glass with his straw.
"I- no, I'm not- I don't…" he stopped himself, inhaled deeply through his nose, and let it back out as he said, "It's just new, that's all."
Marshall hummed a little at that, nodding his assent. "Takes a bit of getting used-to," he said. "Food's not bad though."
"It better be decent," PJ said warningly, before glancing back at one of the larger decorations of the squirrels. "At least there's no animatronics… I'm not sure I'd have come here if there were."
"Me either," Marshall agreed.
"Of course not," Hester said primly, holding her chin a little higher. "I think we can all agree that we're all a little too old for that sort of thing." When none of them made a move to agree, she squinted at them. The silence stretched a little further, and she said somewhat testily, "We're all a little too old for restaurants with animatronic mascots, aren't we?"
"We're plenty too old," Marshall agreed quickly, folding his arms. "And we're plenty too used to breaking them."
"Exactly, we're all— Wait, breaking them?"
"It's a long story."
"We got banned for life!" Mac said, absolutely delighted. "Ain't that somethin'?"
"From where?" Hester asked in alarm.
"How was I s'posed to know the skee ball would go kamikaze?" Wesson grumbled.
"That was impressive, to be fair," PJ mused. "I've never seen a skee ball fly like that."
"Where were you all banned from?!"
"Hey, I didn't throw the second one, that was all boss!" Wesson said, pointing a fast finger at Marshall.
"Put that hand down, it's a lethal weapon," Marshall huffed, pushing the accusing finger away. "An' anyhow, I only threw one to keep the other damn mascot from fallin' on Mac. Didn't have an impressive flight path like yours."
"But where—"
"Far more destructive though," PJ said.
"Wuz only tryin' t' help the poor thing after Wes'n hit it," Mac explained. "I don't think those ma'tronics should go crunch like that."
"I'm never getting the answers to this, am I," Hester muttered, pulling at her face.
"Our dads took care of the mess afterwards," Marshall said. "So it's fine, doesn't matter."
"Yeah, but now I can't touch a skee ball without wonderin' if I'm gonna hit a person this time," Wes grumbled. "The stupid robot was bad enough."
"Eh, as long as you stay away from the skee ball here, I think we'll be fine." Marshall punctuated this with a pat on Wesson's back that didn't seem to reassure him all that much.
Hester, having recovered with incredible speed, shook her head and waved a hand dismissively. "I suppose the details are unimportant, given we'll never go to the place," she said mostly to herself, before looking between all the boys. "Are there any other ill-fated escapades of yours I should know about?"
They all exchanged a look, and eventually Marshall asked, "Uuhhhh…which one you want us to start with?"
Nothing could have prepared the naga for this, and as she struggled to come up with any sort of response, the server returned with a massive tray of food.
"Alright everyone, we have our new limited time chicken piccata pasta—"
"Ooh, yes, that's mine, thank you," PJ said, eyes lighting up as he gently took the plate and settled it behind his blockade.
"One of our signature Crisp 'n' Dips burgers with smoky honey mustard sauce for the onion rings—"
"Well thanks!" Mac said, beaming as he happily accepted his plate.
"A Reuben with extra fries—"
Hester lifted her hand, then offered a sincere thanks as she accepted the plate, set it before her, and immediately started reaching for the hot sauce.
"The honey bourbon gourmet burger—"
"Ah, wonderful, thank you!" Marshall reached for his plate, ears going right up in excited anticipation.
"And the second C&D burger, with no sauce for the onion rings—"
"Thanks, 'preciate it," Wes said as the plate was handed to him.
"And," the server finished triumphantly, lifting a large basket off the massive tray and setting it neatly on the table before Marshall, "the extra fries with jalapeño cheese sauce."
"Oh, perfect!" The wolf's eyes lit up then as he clapped his hands together and turned a broad smile on the server. "This is great, we're all set!"
Dismissed, the server left, and Marshall immediately lunged, hands closing over the handles of the large, serated knives stuck in each of the twins' burgers. "I'll just be taking these, thanks."
Each of them squawked, defensively reaching to protect their burgers as the knives were pulled free and carefully wiped off and set aside. There was little other ceremony as the party began to dig in, each eager to finally have the late lunch they'd planned.
"Whew, the onion rings are fresh!" Wes said on an exhale, waving a hand in front of his mouth. "Good mix of crunchy outside 'n' tender inside though."
"Yer missin' out, Wes," Mac said, waving an onion ring he'd already taken a bite out of before dipping it back into the sauce. "This's some pretty tangy stuff, real savory-like!"
"I'm good," Wes said, before biting into the massive burger he had and letting out a sound of approval. It took him a moment to chew and swallow before letting out another exhale, the corners of his mouth giving the slightest upward curve, and he declared, "Gotta be the best burger I've had in a while."
"Did you not get that the last time you were here?" PJ asked, only mildly surprised when both twins shook their heads. "Ah, I suppose I should have expected you two would be working your way through the entire menu gradually."
"Speakin' o' workin' our way through the menu," Mac said, leaning around a little bit to try to catch a glimpse of PJ's plate, "how's that fancy-soundin' pasta?"
Having finished cutting bite-sized pieces, PJ speared one with a fork, wrapped some of the pasta around it with a twirl, and popped it into his mouth. As he took several chews, the lines of his face relaxed into something content, and the hint of a smile started to form.
"Perfect balance of acidity from the lemon and the smoothness of the butter," he announced. "The chicken's tender but not undercooked; perfectly juicy."
Hester, apparently relieved at this declaration, turned to look at the sudden movement in her peripherals, and saw Marshall completely ignoring the fries on his own plate to grab one from the additional basket.
"What's the point of that?" she asked with a frown, and as Marshall blinked at her, she saw two wiry arms on either side of the wolf slip in and steal fries off his plate.
"What's the point of what?" he said, before biting into the fry, seeming to notice something wasn't quite right…
And then going "Ah, right, I should try the cheese dip."
He turned the fry around, reached to scoop it into the cheese, and those wandering hands shot out to steal more fries off his plate. Marshall seemingly didn't notice a thing, and he sat back and popped the rest of his fry, now with a light coating of the sauce, into his mouth and chewed, ears twitching. Hester looked from him to one twin and then the other, both of them making deer-in-headlights eye contact as the ends of stolen fries disappeared into their mouths.
Realizing now that the remark earlier had been in total sincerity and struggling to decide whether Marshall was clever or just complacent enough to work around the fact the twins would steal off his plate, she quickly grabbed the hot sauce again and resumed slathering her fries in it. Perhaps it would be a deterrent.
She made eye contact with Wes, who deliberately looked at her fries, then back at her with a wry expression.
Perhaps not.
Squinting, she didn't take her eyes from him as she lifted the Reuben and took a bite, then let out a hum. "Ah…that does hit the spot."
A hand started to inch towards one of her drowned fries and she primly swatted at it, not entirely surprised that next to her, PJ was giving Mac a death glare that had him retreating with the fork he'd somehow found and was wielding. Both the twins were preparing to regroup, and glanced towards Marshall's plate again, but were forced to wait as he bit into his burger and started to chew. His eyes fluttered shut and he let out a sound of immense satisfaction as he chewed, and the twins found their opening to snatch more fries off his plate. He was just swallowing the bite when Wes leaned a little closer to him.
"Hey boss, uh, how's— how's the burger?"
Marshall's eyes cracked open and he let out a low, closed-mouth growl of warning.
"I assume that means it's good," PJ remarked, tone just a touch snide.
"It's amazing," Marshall corrected, his face a brief portrait of bliss before he glared again. "And if you wanna try it, get your own."
"Alright, okay," Wes said, holding up a hand to show he was no threat, while across from him Mac proceeded to steal another four fries from Marshall's plate. "We'll try it next time."
Marshall huffed through his nose, apparently content to leave it at that, before taking another fry from the extra basket. The late lunch proceeded this way for a handful of minutes, the talking kept to a minimum as the five ate at a relatively moderate pace, and vulture hands were either disregarded or warded away depending on what direction they snuck in. Eventually it was PJ who, having finished the majority of his plate by that point, slowed down and brought up serious conversation again.
"Now, as I'm sure the three of you know, it's crucial that despite the strained relations between our schools, we maintain our allyship as much as possible," he began.
Hester turned to him, evidently curious to hear his reasoning, but didn't miss the way Marshall's eyes flashed and locked onto them. He offered no commentary however, and the lion proceeded as though entirely unaware of the reaction.
"Presently, my major focus is going to be elevating my status and social standing at Royal Sword, which Hester will be assisting me with." He paused for a moment and a dark look came over his face that the other four had come to learn was often associated with thoughts of his older half-brother and the resulting inferiority complex. "It is…far more difficult to make and maintain friendships and useful connections than I anticipated."
"Oh I dunno 'bout that," Mac said, kicking his feet back and forth beneath the table. "I got plenty o' friends! Makin' friends is pretty easy!"
"Is it?" his twin asked dryly, and PJ threw him an appreciative glance.
"Not for everyone," the lion beastman said, and beneath the undercurrent of frustration and jealousy, was perhaps the barest hint of vulnerability there as well. Hester nodded along, both for him and for herself. Being a naga came with a number of disadvantages, and among them was a degree of prejudice worse than what was usually aimed at snake beastfolk.
Another attempted sneak attack with a fork broke the tension, and PJ yanked his plate out of reach, then proceeded to clear his throat and continue, "Which is why I want you three to use your connections in Night Raven to potentially secure me additional allies as I make my way up in the world." He punctuated this by setting his plate back down and resuming eating.
If either of the twins had any thoughts about this, they didn't get a chance to voice them before Marshall let out a pointed hum, the sound indicating he was thinking about it and heavily considering shutting down the possibility. As Wes and Mac looked to their de facto leader, Marshall was examining his nails and not even bothering to look in PJ's direction as he replied curtly, "And what if I say no~?"
Hester blinked, not having expected this response from what little she'd seen and heard of the Pomefiore junior so far, and PJ's expression turned dark as he looked at Marshall.
"Eton…"
Marshall turned his hand around, still examining his nails without looking at either of the RSA students. "Don't get me wrong, Percy," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "I know how much you stand to gain if you can get a foot in and make more connections by proxy at NRC, and wouldn't that just be somethin', that, doing what big brother never could." His eyes finally flicked to PJ, who gave a slight squirm, and he went on, "Why I bet you could easily gain better respect 'n' notoriety than him if you did."
Mac nodded enthusiastically at this, and even Wes seemed to consider it and silently agree.
"But the real trouble with this is," Marshall sighed dramatically, sitting back in his seat and plucking up his drink again, idly tilting it in one hand before he looked pointedly across the table and cooed, "I still haven't heard…what's in this…for Marshall and the boys~."
PJ choked, his face turning an interesting myriad of colors as he appeared to process that he hadn't thought about leading with an incentive for the trio, and now he would be scrambling to find a way to entice them.
"He can pay you, of course," Hester began, trying hard to insert herself and smooth this out, but PJ was already shaking his head and muttering "That won't work" even as Marshall struggled to hold back a laugh, his face lighting up with amused mockery.
"Please! Pay us?" he said, a few laughs slipping free despite his attempts to hold it in. "What a pedestrian answer! Come on now, I know you can do better'n that!"
Hester frowned, leaning back in her chair, and PJ started to massage his temples, letting out a quiet groan.
"Ya gotta be creative!"
"Thank you, Macadamia, for the reminder," PJ muttered.
"Hard to be creative without a direction to work in," Hester pointed out as Marshall took another bite of his burger, and the wolf gave her a flat, unimpressed look.
"'M not gonna hold your hand through this one," he said, covering his mouth as he spoke around his food, before chewing some more and taking another tremendous swallow. "You want us to flex any connections we have for your benefit, you gotta make it worth our time. Quid pro quo. An' don't start with the whole 'oh we'll all share in the glory when PJ's made it big' angle, that's no more appealin' than it was every time he's brought it up in the last several years."
Hester glanced at PJ, who winced and looked at her sheepishly for the briefest instant, and she realized exactly why he insisted she would handle negotiations better. Talk about having set himself up with the odds not in his favor. And these were supposed to be some of his childhood friends. How much worse would it be if they didn't have that connection?
The naga glanced between the bird beastmen, trying to calculate, and PJ immediately let out a sigh, adding, "I can see what you're thinking, Hester, and that won't work either."
"I haven't even said anything, sir."
"You didn't need to. Unfortunately, these two nimrods answer to him before anything and anyone else. Assuming they ever answer to anything and anyone else."
Marshall's expression grew more and more smug and self-assured, as Mac let out a chipper, "Ayup! Sure do!" and Wes shrugged and said, "He's the boss", before leaning a little closer to Marshall and whispering, "Nimrod's an insult, right boss?"
Hester let out a groan of exasperation. "Come on, gentleman, surely there's something you want that we can help provide."
Marshall only let out snort and leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. Wes gave another shrug, apparently unbothered or genuinely unable to think of anything. Mac actually seemed to give it a moment's consideration, which apparently was a very difficult thing to do, judging by the confusion on his face, before he bounced his shoulders in a much lighter shrug than his brother's and announced, "Nope! Couldn't think of a thing!"
Other customers were moving about in the diner, and as the NRC trio continued to work on their food and the RSA duo put their heads together to try to brainstorm anything, the conversation lulled a minute. And then suddenly Marshall's posture changed and his face settled into something wary and suspicious as he started to sniff.
"Boss?" Wes asked, looking to him in mild alarm.
"I smell a fox," Marshall said in a low voice.
"A fox?" Hester asked, and even PJ locked in, eyes narrowing.
"Yeah, somewhere near," Marshall said, taking another sniff as he proceeded to glare in a slow pan around the place. "Familiar, too…"
The Nightwatch twins turned from him to one another, and they proceeded to follow his lead, clearly taking this as indication of some manner of threat. The whole thing seemed ridiculous enough to be laughable, but as even PJ scooted his chair back a few inches to get a better vantage point, Hester found herself taking this more seriously. Clearly there was something happening, and they had to be ready for it.
A sudden commotion at the front of the restaurant startled them and drew their collective attention, and they tried to lean in that direction to get a better look. But the more they tried to listen, the more they just heard a few people arguing about squirrels. The tension broke again.
"What about the squirrels?" PJ muttered. "Yes, it's a bit garish and gaudy and overly cute, but it's not as if they're real."
"People often lay the blame in odd places when they overreact to things, sir."
They all turned back to their table…and paused, staring at the sudden gap.
"Mac," Marshall said carefully, not looking up from the now-vacant spot dead center in the tabletop. "What did you do with the extra fries?"
The basket was, undeniably, gone.
"Well gee, sir," Mac said, looking baffled. "I'm not sure. I don't even know what I dun with 'em."
Marshall let out a tired, grumbling sigh and shook his head. "It's fine," he declared. "I've heard rumors before that this place has dealt with food vanishing off the tables without warning. Guess they're still dealing with it."
None of them noticed, now several tables away and free of getting sussed out by the wolf he had beef with, a fox beastman curling into a corner booth out of sight. A broad grin on his face as he glanced back at their table, Bobbi St. Robins was careful to angle himself out of sight so nobody spotted his C&D uniform while he was still waiting around for his shift to start. Phone in one hand to text his friend Jax, Bobbi dipped one of the fries generously into the cheese sauce, savoring the bite as he snacked.
This part-time job was proving to be better by the day.
Stolen food always tasted better, and some part of him hoped those five would come by again and bring their inattentiveness and distractability along. Marshall Eton, after all, owed him a stolen lunch with years of accumulated interest, and the others had a variety of taste in their orders that maybe he could try the entire menu without ever having to pay a sorcent. Mood vastly improved, he whistled merrily between bites.
Characters: Wesson Nightwatch, Mac Nightwatch (mentioned), Marshall Eton ( @cyanide-latte ), Hester Suzhen ( @twstinginthewind ), PJ Lackland-Plantagenet ( @twstinginthewind ), Gil Roux ( @twstinginthewind ), and Beau Fowl ( @ramshacklerumble ) ... and a handful of canon characters who are all mentioned but not depicted here. Oops, all OCs.
CW: None
A/N: So this fic took off. I wanted to write a fic that focused on Wesson for a minute, since I have written a lot for Mac recently. And uh... this sort of turned into a big thing. But honestly, I feel like this was a great way to showcase Wes's dynamics with all the members of the Chucklefuck Pride/Pack/Kettle along with others from the Nottingham crew. I hope you enjoy!
The snap of a string caused them both to freeze in unison. A wave of panic swept over the archer, uncertain whose string broke. Wes immediately pulled away from the scope. Albeit frantic, he flipped it around, giving the crossbow a once-over in an attempt to identify the cause of the sound. But his concentration shattered as a “Oh, oops,” broke the seemingly isolated silence. The vulture’s head spun like an axis, focusing on the rooster beastman sitting nearby under the tree. Between his fingers, Gil held the snapped guitar string. A lackadaisical look of disappointment crosses the rooster’s face.
“Guess I’m gonna have to replace it, huh?” he commented, glancing over at the vulture with a calm smile.
In complete honesty, the nonchalance of which Gil maintained befuddled Wes. The way he held the broken string struck him, especially as he held his own crossbow in his hands.
He looked down at his own bow. Relief swept over him like a blanket as the drawstring remained fully intact. His shoulders fell, like he didn’t even realize he increased the tension held by them. Or the white as the bones of his knuckles pushed against the skin. Or the curling of his talons, bound by the tape holding them closed.
“Is it an easy fix?” Wesson asked the rooster, genuinely unsure but hoping for the best.
“I mean, yeah,” Gil responded with a shrug, “It’s a mild inconvenience, really. Plus, I needed to change out the strings anyway. It happens regularly, so it’s not a big deal.”
The vulture shifted his position. Directing his posture toward the lone target set up by the tree line, he raised up the heirloom crossbow once again. Steadying the shot, he took aim. He let out a slow, steady exhale. And as the breath reached its end, he pulled the trigger. Or at least… he tried to. When he tugged the lever, resistance pushed against his finger. As if it refused to click into place, the lever remained firm. And in similar fashion, the spring never sprung. The draw string stood firm, holding its tension.
Wes paused. Maybe he’d left the safety on. Deep breath.
Once again, he pulled back from the crossbow. But instead of examining the drawstring, the vulture lifted the stock up, checking on the status of the safety latch. It… wasn’t on.
Instantly, terror rippled through him like an earthquake. Starting slow, like a small tremor.
What broke?
He flipped the stock again, this time holding the bow so that the bottom became easily visible. Sticking his nose into it, he began examining, fidgeting with the lever. A great place to start. He checked to see what it’d gotten stuck on, if anything got jammed in the crevices.
Nothing.
How did it break?
Next, he checked the flight groove. Dragging his finger tips along her plates, he felt only the cool metal, a chill like a knife in the face of the early evening sun. Nothing touched his flesh though. Clean, as clean she was from when he last took care of her. From when her last routine cleaning occurred. Recent. Thus, nothing that he saw nor felt indicated an issue with the groove, albeit he assumed it laid flush against the wood, with no known shifting. Not that he knew how to check for that.
“Hey, man…” a voice interrupted his thoughts, “you good?”
“Uh– y-yeah!”
He lied. And he sucked at hiding it.
How could this happen?
The world melted and evaporated away around him. Only Old Betsy and his hands existed. Not that anything else mattered, even if that familiar voice had addressed him yet again. And again. The hand on his shoulder only jolted him back into physical reality as it jumpscared him.
“Is she working?” Gil asked. He had the respect to refer to Old Betsy properly.
“I… don’t know.”
He took such excellent care of her.
Flipping the crossbow again, he attempted to investigate the riser and the barrel. It dawned on him, though, that the anatomical structure and inner mechanisms of the olden style crossbow fell well outside his breadth of knowledge. That, intellectually, the mapping of Old Betsy remained a half solved puzzle, with only a percentage of understanding on a minute scale. And worse of all, the thought struck him, almost physically, with the force of a 2x4: he’d have to get someone else to look at her if he wanted her in working condition.
He practically deflated. The fluff of his feathers withering in real time, as his cheeks desaturated with a sickly, bone-like glow to them. His stomach began to ache, his intestines winding themselves into sailor’s knots, able to withstand even the most ravaging turbulence. Air pocketed against the inner lining, like a balloon ready to pop. The gurgle made him sick, not that he could help it. Not that it would have changed the way nausea crashed into him like waves crash against the rocks of a sea cave mouth.
In mild defeat, he tried pulling the lever one last time. But as she rejected his advances, he felt his knees growing weak.
"Aw, I'm sure it'll be fine. You know your Old Bets better than anyone! You'll have her good as new in no time," the rooster’s determined optimism, while often inspiring, felt like nails in a coffin or worse thorns in a flower crown.
See, Wes did know Old Betsy better than anyone. He’d been her caretaker since the old lady first sat comfortably in his scrawny arms. Thus, the problem grew evident: He didn’t know how to fix her. Worse, he didn’t know who could.
She ached and groaned under the pressure of his fingers. Unmoving. Her age showed like arthritis, requiring easy relief. He felt her pain, joints rubbing together in a grinding, wearing and disorderly misalignment. But how? Where?
“I guess we both gotta fix our babies, huh?”
The rooster’s words evoked tears. But the vulture opted to swallow them. Hold them in. Hold them down. Like treasonous prisoners, they deserved to remain locked in their cells. He had to fix her. That was his duty. And his responsibility wouldn’t shift, emotions be damned.
“U-uh… y-yeah…” Wes replied, confidence leaving his body like whistling steam from a kettle.
For the first time since the snap, Wes glanced up from his crossbow. To him, an eternity passed. The world froze temporarily, until now. His eyes met with a deep pink. A kind, comforting gaze. He tried his best to hold it together, but the Bad Feeling gripped his shoulders with an iron grasp.
“Do you know what needs done?” Gil asked, genuine and seemingly oblivious to the depths of the apprehension dwelling in his gut like a monster in the closet, or under the bed.
“No, not really,” he answered plainly, the lump growing in his throat.
“You know where you can get it fixed?” The rooster pressed further, still not fully realizing how much the wasps buzzed and swarmed in Wesson’s head.
He shook his head. But shortly after, the thought did cross his mind.
“Hang on…”
Slinging the old lady over his shoulder, the vulture moved out of the clearing. His gait seemed almost militant, if not for the slouch in his posture and the trudge in his boots. As he marched toward the cobblestone bridge, he postured himself under the shade of the nearest willow before popping a squat. He hadn’t expected it, yet strutting in toe, the rooster followed right behind him, guitar in hand. Gil peered over the head of the vulture, now hunched over his cellphone. His fingers flew across the screen, with pauses intermittently as he determined what he needed to say. The wasps relented none.
[hey, so, Old Betsy isnt working and I cant figure out whats wrong. Does anyone know of a shop on Sage Island that can help with it?]
He hit send and watched as the world bubble shifted into the group chat labeled “The Kettle”. It didn’t take long before the notification went off.
[Got no clue if any shop has someone specializing in crossbows but I'll come with ya to look.] came from Marshall.
[Nope] came from Hester.
He didn’t expect any responses from PJ or his brother. But the responses he received filled him with dread. The easy out no longer seemed accessible. The hill before him grew, beginning to resemble a mountain.
“Not that you asked me either, but I could ask around too,” the rooster offered, “then maybe you’ll have a better chance at finding something.”
The fact that Gil read over his shoulder, effectively eavesdropping barely registered in his mind. Frankly, the need for a suitable solution plagued his mind to the point it drowned out any other thought.
“Yeah, uh… That’ll help, I think…” the vulture mumbled.
“Cool cool. I’ll shoot you a text if I find anything useful.”
He nodded in acknowledgement as he offered a quiet “Thanks…”
The grass crunched under the rooster’s feet. The thuds of sole against cobblestone echoed like a speechless goodbye. As they faded with distance, the lull of tranquil air rested over him. The tension clutching his shoulders and folding his spine contrasted heavily with the atmosphere encompassing him and his dread. Air drowned out by the tremors of muscles and the deliberate breaths. He needed to find a solution. He needed options.
He picked himself up. The only place he knew to start was admittedly in NRC. If no one could think of a place in town locally, perhaps solutions would present themself in the more magically concentrated regions of Sage Island. The vulture crossed through town with the determination of a scavenger, but the caution of a prey animal. Clutching Old Betsy’s strap, he attempted to keep her from bumping into anyone in the crowd. His slumped strides nearly plowed through the streets, despite his otherwise withheld and cautious demeanor. His gaze felt like lasers on the spines of any who held their back to him, beady and unwavering. Yet his gaze held no malice, just sheer determination, and the resistance of boiling anxiety ready to burst at the seams. Any who didn’t want their feet trampled scrammed. Anyone not observant enough to notice felt the prick of bound talons or the blunt of a hard elbow.
✨️✨️✨️
The gates of Pomefiore relented in a way of which only replicated by few others. The iron refused to bow to just anyone, yet as he blazed down the path, the rooster no longer trailing in tow, they yielded seemingly to his whim. He pushed through, the person who left last clearly forgot to lock it. Marching through the halls, he stopped for no person nor thing. The poser pansies gawked and gasped as he stormed past them, despite never once colliding. It wasn’t like he cared either. They could catch flies for all he cared. This issue superseded any other superficial problems these rich ninnies possibly had.
Reaching the door to his dorm, he wasted no time putting Old Betsy away. At the very least, while he hunted for a solution, she could rest in the safe haven of her case. Sheltered from the weathering and the potential dangers the world inhabited. When he snapped the case shut, he heard an incredibly timely knock at the door. Naturally, he’d left it open, his mind not focusing on anything but the crossbow. But he recognized those raps. That pattern belonged to exactly one person and one person alone. And frankly, of all the people who he could have possibly tolerated in that moment, Marshall was welcome.
“Yeah?” Wesson didn’t greet him as one might have expected. Then again, the situation didn’t call for it.
“Just as I expected,” Marshall responded in kind, “Are you planning on storing her until you can figure something out?”
“Yeah… I don’t think it’s worth riskin’ messin’ her up anymore than she already is.”
“I take it you still have no idea what’s wrong?” Marshall asked empathetically.
To which, the vulture shook his head. He then added, “The trigger wouldn’t pull and I couldn’t figure out what part’s jammed. I’d rather not take any more chances.”
“Well, I think you’re darn right about that,” the wolf agreed. He moved further into the room and shut the door behind him. Leisurely, he took a seat on the vulture’s desk chair, of which the vulture could easily hear the creak of the wood, and the groan of the joints. The vulture felt the leery eyes of the wolf watching him, though his eyes, usually holding a sense of mischief and even animosity, held only concern at that moment. And he knew, even without seeing the gaze, that the wolf’s concern grew genuine.
“Did you need somethin’?” Wesson asked, not necessarily holding any hostility, but rather his voice maintained a steady, genuine inquiry. It could have fooled anyone, despite his clear underlying panic. He had a goal, and clearly, the vulture would stop at nothing to obtain it. He refused to waste time on anything else.
“Nothing of my own, really,” Marshall shrugged, “I figured I’d offer you another set of brain cells to figure out a solution.”
He paused. Despite Marshall being his best friend, he somehow didn’t fully expect that Marshall would have wanted to help. Silly, in retrospect. But he hadn’t considered it prior to that moment.
“Got any ideas?”
“Well, the first one I had I’m pretty sure you’d toss out the window without a second thought,” the wolf admitted, that inky, grimy smile returning to his maw.
Turning to face him fully, the vulture’s arms crossed affront his chest. And with a challenging tone, he sneered, “Try me.”
“There’s only one other person on campus who I know uses a crossbow, and his room happens to be down the hall-”
“Absolutely not,” Wesson interjected.
“Told you.”
“Yeah, you did, and you’re right,” the vulture practically barked, “I’m not asking Rook Hunt.”
Marshall chuckled, one of those laughs that spawns from deep within the depths of one’s belly. The humor, both sick, twisted, and also extremely genuine. And they both understood; the laugh wasn’t aimed at Wesson. No, the scope aligned with the back of the huntsman’s head, even without his physical presence.
Slumping onto his bed, the bird stared straight into the ceiling. He knew more thoughts lurked behind the fluff between the wolf’s two ears. Better to ask than pry for them.
“Any other ideas?”
“While he’s not necessarily a bow maker, if there is one guy I know who can read a blueprint, it’s Idia Shroud,” Marshall commented.
“I’m not lettin’ him anywhere near Old Betsy either,” Wesson huffed.
This one seemed to take Marshall by surprise. His ears perked. His eyes widened, pupils narrowing ever so slightly. He even uncrossed his legs in the chair.
“No kidding?” the wolf confirmed, slight disbelief crossing over his entire being, “Why? Don’t you think he’d be able to figure it out?”
The bird beastman shook his head ever so slightly. His gaze stayed glued to the ceiling as he responded, “No, I do… the problem isn’t that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I have this gut feelin’,” he started, “I can’t explain it, but somehow, I got this feelin’ that if I hand Idia Old Betsy? She’s not gonna come back as Old Betsy.”
A long, stiff pause lingered between them. Despite the lack of logic, Wes trusted Marshall enough to take him at his word, even if the logic lacked any form of foundation. And Marshall frankly knew Wes well enough that when Wes posited a feeling like that, it carried merit. Even if it came from nowhere, the feelings always happened for a reason.
After a moment, the wolf beastman’s posture relaxed. His hands fell to his lap, clasped loosely.
“Fair enough,” came the eventual resignation.
The two fell into yet another silence. But the silence failed to indicate any of the brain activity cultivating between them in a way that one might expect. The silence, comfortable, only came from the duo mustering all of their power to consider every possibility. And the absence of the third was the only real reason why the silence manifested at all.
“What about Silver?” the vulture eventually broke the silence.
“What about him?”
“Do you think he might know how to fix a crossbow?” he asked, genuine and attempting not to lose hope.
“Do I think he can fire one? Sure,” the wolf replied, sass underlying his words, “Does that mean that he can repair one? I mean, it’s the same way your brother eatin’ a cake means he can bake one. He can’t.”
A snort burst out from the vulture’s nose like a cannon. Nothing prepared him for that jab enough. Truly, Marshall managed to snipe not just with a bow, but with his words too.
“Am I wrong?” he dug the knife in deeper.
“No, not at all,” the vulture wheezed. Even though the words avoided him, Wesson appreciated the break in tension. Even just the smallest of laughs tore through the veil of unwavering paranoia.
“So that option’s out,” the wolf reaffirmed, doubling down on his stance.
Between snorts, the vulture choked out, “Yeah, sure is.”
“Who else do we got?”
“Well…” the vulture proceeded to mull over their options. He knew few lived on campus, if any. And while the walls certainly lined themselves with weirdos with quirks and hang ups, he figured that someone somewhere would have to have the knowledge about crossbows. Especially with all those Diasomnia students who seemed to live in the ancient times. Yet, on a second thought, he couldn’t name a single one who might actually have any inkling as to the intricacies of crossbow anatomy and construction.
“Shot in the dark…” Marshall piped up.
The vulture lifted his head briefly to look at him, before lowering his head back on the mattress.
“Go for it,” he offered permission.
“Do you think Mr. S might have the part needed in his shop?”
He… raised a good point. A great point even. However, one glaring flaw presented itself, sprawled out on a silver platter: “Even if he does, that doesn’t change the fact that we don’t know what part’s broken.”
“...fair point…”
“And while we’re at it, I don’t think I’d want to take a deal from Azul,” Wesson added on.
“I don’t think Azul wants to take on a deal from you either,” Marshall sniped.
Another chuckle slipped through his lips like bars on a cage.
“Good point,” he admitted.
“Of course it’s a good point. A great point, even.”
Wesson half had the urge and know-how to chuck a boot in Marshall’s direction, but he reckoned he better save his strength. He could hear the Smile back on his face, and he wanted nothing more than to shove a sock in it.
“You know I’m right,” Marshall egged on.
“Shut up!” cried the vulture, deflating further into the plush mattress, “Just because he banned us from the Lounge does not mean that inky bastard is unwilling to stoop low.”
“Oh, so doing business with us is ‘stooping low’?” the wolf sneered.
This prompted the vulture to roll onto his side, now finally looking directly at his best friend. Fully spanning his face, the Smile that graced the wolf’s expression held nothing back. Their eyes both narrowed at each other in full reciprocation. If it weren’t for the ears and feathers, anyone would have guessed they were related.
“You and I both know Azul has no shame,” the vulture stated bluntly, “and it’s considered ‘stooping low’ if the Queen herself only finds use for us whenever she wants to get her hands messy.”
The deliberate use of “messy” over “dirty” held profound significance, with both carrying different connotations. They both understood them well.
“And what exactly makes that ‘stooping low’?” the wolf pressed further.
“Marshall?”
“What?”
“Look me in the eye and tell me that either you or my brother have any shame,” he playfully demanded.”
Eyes flicking about the room, the wolf seemed to sarcastically search for a retort to his claims. The smile never once faltered or faded from his lips. His hand flitted thoughtfully to his chin for just a moment, before his ears flattened ever so slightly. After a dramatic moment, the leering eyes of the lupine beastman drifted back over to the scavenger. He clicked his tongue against the back of his canines as he responded, “Can’t say I can. That would be rather dishonest, wouldn’t it~?”
“I rest my case.”
Marshall wasted no time jumping on the opportunity to take the focus of the conversation and reroute it. His entire body perked up as he interjected, “Oh! What are the chances Coach Vargas would know how to fix Old Betsy?”
“...Are you sure he wouldn’t break it?” Wesson almost immediately groaned.
“Hear me out–”
“I’m listening.”
“-he’s got that entire trophy room, right?” the wolf ignored the interruption.
“He has a trophy room?” he echoed, a bit thrown off by the sudden insertion of new information. Well, at least new for him.
“Yeah, and there are some hunting trophies mixed in there,” came the expansion on the thought, “I bet you anything, he’s shot with a crossbow before.”
“...To be honest, I’d just assume he’d wrestle them with his bare hands,” Wesson shrugged.
“Who knows, honestly. Though… I hate the mental image of that,” the wolf admitted with a grimace.
A brief pause lingered between them.
“Do you think he’d be able to manage it without breaking it? Also… I do feel like assuming he has used a crossbow feels like…I dunno…” the vulture audibly sounded uncertain.
“I mean, I don’t either. But we’re gonna have to take a chance somehow,” the wolf pointed out.
“Maybe…”
At that moment, both of their phones vibrated in unison, likely a message from the group chat of their friend circle. They exchanged a look. Neither held irritation nor contempt in their eyes. But neither of them wore joy either. Neutrality draped their expressions like a tablecloth. Like a cork dropped into water, the signal came in as… uneventful. And without words, the two shared that understanding. That sentiment. It almost resembled a game between them. A game of wits, except not nearly as exciting.
Who would look at their phone first?
A second vibration made the tension rise. In truth, they cared. Both of them did. But did either of them have the patience or the bandwidth to navigate whatever the potential message would be? By all accounts, PJ retained the highest probability of being the sender. Hester rarely texted, at least, not unless an urgent matter needed addressing or unless she sent a response to someone else. Mac… Well… It was probably PJ. And despite the lion’s suspected urgent plea for attention, usually catered to his whims in a quick and timely fashion, Wesson didn’t want to just bend over backwards for PJ this once. Normally, he wouldn’t care. He didn’t mind just going with the flow. But this time? He had bigger fish to fry.
“You going to ignore that?” he asked the wolf, his tone brimming with apathy.
“I mean… What would be worse? Leaving him on ‘read’ or not reading it at all?”
Yet again, the upperclassman had a point. And he could visualize it right then and there. Imagine it. The tantrum PJ would muster and escalate if he knew that not one but both of them read the message but postponed their responses. That their focuses laid elsewhere. Even if PJ did recognize the fact that Old Betsy took priority to Wesson, it’s not like PJ would tolerate or accept that. But… he did consider at least checking the notification. Just in case.
He held up his phone and clicked the screen on, but made certain not to unlock it. To his surprise, three different notifications trailed off on his screen. Two delivered from PJ sure, but one also from Gil. Apparently, Guillermo shot him a message a while ago, during their conversation. He just never noticed the vibration. Likely because his phone rested comfortably in the waves of the comforter, whilst Marshall’s phone reverberated against the mahogany desk. Without really considering the implication, he swiped the smart screen open, clicking explicitly on the notification from the rooster as he continued to ignore the lion.
“I thought we were ignoring him?” Marshall prodded, suspiciously.
“We are,” came a monotone reply, “I got a text from someone else.”
“Ah,” he could hear the ears flattening again, but this time at a different angle, “Fair enough.”
Scanning through the message, his attention immediately honed in on the words. And without any resistance, his body perked up in quick succession. He practically bolted up into a seated position, catching Marshall off guard as the wolf let out a quiet “woah”.
“You good?”
“Gil- I don’t know if you remember him, but he said he’s heard of this guy at the other school who apparently does archery. Says he might be able to point us in the right direction,” Wes explained, a bit more enthusiastic than usual.
“And you’re going to just… take help from a random guy at RSA?” Marshall seemed skeptical of the idea, but the reason didn’t seem obvious to Wes.
“I mean… at least he’s being vetted?” he tried to justify it, even if it felt flimsy, “Honestly, I would rather give it a try over our other options.”
The long expression Marshall made transformed into a beacon of surprise. Like a light house suddenly zapped to life after decades of retirement.
“...you’re really that desperate, aren’t you?” the upperclassman asked, shocked at the minimum.
“You would be too if you were in my shoes!” Wes hissed.
“I don’t have talons-”
A pillow flew through the air and landed roughly on the top of the wolf’s head, clearly missing its intended target: his face.
“You missed.”
The growl tore through the room like some dramatic film or cartoon. But the vulture didn’t truly foster any genuine frustration at the wolf. And Marshall clearly knew that as a stream of heartfelt chuckles poured from his lungs, pulling the pillow off his head as it did.
Breaking the brief silence that followed, the wolf pushed for clarity, “So, are you going to take him up on it?”
“I mean…” he paused, “I don’t see why I couldn’t just check it out. It doesn’t mean I have to oblige, especially if the guy doesn’t know anything.”
Marshall’s expression morphed into one of contemplation and uncertainty. While seemingly displeased with the proposition, Wes easily read between the lines, understanding that his friend lacked an argument in opposition of his suggestion. The wolf appeared to be chewing on it, like a gummy.
“Well, I guess that plan’s as good as any,” the wolf conceded, “Guess you’ll just have to test it and see what happens. But if it backfires, don’t be surprised.”
“You and I both know I won’t,” the vulture grumbled. His thumbs danced across the touch screen as he typed out a reply to the rooster. Once he hit send, that was it. He’d committed to an avenue. And he knew, for better or worse, he’d reap what he’d sewn.
✨️✨️✨️
Sunlight dripped over the horizon like melted ice cream. Amber and cherry stripes bled into a cloudless ombre. The chatter of the day seemingly died down comparatively to the previous time he spent with Gil. Fewer people lined the streets. Fewer bird songs filled the air. The cobble stone touched more air, allowing the echoes of footfalls to transcend into the sky. Echoing his determination, the thuds and clicks of combat boots announced Wesson’s arrival before he even appeared. And in a similar fashion to his beloved friend’s birthday, he veered off the beaten path toward one of the trees in the RSA courtyard. He leaned up against the tree, swiping his phone out of his pocket. His thumbs danced across the screen, scrolling and pressing as he typed out and sent his buddy a message: [I’m here. Would you happen to know where your person is?]
Within a few minutes, a notification flashed across his screen: [I can take you to him. He’s probably at the SpellDrive field.]
[I know where that is.]
[I’m sure you do, but the faculty aren’t ones to take to unannounced visitors lightly.] came the response within seconds.
Conceding, the vulture replied, [Fine. I’m under the tree by the front gates. You know the one.]
Begrudgingly, the vulture slid his phone back into his pocket. With a huff, he crossed his arms over his chest, fully slumping into the trunk he’d been leaning against. Waiting posed no issue; however, he felt like he could easily have taken care of it as instructed. If he knew one thing, he could follow instructions without question, results varying. And while normally, he wouldn’t mind the prospect of someone else doing it for him, these circumstances remained substantially different than any other situation he’d faced. He wanted to take care of it. Now. Thus, the seconds taunted him. Moving intentionally more slowly than their usual pace. The wind in the trees stalled, like its waltz decreased in tempo just to torment him. To accentuate the prolonged delay. Bird songs replaced the subtle humming of the breeze, interrupting with shrill mating calls that made the vulture cringe. At the very least, they should have offered up a tune. A whistle or a hum as they accomplished their natural duties. Whatever evolutionary path led those birds to appreciate shrieking, he pitied. Imagine, being attracted to something that sounded like annoying agony. He’d sooner listen to an off-key choir.
…On a second thought, he rescinded that idea. Shrill chirps didn’t hurt his soul like really bad music did.
Pedantics aside, Wesson wasted under the relentless dragging of the minute hand. Though he never truly scrambled for a distraction, his mind nevertheless wandered within the labyrinth of lamentation and anxious anticipation. What if they missed the miraculous stranger because Gil didn’t want to take a chance? What if the person didn’t even know how to fix it?
What if he was just wasting time?
“Hey there, stranger!”
The call broke through the swirling cyclone like a plane finding the eye of a storm. Wesson jolted, just nearly missing the bark of the deciduous tree with his head, as he perked up. His head snapped side to side, seeking out the owner of the familiar, laid back timbre. When his eyes spotted scarlet, he knew his escort had arrived. Relief cascaded down his spine like a summer rain. Visibly hard to ignore.
“What took ya?” the NRC student chided, his tone a bit rougher than usual.
“I had to cross the entire campus and put my own prized possession away before I came here,” the RSA student answered, the nonchalance in his voice a sharp contrast to the overall demeanor of his counterpart.
He couldn’t deny though that Gil’s reason was sound. The amount of guilt he’d felt if his own mission resulted in the destruction of the guitar remained astronomical. Avoiding that altogether sounded beneficial across the board.
“Fair enough,” Wes shrugged, initiating the trek toward the RSA Spelldrive field, “So, who’s this guy anyway?”
“Ah, he’s just one of the other students I’ve seen around. I saw him shooting his bow the other day, and he’s awfully friendly, at least from what I’ve seen. I figured, if someone knew anything about your bow, it’d probably be him,” the rooster explained.
“Just… a guy?” the vulture inquired, pressing a bit, “Do ya even know his name?”
Gil shrugged, “Does it matter?”
He… didn’t feel like arguing. Not that Gil himself would have taken an offensive or defensive position. Moreso that the back and forth between them would likely devolve into a disagreement that would only chase its tail. And while it did bother him, he recognized when he just needed to keep pushing forward… and this clearly appeared to be one of those times.
The conversation drifted naturally instead into a comfortable silence. Cobble stones reverberated in a muffled tone under their collective boots. And as they traversed the gleeful gallery, the arches, overpasses, and the open fields, Wesson’s mouth twitched into a poorly hidden grimace. Something about the place felt a might bit too cheery for his tastes, not that he minded it too much. It just didn’t suit him like NRC did. The atmosphere itself reflected the demeanor of the students. Like cotton candy formed the clouds in the sky, and the sweet smell of peony suffocated the air. The stones, despite their age, shimmered seemingly independent of the Sun’s lingering presence. And while he reckoned the inside matched the outside, he also recognized the outsider in a sea of insiders.
When they arrived at the edge of the field, an ear piercing shriek tore through the open sky as the final whistle halted the match. From what the birds witnessed, some type of internal team skirmish appeared to resolve before them. He hated to admit it, but the vulture could easily glimpse the condensation showering the bodies that permeated the field. That is… on those that could. His eyes lingered on one he saw across the field, with a torso covered in pearlline feathers, only tainted by the dirt of the sports field. The outward sweeping motion of feathered fingers wiping dust off his uniform resembled the very same flourish he recognized from their previous encounter. He hoped, internally, that the stork wouldn’t turn around just in time to see him. Perhaps they would actually find the man they needed and be done with it before the inevitable extrovert graced the scene.
“Ah, just the man I wanted to see!” cheered the rooster, swaggering onto the field in opposition of the oncoming, dismissed athletes.
The vulture’s head snapped in the direction of the venturing rooster, ensuring that he wouldn’t leave Wes’s sight. But leering alone wouldn’t suffice, not as the crowd began to swarm. Thus, he picked up his own boots, one at a time, and trudged behind the ever confident musician. Unlike the fields of Night Raven, many of the anonymous students acted respectfully. Stepping out of the way. Not shoulder checking each other as they passed the oncoming intruders. Though a few outliers clearly made themselves known, they strayed heavily from Gil’s unwavering trajectory. The trembling voice in the back of his brain fretted heavily over the crossbow strapped to his back, prompting him to hold it to his chest unlike the usual. Then unwanted hands or elbows couldn’t bump her. Yet in the same breath, Wesson paid little attention to this differentiation. At least, not the cultural one. His focus persevered, locking onto the back of the rooster beastman’s heads. He noticed how the locs resembled a comb. He never noticed it prior.
“Hey man!” Gil called out to the towering stork, “You got a second?”
As soon as the stork turned around in response, pointing to himself for confirmation, Wes’s face blanched even more. He had no choice, huh? He didn’t typically have bad luck, but this stroke of it brutalized him.
“Well I’ll be!” exclaimed the stork, clearly albeit mildly excited to see them both, “Two friendly avian faces! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“My friend here has a bit of a problem with his crossbow,” the rooster explained, gesturing to Wesson, “I thought I’d seen you with your own bow out in the fields practicing, so I figured you might know how to help.”
The stork glanced over toward the vulture, sweat beginning to form on the edge of his brow.
Gil continued briefly, “If you can’t help, maybe you can point us in the right direction?”
“Well, now, lemme see the pretty thing-” the stork reached out for the bow, his hand open with palm up as if waiting, “-that way I can tell if it’s beyond little ole me.”
Wes narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Focused entirely on the open palm, he hesitated immensely in obliging with his request. That same hand nearly ripped his arm square from his socket. Yet, that same eye clocked his beastman features more quickly than any other person he’d ever met. Maybe… he did have a better eye. And maybe he could identify the issue faster, even if he didn’t know how to fix it. He hated the feeling, but he’d have to take the risk.
Slowly and gingerly, the vulture placed the crossbow into the stork’s hand. It took all his will power to remove his own claw-like grip from her stock. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as the weight left them, the jittering in his bones all but escaping him. Lingering, his eyes flowed with the motion of the wooden frame. The stork lifted it up, giving it a quick once over before shooting him a glance. Their eyes locked. Oops. Instinctually, he didn’t back down. His beady eyes locked on target. But the stork paid him no mind. Instead, his focus remained on the antique.
“Well I don’t mean to pry,” the stork commented, “But this here beauty seems to be an oldie. Haven’t seen a dame like this in what must be eons.”
The towering bird glanced back down at the slouching vulture. A dopey smirk stretched across his beak in an incredibly uncanny yet natural manner. His eyes carried that same glint Wes recognized in his brother, but something else lurked behind the light of his eyes. Something he recognized the last time they met, but Wesson could not for the life of him pinpoint what that feeling would be.
But the glance only lasted briefly, as the stork resumed his investigation in the crevices of the crossbow.
“Uh, yeah,” the vulture replied with a shrug, “She’s an heirloom, so…”
“An heirloom, you say!? Wowie! I’ve seen a lotta crossbows, but not any as special as this! How many generations!?”
“Uh… couldn’t say? As long as they can remember…” Wes stated, unenthused.
“Oh so she’s the real deal, eh? Wowie, well, I might be able to fix’er up, if you’ll trust me with her long enough to give her a proper look?” the stork held Old Betsy up toward the sun, as if making a bold gesture, admiring her wooden beauty.
“I mean… I trust you won’t break her?”
“Break her!?” he scoffed, “I’d sooner tear out my own tail feathers out one by one! Nah…” he lowered himself to get closer to Wes’s face. “She’ll be safe in my care.”
“Uh… payment then?” the vulture conceded nervously.
“Lunch,” the stork declared, “and you gotta tell me all about this lovely lady.”
A shockwave rippled through him, resulting in a solid blue screen moment. The stork… didn’t want… anything? Wes had to clarify: “...wait, really?”
“Yeah, really. And I’ll come find you when she’s done.”
He couldn’t hold back the sigh, the weight slipping off his shoulders. Even if the stork was just barely above a stranger, he was just happy to get her fixed. And he certainly didn’t ignore the reassuring pat on his shoulder from Gil as he commented: “Told you I’d find someone.”
~~~
Tag list: @the-trinket-witch @inmateofthemind @boopshoops @starry-night-rose @tinyvirgodoodle
Characters: Marshall Eton (my OC), PJ Lackland-Plantagenet and Hester Suzhen (@/twstinginthewind's OCs,) and Wesson and Mac Nightwatch (@/tixdixl's OCs.)
Additional notes: Oops, all OCs! (again.) Prompted by Seris throwing this out there as a joke, me needing to pick from a multitude of fic ideas because I had the drive to write but the ADHD was suffering from overchoice, and a picker wheel having a wicked sense of humor. Definitely takes place sometime not too long after the previous fic, An Extra Side of Fries. (What is it with these guys and food, you may ask? I dunno, come back with a warrant.)
There come times in every guy's life where he has the opportunity to either be a colossal dick or not. And there were many, many such opportunities in Marshall Eton's life. Typically he didn't hesitate to pounce on them, though he was less inclined to pull something on his friends.
Every once in a while however, an opportunity presented itself that was too good to pass up.
Like right now.
An abrupt silence had fallen around the table as the little quintet spotted the offending green paste that had, inexplicably, wound up on the miniature tray of nigiri sushi set before the pickiest eater in their party. And as PJ Lackland-Plantagenet crinkled his nose in slight horror and disgust, Marshall immediately grinned.
"Eat it."
As expected, PJ looked up at him, eyes still wide with alarm even as his brows narrowed.
"Don't be ridiculous," the lion beastman huffed, crossing his arms. "There was obviously a small mistake made, the twins can have that…that goop."
"Oh! Well, don't mind if I—" Mac Nightwatch began, only for Marshall to give him a quick rap on the knuckles without looking away from PJ.
"No, I don't think so," the wolf beastman cooed. "Mighty generous of you, sure, but I wanna see you show a little nerve, Percy."
"It's PJ, and absolutely not!" The RSA sophomore snapped. "I won't eat that!"
Wesson Nightwatch glanced at Marshall, then carefully attempted to reach out a hand for the green paste, only to get rapped on his knuckles as well.
"What's stopping you~?" Marshall asked, tone poisonously sweet in that way he adopted when he was up to no good. "It's just a little bit of horseradish, mustard oil and green food coloring. It's not actual wasabi. The real stuff is way more intense."
"Every ingredient you listed is still disgusting."
"Why, 'cause it has a flavor?"
"Pain isn't a flavor, Eton!"
"Ffftt, not with that attitude!"
This last retort gave PJ a moment of pause, prompting him to pull a face, and eventually he let out a hissing whisper of "You, have, issues." Drawing himself up regally in his seat, he said at a normal volume, "You cannot make me."
The Nightwatch twins both lifted their eyebrows at this, then turned to the wolf, waiting to see how he responded. It was only natural, really; they were vultures, and this was headed very quickly towards someone dying in hyperbole. Marshall's grin returned, broader now.
"I dare you to eat it. On the nigiri."
Already PJ was rolling his eyes and letting out another scoff, unimpressed.
"Please, you think something so childish is going to make me more inclined to put that unholy vileness in my mouth? No. Come on now, Eton," he added, his withering expression edged with mock pity, "I gave you credit for being smarter than that."
This wasn't a deterrent, PJ realized almost immediately. He'd spent enough years (and misadventures) around Marshall now to recognize that particular glint in the wolf's eye.
"Oh? Is our marvelous up-and-coming young leader scared of a little horseradish?" Marshall challenged, tilting his head to better look down on his childhood playmate. "Too chicken to do a harmless little dare from his ol' buddy? Why, I thought one of those tenets they value over at your fancy, glittering school was bravery. Wes, Mac, did I hear that wrong?"
"Nope," Wesson said quickly. "That's one of their big ones."
"Bravery in the face of any situation!" Mac happily clarified, earning a scowl of betrayal from PJ.
"Ooh!" A sense of fiendish glee danced in Marshall's chest. Trust Mac to have picked up the perfect little tidbit to use against PJ in this exact moment. Just a liiiiittle more pressure on that front… "What would your classmates think if they saw you afraid of a little bit of food~?"
PJ opened his mouth to respond, probably to refute the possibility, when Hester surprised them all by finally speaking up and answering, "Why, they'd all offer some very well-meaning encouragement to try it."
The lion bristled slightly, clearly feeling a little bitter. "And it'd be pointless," he hissed, "because I won't do it."
Marshall started clicking his tongue, disappointed. "Oh Percival-Percival-Percival, no wonder you've had so much trouble making friends and connections at Castle Spit-shine."
That landed a blow. The wince on PJ's face said plenty about how he didn't stop to think about the way his spoiled standoffishness might turn away the very people he wanted to connect with. Really, he should have been with them at NRC. But, true nature notwithstanding, he was still sitting there in his perfectly crisp, blindingly dove-white uniform, and it was begging Marshall to just keep twisting the screws until PJ broke.
"Maybe we should get some of 'em to cheer you on," Wes suggested, snatching a spring roll from Marshall's plate that he pretended he didn't see.
"We already got Hester!" Mac pointed out, grabbing what had to be his third egg roll so far.
"Oh, swell! Good job boys!" Marshall said, delighted the twins were already singing backup for him before he could utter a word. PJ looked at them all with revulsion, then turned to Hester as they watched.
"Hester, please, you wouldn't—"
"It wouldn't kill you," the naga said acidly, "to try something new. To have any variety in your diet. It could even make you more impressive. Look, even the twins have variety in their diets."
"They're walking garbage disposals, they don't count," PJ retorted, despite Mac and Wes straightening in pride.
"You say that, but they're still more impressive than you, so who's really winning here?" Marshall said in a fast mutter, and as PJ glared at him again, he gave the lion his most innocent look and continued, "Ah-hum, what's it really gonna hurt, Percy, trying a little bit of horseradish? You don't even have to eat the whole thing, just take some and spread it on the nigiri, give it a try. You'll get to save face in that perfect pretty white uniform~."
The glare eased a bit as PJ glanced down somewhat doubtfully, and Marshall leaned forward, propping his chin on his fist.
"Go on," he said. "Try it."
"Can't hurt, right?" Wes added.
"We believe in you!" Mac said cheerfully, and it was clearly working well enough that Marshall didn't bother to contradict the statement.
PJ's ears had slumped down as he looked at the horseradish, his mouth a quivering, anxious line. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his nails just starting to worry at the tabletop, and his shoulders hunched a little higher.
"I could recite the Royal Sword tenets and values," Hester murmured, but PJ was tilting his chin to the side. Seeing something like the light of impending defeat in those eyes, Marshall glanced at Hester, hoping she caught the significance of his expression, before he looked back at PJ and decided to give those screws one last really good twist.
"Ricky can't do it."
The words had the effect of a silent shockwave at the table as Marshall felt three pairs of spectating eyes lock onto him in surprise, and PJ's gaze flicked up and met his.
"What." PJ said, the word a flat thing in his mouth as something flickered in his expression.
"You heard me," Marshall said, planting his other fist on his hip for emphasis and willing his face into an utterly unimpressed look. "Last Yuletide where all our families got together, I heard the moms talking again. Guess your perfect big brother gets all squeamish and dodgy around dips and condiments."
This was complete and almost total bullshit, of course, as the exact discussion had been Marshall's mom gently pouting that Ricky wouldn't try the chili dip she'd made, which Marshall figured was actually a fair move, given that his mother didn't seem to grasp the concept of chili, much less how to make dip of any kind, forget something that combined the two. And the conversation had briefly turned to the fact Ricky Plantagenet was a bit selective with his choice of condiments and dips, though it had moved on quickly. Still, the best lies had a ring of the truth to them, and when something crackled in PJ's gaze as he looked at the plate again, Marshall could sense that there was enough truth their old playmate was filling in on his own. Perfect! Let him do the rest of the work to sell himself the lie~.
The wolf turned to the naga then, making deliberate eye contact and lifting a brow, and Hester turned to PJ with such a snapping movement it set her bobbed hair swinging, her face darkening with an intense look that seemed to mask a vicious glee. It made the fur along Marshall's spine bristle, and he was suddenly, immensely grateful Hester was a friend.
"You don't have to make big, grand gestures to compete with your brother, sir," she said, voice frighteningly smooth and encouraging, offering him a small knife hilt-first. "Sometimes it's best to start with the smaller things."
They were all leaning in now, and PJ looked from the knife to Wesson, to Mac nodding excitedly, to Marshall. He offered him an expectant, patient smile.
"Nobody's sayin' you gotta like it, Percy," he pointed out. "You just gotta try it."
Inhaling sharply, PJ grabbed the knife, dipped it into the horseradish, and proceeded to slather a surprisingly generous amount on the smallest piece of nigiri on his plate. And then before any of them could so much as consider remarking on that small miracle, he snatched it off the plate, squinched his eyes shut, and popped the entire thing in his mouth, prompting a chorus of "Whoa!"
And then his eyes opened as he started to chew, blinking in some surprise. He even forgot his manners long enough that he tried to speak around the mouthful, saying, "Hey, this isn't so—"
Only to immediately freeze as his eyes widened and he made a sharp exhale through his nose.
"Ooh, there it is!" Marshall couldn't hold the comemnt back as he watched with no small amount of amazement as PJ, the intensity of the horseradish finally hitting him, managed to actually not spit the food out. In fact, the lion boy continued to impress his companions as he began frantically chewing amid small whimpers of distress, eventually reaching a point where he was able to swallow some of the nigiri.
"He did it!" Wesson exclaimed, looking fairly impressed.
"Here," Mac said, pushing one of the sweeter drinks to PJ as they watched him continue to work on chewing and swallowing without choking in the process. "They say sweet drinks are s'posed to help. Right, sir?"
This last was addressed to Marshall, who beamed and clapped his hands as PJ seized the drink and started to guzzle it. "Alright, PJ! Nice one, man, you did it!"
He received a glare in response to this as PJ finished off the drink and set the glass down with a heavy thump. But whatever furious remarks he might have made vanished from the lines of his face as he seemed to consider what Marshall had said.
"I- I did?" Face beginning to light up with a hesitant joy, PJ let out a weak little titter and gave a wobbly smile. "H-hey! I did! I actually did!"
Mac, staring at the glass that'd been drained, asked "Gee, you sure polished that off. So what did you think?"
"It was vile," PJ said with a brief snarl, before brightening again and going on, "But I did it! I can't believe I actually did it! Ooohh, just wait 'till I tell Mummy!"
Marshall resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but as the twins leaned forward to see if they could convince PJ to try a couple more things (and attempt to snatch some of his unguarded meal,) a delicate tap on the arm got the wolf's attention. Blinking, he turned his head and saw Hester had somehow slipped out of her seat and swung around Wesson to approach him. Curious, he leaned back slightly in his chair and Hester, expression searching, leaned in and cupped a hand around her mouth. Marshall took the hint and swung one ear towards her to give her the go-ahead.
"You were lying through your teeth, weren't you?"
At that whisper, Marshall turned up The Smile at her, answering, "What, these teeth~? My magnificent pearly-whites, let a lie slip through?"
Hester's pupils went slimmer as she mouthed "I knew it."
"I have no need to," she retorted. "You're going to help me keep this circus in line."
Marshall had to hold back a snicker, but it turned into a snort he couldn't entirely hide, and it drew the attention of the other three, PJ squinting in slow-dawning suspicion.
"What are you two whispering about?"
"I was thanking Mr. Eton for his thoughtfulness in prompting you to step outside your comfort zone when I've been unable to thus far," Hester said smoothly, her face a calm, pleasant mask again as she slithered back to her seat.
At this, PJ had the good grace to look embarrassed, and mumbled a small, "Er, yes, thank you," that he aimed at the center of the table rather than directly at Marshall. Eh, close enough. The wolf gave a casual shrug.
"Wouldn't want our buddy to be anything less than tough when it counts, eh?" he said.
"You betcha!" Mac threw in. "'S'why we're here!"
Wes, having successfully snatched a piece of PJ's nigiri, added, "Gotta supportcha."
PJ, belatedly realizing a piece of his food has gotten away, shot Wes a withering look but finally started in on his beef bowl, relaxing and letting a small smile slip onto his face. "Really, you're right. I do need a proper support system."
Marshall looked at Hester, who flicked him a glance in return, and they both let the unspoken sentiment pass between them in barely restrained winces. 'Support system' was certainly one way to stretch the definition of this event.
"D'you know," PJ continued, "I think maybe I'll try something else new next time. Perhaps it'll be better than that ghastly horseradish."
"Why not now~?" Marshall suggested sweetly, brandishing his own bowl of spicy barbecue, pleased when PJ reared back and covered his nose at the smell of it, eyes watering. "Go on, give it a little taste~. Don't be shy."
"I told you," PJ hissed, smacking at the air near Marshall's hand to ward him off, "pain isn't a flavor!"
Mentally declaring this day more fun than he'd expected, Marshall deliberately ate a sizeable bite of the barbecue and hummed his delight, the spicy-sweet burn filling his mouth and setting his tail wagging.
"Like I said," he answered, "not with that attitude."
Final notes: I'm not used to the focus being on a back-and-forth between mostly Marshall and PJ, I'm used to Marshall and the twins playing off each other, so this felt a little strange at first but I had fun with it. Also, just because you're a friend(?), doesn't make you exempt from the ribbing and peer pressure, PJ. You chose to keep these dinguses around, so you get the consequences, and Marshall is a consequence in his own right.
"Oh, you had this marked on your calendar? How unusually forward-thinking of you. No, I'm actually quite pleased you recalled my birthday..."
Happy birthday to my lovely snake, Hester Suzhen! She has a relaxing day ahead of her, uncluttered of her usual schedule of picking up after PJ's messes. Royal Sword Academy will allow visitors for a student on their birthday, and she does hope you'll come share in the celebrations. After all, she doesn't get to let her hair down very often.
She's looking forward to a delightful party with old friends and new!
"How did I convince my shyer classmates to sing for me? Do you really want to know the secrets of persuasion?? Ha! I simply promised them cake, nothing shady at all."
Sitting pretty and primly grazing at his food, Marshall Eton glances up when one of his large ears catches the specific sound of the objects in his box of gifts being jostled. Expression unchanging, he watches Hester pluck the card with a shortened version of her name—Hes, which is what he's called her on occasion—written on the envelope from the box. She raises her eyebrows, but doesn't look in his direction, nor does she open the envelope, which suits Marshall just fine. He doesn't need a bunch of these overly-shiny, headache-inducing RSA dweebs interpreting what he wrote in the card as overly sappy and sweet.
Hester gives the box a very gentle shake, clearly flummoxed as to what it could be, and of course her fellow RSA students are more excited for her to open it and see what might be inside than she appears to be. Then again, she's clearly aware the gift came from him, so perhaps that's reason enough to temper any excitement with a healthy dose of suspicion. The snake and the wolf saw one another a little too clearly not to be cautious.
She pulls the wrapping paper off with care, and by now Mac Nightwatch has gone over to join in the delight and excitement as Hester opens the gift. The other RSA twits instantly are exclaiming with wide-eyed amazement that Marshall is sure has to be faked, over what Hester is pulling out: the nail care kit (her cuticles are a mess,) the moisturizing skincare cream (her face was terrifyingly dry lately,) the nighttime hair wrap (she needed to do something with that bobcut if she was going to keep it sleek,) and the smaller box he'd been sure to label as a separate gift from his older brother Gideon and Gideon's fiancée (Marshall didn't even want to know how they'd found out but supposedly they'd sent a restorative tea blend specially concocted for Hester and some of the Snowfall Delight they'd made.)
And then Hester makes a small sound of surprise and lifts the set of oils and the instrument that comes with them and actually looks Marshall in the eye. Her expression and tone aren't easy to decipher, but she asks, "You found scale care products on Sage's Island??"
Marshall shrugs, unwilling to offer the explanation of how the proprietor of the Mystery Shop always seems to have everything someone needs; he doubts there's much chance Hester will be able to get up there without being harassed, much less that Sam wouldn't bump the price up if he saw her in an RSA uniform. "Just let me know when you need more, I can make another trip," he says.
"WOW, Hester! That's such a great gift for you!" one of the RSA boys exclaims.
"What a thoughtful friend," another chimes in. "Caring about your health like that!"
Marshall has to resist the urge to cringe too noticeably, nauseated by the goody-two-shoes idiotic assumption of total sweetness behind his gift. At least the way Hester is looking at him indicates she got the subtext loud and clear: he expects her to keep up with her self-care even if she gets a spa day, and he's paying enough attention to her current lack of it to get judgmental.
Still, Marshall waves away remarks of the other boys and tries not to grimace, saving face with a "Happy birthday, Hes." Okay, she is a friend and maybe he cares a little bit. But he's not about to say that in front of anyone from RSA. Chugging drain cleaner sounds more appealing than that kind of exposure of his softer side in front of these saps.
Hester's birthday!
Hester raised her eyebrow pointedly at PJ, who had spent a good half of the party whispering intently into his phone. It hadn't stopped the bulk of the festivities - the student counsel usually went all-out for the RSA birthday celebrations, and hers was no exception. They even managed to find a bakery that did a version of the green tea and blueberry cream cake she favored, which surprised her. But the fact that her supposed best friend was spending her party hissing - hissing! She should be offended! - into a private call was rubbing her the wrong way.
Well. It wasn't as though she didn't have other people she cared about. And the familiar handwriting on the next card belonged to one of them. Three letters of meticulously-etched block print gave away the identity of the sender almost as well as the pristine, beautifully turned-out wrapping job on the package.
Marshall Eton is a lot of things. Among those qualities, for those who stick around long enough to find out, is a measure of flamboyant extra that marks his actions. Hester turned the package carefully in her hands, tucking away the card to read later. Her expression may have read as unenthused, but she was quite curious to see what their wolf had come up with this year. Just needed to keep it unemotional so that she wouldn't call attention to him. She was not about to turn that extra back onto him. Not with this crowd.
As PJ turned himself towards the wall, his face red and crumpled, Hester pursed her lips. she knew what that meant; divert the crowd. She made a point of coughing gently to attract the party's attention her way as she undid the wrapping and opened the box.
O h.
Well. Marshall meant well, she was sure, but he could have just told her she could step up her game a bit. That said, these were brands that were usually a price point up from what she could afford, when she even had time to treat herself. And... well. She did need all of this. He really did pay attention.
That sappy bastard. Wait, what was— this??
"You found scale care products on Sage's Island??" Hester bit back the wobble in her voice. She'd been all right for a bit since her last molt, but it was so hard to find anything locally that worked half as well as the oils and brushes that her grandmother fiercely guarded back home, and she was so reluctant to ask the old woman for more. She finally met the bright harvest-moon eyes of her friend, and offered a hesitant smile at his offer. "Thank you. I mean it."
At least after he expressed his well wishes again, PJ finally finished his call and rejoined the crowd, gesturing broadly that the festivities would continue in the courtyard, and to please assemble out there, if you do not mind!! Go on, go on, step lively, you too, she will take care of the rest of the gifts later, haha, surely none could have been missed....
Hester rolled her eyes before looking back at the others. The lion, the vultures, the wolf. Her idiots. What a fine gift it was, having them.
RSA felt just as ginormous as NRC. In truth though, they didn't know the layout nearly as well as their home school. But nevertheless, they tried. The duo of bird beastman meandered onto the premises, looking for any sign that might point them to the dorms. Mac asked a couple times for directions. Yet, despite his many attempts, it never truly stuck. Worse, Wesson fully anticipated the two of them to wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It reached a point where Wes called a time out. Pulling over into the grass, he halted underneathe the nearest tree. Mac, not following the directions perfectly, spun around, having almost lost his twin.
"Ey, over here, bird brain," hissed the Pomefiore student, which seemed to be enough to recapture his brother's attention.
The Ignihyde student waddled over. His gait no different than the rhythmic bouncing of an excited dog. And somehow, in all of it, he never once dropped the gift bag in his hand.
Underneathe the shade, Wes pulled out his phone. He shot the group chat a quick message, asking Hester directly for the location of her dorm. They wanted to pass on their gifts, a tail sock and a coloring book, to her before the birthday party later that evening, when the duo would be joined with their lupine counterpart. With little idea of how RSA students partied, Wes felt it best to drop things off well before the chaos began.
[Hey, Hester, where's your dorm? Mac and I wanna drop your gifts off now if that's okay. And if we can't get there for whatever reason we're out by the front gates.]
He hit send, opting to just wait with the gift in hand. At the very least, she might feel better if she took point on the drop off. And, at least while they waited, Mac easily remained occupied, people watching.
(Happy birthday, Hessie!!!)
Hester's birthday!
Hester felt the buzz of her cell phone in her jacket pocket. She had already had the uncomfortably formal birthday call with her family today, and was glad to sense the pulse of a text rather than the longer rattle of a call. So much more efficient. She extracted the slim device from her pocket, and felt a bit of tension leave her shoulders. This was fine. This was one of her People.
You are early, Wesson. But this is not a problem. Can you see the Great Hall? If you are in front of the Great Hall, look to the right. You'll see the building with the two rounded towers. Look for the pastel pink banners. Then take the second corridor past there, and
She frowned at her phone. Wes had a tendency to lose track of things while he was standing in front of them, and poor Mac, she presumed, was as likely to open a portal into some ridiculous demon dimension as he was to head in the correct direction for anything. She sighed, erasing what she wrote.
I can come to the gates. I'm glad you two made it early. Give me five minutes. I will be right there.
She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror. Her hair wasn't too terrible, just a little flyaway from having had a nap before. At least the twins were the least likely to notice. She adjusted the hem of her jacket and nodded before slithering off, smiling to herself. Friends were arriving! It was finally starting to feel like her birthday.
A quick lil fic featuring my RSA students PJ, Hester, and (to a lesser extent) Guillermo! Also including a visit by one of @tixdixl's chucklefucks, Mac, a blink-and-you'll miss it cameo from @ramshacklerumble's Bobbi Beau and Jax, and egregious mentions of my own Bobby, even if he wasn't actually present in this scene. Oh, and a special order from @twst-the-night-away's Old Sage Diner, which I sometimes forget isn't canon. The Robin Hood club is HOPPING lately, expect more with them and the rest of this crew!
----
Hester rested her elbows on either side of the lunch delivery bag and waited. It was a pleasant enough day, and she wasn’t terribly hungry yet, so delaying the start of her meal for a few moments was not terribly onerous. She closed her eyes for a moment, and let the sun shine down on her scales.
Faint guitar music floated across the courtyard. She tilted her head, cracking one slitted eye open just enough to see. Ah. That boy with the thick, wild dreads like a cock’s comb was playing again, and not far from him, a skinny awkward bird beastman and huge bear beastman were tapping their toes. She curled her upper lip reflexively. Something about them always made her feel on edge. Like she should watch her back.
A shrill voice cut through the music. “HesTERRR!!!” She smiled to herself as the guitarist fumbled his chords in reaction, and the other two beastmen flinched. She looked towards the voice, not missing a beat.
“I saved you your usual spot, sir, and ordered us lunches from the Old…. Sage… what?” she began, but was thrown off a bit by what she saw.
The petulant lion was not a surprise. PJ tossed back his sandy hair as he approached Hester with one hand on his hip. The other hand clutched at the collar of a Night Raven College student uniform. Inside of that uniform, somewhat, dangled a familiar dopey face. Attached to that face via a series of lanky body parts that seemed to be made exclusively of pointed elbows was a hand, raised in greeting. “Hi, Hester!!”
Taken somewhat aback, she defaulted to professional politeness. “Good afternoon, Macadamia,” she nodded, then turned her face back to the pouting feline. “PJ, you didn’t mention we were entertaining today.”
“Entertaining???” PJ stomped his foot. “You think I was expecting him? Please. I stepped out of my literature class to find this bozo - No offense intended, Mac.”
“None comprehended,” the bemused vulture grinned.
“Thank you. This bozo, I repeat, in full lurk mode, hovering JUST outside the classroom door. And do you know what he did?” PJ’s face was red, and his skinny arm wobbled trying to keep Mac upright.
Hester sighed, and moved over to the pair. She gently extracted Mac’s collar from PJ’s hand, letting the interscholastic interloper drop to the ground with an unceremonious oof. “Let’s assume for a moment, sir, that I am not aware of the actions of our mutual friend.”
“He put me in a headlock. And gave me a noogie.” PJ flopped down onto the bench of the picnic table. “Completely uncalled for, and made me look a fool in front of that little model boy again. How am I meant to become friends and raise our social standing with such blatant interference?”
Hester ignored PJ’s whining and bent down closer to Mac. “Macadamia, do you have a particular reason to be on campus?”
One braincell chugged to life. “I was passing a message!”
“How kind of you to do so.” Hester looked towards PJ and raised an eyebrow.
“A message? What message!! You just waited to ambush me, and assaulted me in front of our classmates! What kind of a message is that?” PJ pouted, and tore into the top of the delivery bag, beneath the handles. “Absolutely unbelievable. And normally I would have been almost happy to see— Hester. Hester, are there onions on these gyros? You know I can’t digest those.”
Hester and Mac exchanged a look. “Ladies first,” muttered Mac, who was starting to get some curiously hostile looks from the Royal Sword students.
“I’m well aware of your digestive troubles, sir. Yours is the chicken kebab. No veg. Like always,” she groaned. “Next container.” She reflexively patted Mac on the head, earning her a goofy smile. “It’s serendipitous that I had ordered extra fries; you shouldn't have to go without lunch due to your little errand.”
“I never had that kinda fries before.” Mac blinked.
“It’s…. no.” Hester’s mind raced, following Mac’s likely train of thought, chugging its way around its little tracks. She pinched the bridge of her nose as PJ suspiciously sniffed at his order. “Never mind. They’re the regular kind. What was your message, Mac?”
“The noogie.” Mac’s eyes were glued to PJ’s chicken skewers. “And the headlock.”
“What a disgraceful message. I know it wasn’t from any of our friends. They’re far more civilized.” PJ settled in at the little table, and placed his school bag in front of the takeout container, blocking it from Mac’s view. “Are you certain it was actually meant for me?”
Hester set the package of fries in front of Mac, then settled down with her own meal across from PJ. “I doubt he’d wander into ‘enemy territory’ if not, sir.”
The young lion snorted. “You haven’t known him long, Hester. He gets things mixed up.”
“No mixers involved. I didn’t even bring a spoon.” Mac mumbled, his gaze now locked onto her gyro.
Hester gave Mac exactly 48% of a sympathetic look. She closed her eyes a moment, exhaled. “Is today’s… thing mixed up?” she inquired, reluctantly holding out half of her gyro to the hungry bird man.
Mac’s hand bypassed the offered one, and took the other portion of sandwich from the container in front of her. “Nope! It’s just a message. It’s from Mister Bobby Sherwood!”
The snake woman blinked disapprovingly. “Who?”
Across the table, though, PJ’s golden eyes went on a journey. First round with surprise, then dulling slightly with recollection, then finally narrowing into bright slits. “Sherwood? Oh, it’s been a lifetime since I heard that name. How did that impoverished loser find you?” he spat, a little too loud. “More importantly. How did he know you were connected with me? I broke contact with everyone from that dump years ago.”
Mac cleared his throat, and straightened up to the best of his ability. “I was showin’ Wes pictures I had on Magicam from last weekend and Bobby was lookin’ over my shoulder, an’ said you looked familiar, an’ asked if you were you, and I said yeah, and he said cool, and I said sure is, and he said he wanted to give you something the thought he owed you, and I said that was real nice of him, and he said yeah, and I said cool, and then I got the headlock and noogie and he said to give it you. And I did!!” He raised the gyro to his mouth, taking a huge bite just before the tzatziki sauce could spill out onto his shirt.
PJ groaned, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Was that the entirety of the message?”
Before Mac could answer, a long narrow shadow fell across him. “Hey, folks. Sorry to interrupt. What’s up, Macadamia? What you doing here?” The skinny dreadlocked figure from earlier stood by the table. He had his guitar strapped over his shoulder, and a grin on his face. He beamed at the trio, then offered a fist to the vulture.
“It’s Gil! Hey!” Mac offered a fist back, and the two proceeded to engage in a complex, extended series of bumps, slaps, and hand shakes before thumping their hands against each other’s backs. “I forgot you went here!”
“Every day, brother,” the newcomer laughed. “I couldn’t help but overhear, though. You guys mentioned a familiar name. You talkin’ about Bobby Sherwood?”
PJ bristled. “Not by choice.” Hester gave him a warning glance, and he continued. “Ah. Sorry. You’re a first year, yes? Are you acquainted?”
Gil nodded. “Yup! Ever since my family moved to the North Woods. He’s one of my best friends. That’s cool that you guys know each other too.”
“Oh sure! PJ knew Bobby before he met me an’ my brother, and I’m in classes with him now! That’s pretty neat.” Mac was the only one at the table with a smiling face. PJ was glowering, and Hester was as unreadable as ever.
Gil took the hint from his upperclassmen’s expressions. “Yeah. What a neat coincidence! I’m gonna. Um. Go over there now. Nice to see ya, Mac. Make sure you get back to your campus before some of the third years see you in your raven-blacks, all right?” He took a step back, and waved sheepishly. “‘Kay, later.”
“Bye!!” chimed Mac, who turned back to the other two. “That was neat! Okay. But yeah, that was all Bobby wanted to say. Okay, PJ?” He paused, looking at the lion’s expression, and then at the uneaten chicken skewers in front of him. He knew there was only one thing that he could ask to wrap this up neatly.
“Hey. Um.” He blinked, his eyes huge. “You gonna eat that?”
