Modest transphobia and discussion thereof
For the third time, Priscylla tries to read the restaurant’s menu, forcing herself to actually take in the options without letting her eyes slide off. The staff was wonderfully nice, but she can’t shake the feeling of being watched, and the temptation to feign illness and run back home has been steadily rising.
“Okay, hear me out.” Warwick pores over the menu, nudging her in an obvious attempt to lift her spirits. “They have a soup and salad combo, but you can upgrade the salad to a large salad for only a few extra gold, and that’s cheaper than ordering them separately. I had a hearty breakfast, so I’m not that hungry, and I think if we split an appetizer I could take the salad, letting you get by with the soup and the other half of the appetizer. That work for you?”
“Fine by me,” Priscylla mutters, glad to have an excuse to put the menu down. With a fake-casual look over her shoulder, she finally spots the man who’s been staring daggers at her all night. Turning back to Wick, she cooks up an easy lie. “I think I need to use the washroom for a second. If the server comes back, order me the onion soup, please.”
Warwick flashes her a thumbs up before turning his full attention to stacking the menus as neatly as possible on the edge of the table. With that settled, Priscylla turns her own attention to the young man scowling from the corner, sidling in his direction with feigned ease. As soon as he realizes she’s approaching him, he stands in a hurry, closing the distance in just a few furious strides.
“You have some nerve showing your face here,” he hisses, looming over her, “Especially after puppeting my Ma to attack some poor sod last night.” Priscylla’s eyes widen with recognition, and he picks up on it. “Oh, so now you remember me? Got so good at ruining lives you can’t tell us apart without a hint?”
His is a face Priscylla had been trying to forget; Jasper Falk, the youngest and shrewdest son of the late-but-returned Mrs. Falk. He doesn’t have the reach of his older brother’s column in the monthly news, or the furor of the middle sister, but he still does more than his part ranting to anyone who would listen about the threat folk like Priscylla pose to polite society. She never bothered to learn what he meant by “folk like her”, since either option would ruin her week.
“Your Ma,” Priscylla replies, taking a sharp step out of his reach, “is already taken care of.”
“What?” Jasper’s brow furrows. “Stop mumbling, speak up.”
Priscylla winces. Her voice is going to crack if she speaks at full volume, and by now he knows it. No choice but to cede ground. “Your Ma is taken care of. I just talked to the apothecary about it, and everything’s settled. Nobody’s pressed about this any more but you.” Taking the high road tends to work against Jasper, even if a few people give her odd looks at the sound of her voice.
“Oh, I’m not alone, I’m just the only one brave enough to call you out.” Jasper sneers, leaning against an empty booth. “And what are you so buddy-buddy with the apothecary for? Brewing up an army? Wasn’t one zombie slave enough?”
Priscylla forces down a biting remark– he’s obviously trying to goad her. If she starts yelling first, she’ll be seen as the villain, regardless of how they reached that point. That’s what Jasper is clearly counting on. Instead, she just sniffs the air indifferently. “My projects aren’t affecting anyone but myself.”
“Excuse you?” Immediately Jasper makes her regret the poor choice of words, his face darkening. “My own mom is a puppet to your, your dark bidding, you’re lying and claiming she’s forgotten us, and you say that doesn’t affect me?” He steps closer, cutting off Priscylla’s route to the door. “Listen here, you uppity little creep, I think you’re forgetting just what you did to me– to us. If you need another lesson, then–”
“Good afternoon, sir!” A hand wraps around Jasper’s shoulder from behind– unmistakably Warwick, though he’s a bit shorter than Jasper. “Nothing personal, but teaching Priscylla here lessons in morality is my job.” With a little more force than needed, Wick spins Jasper around so they’re all facing one another. “And as a union man, I can’t let you horn in on my work without asking, y’know?”
To Jasper’s credit, he gets the message and backs off, brushing his jacket where Wick grabbed him. “Here to jump in front of her, then? If you’re supposed to be her conscience, I’d say you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”
“I was out of town for a while,” Wick shrugs. “Anyways, Scylla, our appetizer is here already and I’m set to tuck in. It was nice meeting you… Mr. Falk, I’m guessing?”
“Don’t call me that,” Jasper hisses, still focused on Priscylla.
“Noted,” Wick murmurs. “But anyways, I think we all have better places to be than a shouting match in a family tavern, so if it’s all the same to you…”
“Actually,” Priscylla interjects, voice viciously silky, “I’m more than happy giving you a demonstration, if that’d set your mind at ease.” A faint dusting of frost coats her fingertips as she bristles. “Why don’t you come around my house sometime this tenday, and I can show you that your Ma’s animated remains are taken care of and treated with respect.” She can faintly hear the sound of sheet ice cracking as she clenches her fists. “You know. Like your family requested, when you paid me to bring her back.”
Jasper’s eyebrows lift, and he sucks air in through his teeth at being confronted directly. “I, um. Yeah, okay. I’ll see for myself what you’re doing with her.”
“Great.” Priscylla breathes in slowly.
“Great.” Jasper stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“Great!” Warwick loops his arm through Priscylla’s. “Now come on, I wasn’t joking about the appetizers. The sauce on our chicken wings is going to get cold.”
Priscylla flinches a little at the sudden touch, but gets the message. “Very well. See you again soon, Jasper.” With as firm of a posture as she can manage, she strides back to her table arm in arm with Wick. Behind her, Jasper storms out of the restaurant, letting her finally release the breath she was holding. “Gods above, what an asshole.”
“And how.” Immediately, Wick lets go of her arm, walking the rest of the way back to the table separately. If she weren’t high on adrenaline right now, she’d be a bit sad about that. Wick doesn’t notice, sliding back into his seat. “Anyway, sorry for surprising you, but this time you really were in trouble. I can only hold myself back from giving a helping hand for so long.”
Right. She almost forgot she’s supposed to be angry at Wick. “Everything worked out, so it’s fine, I suppose. Just warn me next time you plan on sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” She takes an exploratory nibble of chicken; more sauce than she would have liked, but it’s pretty good.
“I do solemnly swear,” Wick intones, lifting a hand in a way that might be inspiring were his beard not full of barbecue. “Still, it’s a pain that you’ll have to have company over twice in one week.”
“Please. I brought this on myself by bungling his mother’s reanimation. Besides, do I come off like that much of a hermit to you?” Priscylla shimmies against the corner of the booth, trying to get comfortable again. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
Wick claps his mouth shut. “Shan’t.”
“Wise man.” Priscylla takes a sip of her water as she finds the words. “But no, I love going out, I love having people over to visit, I simply… fell out of the habit of socializing, I suppose. This is the first time I’ve eaten out in a couple moons now.” Wick starts getting those puppy-dog eyes again, and she grimaces. “Don’t you dare pity me, hero.”
“I’m not! I’m not.” Wick raises his hands in protest. “You don’t need pity, least of all from me.”
Priscylla crosses her arms. “Glad you understand that much.”
“What you need is to make up for lost time.” Wick gets a dangerous look, lifting a hand up high. “Excuse me! Server! Can you add another set of drinks to our tab, please? And a bowl of berries and cream for dessert.”
Priscylla just snickers, privately giddy that Wick remembered her favorite treat.
