November 13th, 2021

How do you tell your mother you had sex for the first time?

Iris Corax Darke breathes in deeply, toes curling as she approaches Percival’s study. Twenty-six years old and last week was the best time of her life—it’s been clawing at her brain and bleeding it like a hemorrhage, love seeping from nerves into steel trepidation that mixed both expectations and lust.

It should be simple. It will be simple. Percival will understand. She’s always been there for her, no? Why would now be any different?

Knock on the door. Iris hears it open and steps inside. Her suit is dustless, impeccably so, not at all matching the overstuffed, glowing magic arcanum of the cabinets and bookshelves her mother has buried her nose under.

Iris tenses when she takes Percival’s hug.

“Sweetie? What’s wrong?”

Iris swallows dry spit. She looks down with an ominous hesitation.

“Mother, I need to tell you something important.”

November 14th, 2021

Sage Garcia Rivera-Flores wakes up to the sound of a knock on their door.

It comes first in a haze, muffled by grogginess. Noon approaches, but they couldn’t sleep last night, too many nightmares. There was the contemplation of whether they could tell their new girlfriend about those, because Iris seemed so far off from them in the trauma department. They had done half a decade in the G.O.C., nearly that in the Chaos Insurgency as a double agent for said G.O.C., and in the end they went with throwing away both in a betrayal which paid them one hundred million plus the love of the second richest woman in the world.

Iris was so easy…

They haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Everything reminded them of her, from flowers to the London skyline to the money they now had at their disposal. Last night she sent a courier with some food for them that they did not eat, dinner from some kind of place that served foie gras dusted with gold flakes.

With love, from Iris was written on the white box’s exterior. She had impeccable handwriting.

They left it out on the counter.

The knock comes again, and this time it seems to awake a kind of shadow gnawing at the floorboards of their apartment.

Shit, Sage thinks. They bolt upright, gathering their clothes and trying not to trip over the mess created over the past few days. Everything had fallen into disarray, damn near total spiritual disrepair, a complete collapse of the self brought on by the jumping off of a cliff and realizing they’d profited from the fall.

Not benefited, profited.

Do they ever benefit from anything? Just their luck they couldn’t. They think about putting the food Iris is probably sending again into the refrigerator as they go about making themself semi-presentable. They’re not even sure why such a thing is important to them; they’ve not put on a bra for the past three days.

The knock comes again. Much heavier than any delivery-person would ever dare to use. Sage stiffens, feeling like it will not come a fourth time.

“Coming—!”

Rushing downstairs in a blue jacket and gray shorts, they barely manage to make it to the door on two feet until a distinct darkness slithers around at the corner of their own shadow.

…No time to hesitate. If this was an assassin, let their magic kill them and bless them with a macabre death. Iris would surely destroy anyone who laid a finger on them, right?

They swing the door open, and—

…Fuck.

“Hello,” the stranger begins. “I assume…your name is Sage, yes?”

They straighten their posture immediately.

In front of them is a woman. Pale as alabaster, deathly so. Her hair is as dark as the night, her smile pointed with four small, pearly-lustered fangs. Her eyes scream in blue vivid tones belying snake-like pupils that widen for a second as she scans them up and down. Everything she is dressed in is more expensive than Sage has the comprehension for.

“…May I ask who you are?”

The woman smiles wider. Her face is thick with makeup, her lipstick as black as her hair.

“I am Iris Darke’s mother. Percival Darke?” She’s enunciating her last name like it was the most important part about her. “I was told you and my daughter had…a date last week. I wanted to witness for myself where her attraction lied.”

Sage freezes. The air feels electric, biting, full of silver knives. They manage to stutter out a breath, looking at Percival in the eyes without breaking contact.

“Yes, that’s correct. She’s very lovely.”

“She is. Isn’t she?” Still smiling. Her teeth are abnormally perfect, worth a million dollars.

Sage can’t read if Percival is or isn’t disappointed in their appearance. They move closer to her to make sure the door closes more. There can’t be any sign of weakness, or the fact they haven’t swept the floor in months.

Without a word, Percival holds out a black card to them, as if expecting Sage to kiss her many rings. Several platinum studs bejewel that plastic face; it has no other distinct markings.

“Meet me at Ambrose London in an hour and a half. Use this to get in.”

“I take it this card will just will into me where to go?”

Percival bares her teeth more. “Smart. Yes, that’s correct.”

Sage does not flinch, though they wonder if Percival expected a bow at any point in this conversation.

“Understood. I will dress appropriately, then. Will Iris be there?”

They ask that last question with a sliver of hope.

“No, it will be just the two of us. My treat.”

Sage imagines them all at a golden table, sitting around some decapitated roast bird.

“Is that what you desire?” they ask tepidly.

“What I desire is you being where I ask you to be, when I need you to be there,” she replies, still without dropping the smile.

A breathe held. Sage nods appropriately, their stance lowering as they did so. Their legs are not shaking.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Good, good,” Percival replies, and she shuts the door without another word.

When Sage peers through the peephole, she’s not there anymore.

Shit, they think as they slink to the ground. Their heart races as their eyes prick with tears. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

It’s a meaningless question, of course. What happens now is that they are going to get up, put on their best clothes (those for a funeral), and be where they’re supposed to be in an hour and a half. That’s plenty of time, right?

No crying, no wet eyes. Their chest moves unsteadily up and down. Percival’s aura still feels like it’s clinging to them, the way their old boss’s would at the G.O.C. Gross.

Sage takes several deep breaths like they were instructed to all the way back then, their hail-Mary training designed to protect them from everything except intent.

Their mind fractures a minute amount, and they get up.

Sage had heard of Ambrose Restaurants before. It was a low-level threat the G.O.C. usually had on its radar, albeit there were few operations on them and scant data on its operators. There was some talk in their former sector about integrating them with other members of the Council of 108, mostly because their impact on urban environments often caused cascading thaumic changes which could snowball in specific microclimates.

All of that was to say they had never eaten there and never planned to.

They arrive first at a black door in an alleyway, snuggled up between some clubs that Percival definitely did not look like she cared about the existence of. Slipping their black card into the card-reader, they sigh, hoping there’s no dirt on their tuxedo yet.

Something dings. A pair of yellowing eyes slide a slot across the top-middle of the door, inspecting them for a second before it opens.

“Madam Percival is waiting for you.”

Sage nods. They steel their mind as they enter an elaborate, orange-hued hallway decorated with gray steel arches and silver flowers. Suits of armor raise their swords at them as they walk by. They do not let this bother them.

A waitress with an opaque veil covering her head and face greets them halfway.

“This way. We have been eagerly expecting your arrival.”

The dining room they’re led into feels like it has teeth.

Percival clasps her hands together as Sage takes a seat directly across from her. Her rings glimmer intensely in the low, tangerine lights, as if they were extracting as much warmth from the air as possible with their sapphire faces and platinum bodies.

Without skipping a beat, they greet her first. “Pleasure to be here, ma’am.”

Percival narrows her eyes like a hawk closing in on its prey. “Have you ever been to a restaurant like this before?”

Sage takes a second to consider an answer. “I have experience with fancy dining customs, yes.”

You sound too practiced, they think to themself. But since Percival says nothing, they keep talking.

“I was once invited to dine with Al Fine’s second-in-command paranatural analyst.”

“The Polish one?

Sage shakes their head. “N-No, the new one from Madrid.”

“How dreadful. What was it like, being on the receiving end of his old-fashioned sensibilities?”

Sage shivers. They knew Percival had knowledge of the G.O.C., but seeing it up close and personal feels like someone is drawing a blade down their back.

“It was alright. He was not as unbearable as most made him out to be.”

“Many would say my daughter is stuffy in most of the same ways. I take it you do not feel that is the case?”

Sage shakes their head. “Absolutely not. Iris is lovely to be around. I would love to go out somewhere like this with her sometimes.”

“Why haven’t you already?”

Bullseye. Sage clenches nails into their own skin, trying to think of how to arrange the truth of Iris’s erratic work schedule and their own mild agoraphobia. The latter they had not told anyone about, because it would be a death sentence to admit such a silly thing.

“We are both…adjusting to this new life.”

“My daughter wants someone capable of giving her new experiences. Do you consider yourself someone able to do that?”

How do I show off something new to someone who has everything?

“Yes ma’am,” they reply.

“How?”

Oh god.

Sage wishes the waitress was here now. Aren’t they supposed to come as soon as you sit down?

They hesitate. Percival’s smile falls.

“Has she ever been to San Juan?”

“Once. We went there when she was little to meet a Prometheus Labs representative.”

Strike one.

“What about the Mossdena District of southern Elfame?”

“She vacations there every June.”

Strike two.

Sage grits their teeth.

“…Rincon Criollo in Little Havana? Iris seems to really like Cuban food.”

Percival pauses. Sage holds their breath.

“…No, neither one of us have heard of that. Elucidate me?”

Score.

Sage exhales, explaining with a stony tone one of Little Havana’s best kept secrets. They had only been once, but they felt lucky enough that the locals gossiped the way they did such that they could spin some stories about it.

“Sounds…interesting,” Percival replies. “I did not realize you could fill empanadas with such things.”

“Neither did I, until I went there. I think Iris will enjoy the sandwiches.”

“Iris speaks much better Spanish than me, so she tends to have an easier time in Little Havana. Though, I guess since we are on that topic—how does one refer to you in Spanish?”

Sage blinks.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

They shiver, clenching their hands together.

“Um—masculinely.”

Percival narrows her eyes. Her outfit moves with the same expensive candor as before, but this time, the silk of her lavender blouse has a chance to shine.

“Alright, Mx. Riveria-Flores, that leads me to my next—”

That word pricks something in Sage and they interrupt. As soon as their mouth moves they feel they’ve made a mistake.

“I don’t use that, madam.”

Percival narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“M-Mx.,” they stammer. Jesus fucking Christ, their heartbeat feels liable to jump out out of their chest. “Just call me by my first name.”

“…Of course,” she says flatly. “I assumed that, but eventually my assumption would have refuted good manners. Do you think you could tell me why?”

Why the hell do you want to know about that so badly? Are you some kind of—

Sage takes a moment to reconsider something.

A woman named Percival… That was an old English man’s name, wasn’t it?

“May I ask why you want to know?”

Percival beckons the waitress. She whispers something inaudible in her ear, sending her off on her way.

“Our company has a few nonbinary employees.”

Sage narrows their eyes. “You’re trying to interrogate me because of your curiosity."

Percival laughs. “And so what if I am? It’s my daughter. I’m only asking to confirm a thought of mine.”

“Which is?”

The waitress returns, carrying with her a midnight-dark bottle of wine. Its polished surface glimmers balefully, slick as crystal; she pours it into a glass besides Percival Sage didn’t realize was there, and leaves as quickly as she came.

“I will be asking the questions here, Sage.”

“I—Alright, ma’am.”

Do they want to give away the full scale of their hesitation? Obviously, Percival had read them already, but Sage wants to believe she’s not scouted them out completely. Her mind may have been platinum, but iron was used for war.

They take another practiced breath, and beckon the waitress over. She emerges quietly, holding the same bottle she had before.

“I’d like a glass of that, please,” they say flatly. When poured, they try not to let the shock of how impossibly black the wine is show on their face. It tastes just as it looks.

“Ask me anything.” The alcohol is still burning their throat.

Percival chuckles. “I was just wondering if your rejection of the honorific was because of a friction you have with modern English.”

Sage blanks. They blink several times, and take another sip. “Excuse me?”

You know I’m from Puerto Rico, why are you asking me thi—

Percival narrows her eyes closely. Without hesitation, she speaks something Sage finds familiar, but their mind totally balks on pulling meaning from the words.

“What?”

Percival smiles. “I asked you a question in Middle English,” she says with some seriousness.

Sage figures they should laugh at that. They can’t muster the courage. “Um, do you mean you had to…?”

They don’t know how to finish that question. All they can do is think How old is she? followed up by How old is Iris?

They try not to let either shock them. Iris surely wouldn’t want them dwelling on such a trivial fact so soon into their relationship.

Gotta make up some ground. “So you find it cumbersome to say? English?”

Percival nods. “Mister was invented in my time. Used to be everyone had titles, like Duke or Earl. Now nobody does.”

“Are you constantly learning a new language, then?” There’s a twang of genuine curiosity in their mind now. It leaks out into their voice like a tar drip.

Percival shrugs, and takes another slow sip of her wine. Halfway finished. “I suppose. Sometimes I wish everything had stayed the same as when I was a child, but as I have grown older, I have learned that change brings new opportunities.”

Sage finishes their drink.

“Like…me?”

They wince, but they watch as Percival relaxes ever so minutely.

“Yes, you. Iris has had…a difficult time finding a relationship, something I knew deep inside she always desired.”

Silence. The waitress comes out.

“We’ll be starting the experience soon. Is there anything you two need?”

Percival shakes her head. “No. Just be prompt, please.”

The same kind of manners as Iris. Somehow, though they knew they were for treating people with respect and dignity, Percival saying “please” still didn’t seem quite right of her nature.

Sage says nothing as the waitress slinks back into the darkness. Before they can say anything, an aquamarine blue soup is served before the two of them.

They resist rolling their eyes. “What is this?”

The waitress leans down. “The first course. Ambrose is serving catch from Elfame’s court today. That soup is a bisque produced from the prized koi of Queen Ortellica and her king-spouse Wei.”

Sage gulps. Percival stares at them intensely. They nervously take an indulgence, and relax as soon as it hits the back of their throat.

“It’s delicious,” they say after another spoonful.

Percival waits to speak until she’s had her small share. “It is, is it not?”

“If I may speak on the previous matter,” they begin without touching their food again, “it does not surprise me that Iris struggled to find a partner. She does not put herself out there.”

“Lack of confidence,” Percival replies curtly. “She’s still growing into her role as heir for Marshall, Carter, and Dark; there is a lot of weight upon the shoulders of giants.”

Sage takes a moment to savor the soup once more. It curtails their racing thoughts with a warm torrent of fat and cream sliding down their throat.

“That does not surprise me either.”

Percival narrows her eyes. “Did you assume a lack of self-surety when you met her?”

Sage shakes their head calmly. “No, not at all. I was referring to the second half of your statement; Iris carries herself like she wants people to be sure that you’re proud of her.”

A smile. From the both of them. It hits Percival first, who responds in kind by finishing her soup and wiping her mouth daintily.

When it hits Sage, they realize that they quite…enjoy that about Iris. Her being split between two camps like that. The side of her they must be seeing then, under the lacquer and liquor and fine cigars that cost a million dollars was the real Iris; nobody else got to have her.

Perhaps, that included, to some extent, Percival.

“Next course will be served,” the waitress announces lightly, with a step in her voice. “It is a small sorbet dusted with gold flakes and Silver Dragon essence. Please mind your tongue accordingly.”

“What does that mean?” Sage whispers. The waitress leans down to reply.

“It means you will feel an involuntary shiver while eating, as the gold and essence react together to form electrum mana in your mouth. It cleanses the palette.”

Sage realizes quickly Percival is watching their every question, so they shoo the waitress off. The food comes quickly, and they partake only after watching her take the first bite.

“Tell me,” they say as their spine tingles. Their voice sounds like smooth steel. “Were you always approving of the way Iris looked?”

Percival takes a moment to consider. “It was complicated, between us. I did not at first, but eventually as things went on…I had no choice but to accept her.”

“Not really true,” Sage replies. “You…could have forced her to do anything. I sense that she would have done it if things came down to the wire.”

Percival cocks her head. “What are you implying about me?”

They do not take the bait. “This isn’t about you, it’s about Iris.”

“You have known her for approximately one week.”

“And I have also had sex with women who look and sound like her. She is not unlike many dykes in both the boxers and temperament department.”

Silence.

Sage wishes they had their sorbet again, the way Percival’s visage feels inflamed with shock and horror. Her face finally knits itself into credible wrinkles belying what age she most likely felt; they crease across her head in sharp lines that couch shadows despite her sickly pale skin.

Did they show their hand too early? Clearly these weren’t the types to go near that word, much less even think about reclaiming it. Dyke. It just sounded so pointed, so sharp, so nasty and cleaving, but fun. It could do acid if it wanted to, LSD if asked, and it knew above all else what kind of molly to take when the girls were looking.

But it could not afford this dinner.

“Call my daughter that hideous word again and I will have you skinned so fast that it will make your head spin.”

Sage flinches internally. “You sure she’d approve of that?”

“We eat people who degrade us, you know. Fit for less than living, those humans deserve to only know slaughter.”

Their eyes go wide as they breathe in quickly. “I—I am sorry, Madam—”

“Sorry? Sorry?” Percival’s voice now echoes with the tone of her money. If there was one person more powerful than the second richest woman in the world, it was the first.

“You ought to be on your knees begging me for mercy.”

“…But I’m monogamous,” they say, with zero hesitation. It’s only a few seconds later when they realize they still have their head and their body that Percival’s posture is completely frozen with a fist on the table.

Would their mother be proud of what they just said?

Percival balks. She sputters for a second as Sage chuckles nervously, wishing internally they were dead. Never before had they attempted such a thing and now all of their bravery wants to slither out and run home.

“I would hope so,” she finally says, nearly spitting her words out. It’s as if the joke never existed. “I have seen far too much of what men can do to care for the affairs of those who cannot keep their lust to themselves.”

Sage smiles out of anxiety. Because there’s nothing else to do. The threat has come, gone, and passed. Odd way to refer to that, they think, and their mind harkens back to their first time in San Juan of being kissed by a butch on stage during a karaoke session. They were passed around for a few days after that between friends until an argument erupted with the person whose couch they were sleeping on.

Their mother never learned of any of that.

And maybe all of that commotion was a good thing. Sage thinks of the isolation they’ve been in since the Darkes; nobody had come to hurt them. But nobody came to have a good time either. It was a bit unnerving, grinding even, and some nights they dreamt of the parties and night life buzzing by in their head through vague shapes and wobbly forms. Neon lights and muffled music that beat out Spanish house music through black woofers.

But the silence they brought also afforded them a space to think.

Time to change the subject.

“Did you always know you were…different?” Sage decides not to use the word transgender.
They have no idea how connected Percival was to anything, whether she considers herself a normal person or some freak of nature needing magic to play pretend.

“Different how?”

“It should be obvious, yes?”

“No, it is not. Spit out what you’re blabbering on about, now.”

They had seen that kind of person at the G.O.C. a few times; people who transitioned because the dysphoria was too much, but who wished to so desperately be cisgender that they cut themselves at night and spoke nothing of it by day.

They make an outlining motion to their chest.

“Oh.”

The main course comes. A whole iridescent fish is placed before the both of them. It’s small, barely the size of Sage’s hand.

Percival does not pick up her fork. “…Why are you suddenly so concerned about me?”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Sage says, and they take the first bite. They’re reminded of how their own mother only ever talked to them like this when she wanted something to go her way. “Or something like that. Iris isn’t going to—”

For once, Percival interrupts, and does so with impunity. “Oh god no. I’ve asked her multiple times, and she assures me she’s okay with where she is.”

Sage breathes a sigh of relief. They knew that deep down, but it was reassuring to hear it again.

“…The reason I ask all of this, by the way,” they begin, finally taking a bite of food, finishing it before they speak again. “Is because I am just…taken aback by the two of you.”

Percival’s eyes widen. Then narrow. “Explain.”

Sage makes a loose, circular hand motion. “Your…deals. You, as people, I guess. If you told me the most powerful woman in the world used to be a man, I would have said you were a liar. If you told me her daughter cut her hair like a butch lesbian, I would have said the same thing. It just seems like so much stress.”

Percival sighs. She looks down at her food and does not respond, picking up her fork before setting it back down. “Is it really that odd?”

“Many would see it that way,”

Percival impales the fish in its eye. “Power can do a lot to force people to acknowledge the truth.”

They don’t know how to respond to that. They want to say And what power do I have? but they know she will simply respond with her and Iris’s own, and that answer doesn’t satisfy them. It also doesn’t really soothe them; they get the impression from Percival’s words that she most definitely thought of everyone she liked as some sort of extension of her.

Something bubbles in their brain as they finally take a bite of fish. It tastes so unlike home, more like a river and its crystalline pleasures than the ocean they knew Puerto Rico’s seafood came from.

“So what happens when that doesn’t happen? I hope this isn’t rude, Madam, but you and Iris must have…”

They decide not to finish that sentence. Not worth it. Percival is smart enough to finish it anyway, they hope.

That’s not what happens though. The scraping of plates echoes loudly throughout the room. Sage finishes before her. Before she speaks.

“…Love is such a difficult thing, you know?”

Sage watches her eyes closely. Percival’s are half-lidded, heavy like suitcases.

“It’s not something you can particularly force. That’s how you end up with violence.”

“Have you ever been in love before?”

“Ha, what a question. Maybe a few times, but I could never take someone, even when I was a man. I’d have needed them to keep all of my secrets.”

They wonder how deep this rabbit hole goes, how deeply they can rummage around the beast’s thorns before getting to the rosy heart. The temptation is there, being so close to someone most wanted by several normalcy organizations.

“Do you trust me to take care of Iris?”

“I have to. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“Is that how you felt watching her grow up? Into someone you didn’t recognize?”

Maybe there was a point in time you didn’t recognize yourself, Sage thinks.

Percival sighs deeply; the waitress comes out again. She asks something to Percival but is waved off. Taking a bite of her fish, her smile fades into something more solemn.

“…You’ve got quite the iron wit. Prodding me like I’m some sort of poisonous cadaver. Are you having fun here?”

Sage flinches. “I—”

Percival picks her head back up. “Do you think you’re smarter than me?”

They quietly swallow.

“No. I just—”

“You just what?”

Sage takes a last bit of their food. The fish’s bones are small, fragile enough to break, but they don’t. They could be eaten though, if they really desired.

“…You seem to love Iris. I’m hoping you’ll learn to love me. If you can forgive my curiosity, I never had these conversations with my mother. She was not the kind to admit her own…”

They need to pick that last word carefully. Percival’s guard was almost through, even if she knew it was being breached.

“…ways.”

Percival pushes her fork into the fish’s bones. They snap softly, with cooked breaks. When she’s done, she shakes her head.

“…I understand. You came from the countryside, yes?”

“She wasn’t a backward bumpkin,” Sage protests. “She just never wanted to admit anything.”

“Of course, my own childhood had similar people. Almost everyone was a farmer back then…”

Sage leans back in their chair. They can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or just trying to relate to them.

“Do you really? I’m judged in ways you aren’t, never will be. People hear someone from Puerto Rico with big dreams coming to Spain and they see them as silly. In need of being pitied. Emulating the ‘real’ people with their ‘real’ Spanish and the like—”

She cocks her head. “Is that how you were treated? Did you ever tell your own mother?”

God, why did they say all of that? If Percival didn’t understand, they just embarrassed themselves, and if she did, they just gave their hand away.

“…No. She would have told me to come home. She barely wanted me in San Juan, much less shipped off to Europe.”

“So you just don’t speak to her?”

They look down.

“…My mom’s in a home. Because she had a cancer that almost killed her. It was her choice; Dad got early Alzheimer’s.”

Percival’s face drops slowly. The waitress comes out once more.

“We’ll be serving another course soon. Toasted crackers with cream cheese and fae sou-rocks on the side, to prepare for the dessert.”

Both Percival and Sage nod slowly, as if there’s nothing they can do.

When the waitress slinks back into the darkness, they start up again. “I’m sorry.”

Percival cocks her head. “For what?”

Sage bites their tongue. “For burdening you with that information. I’m sure it will only make you worry about me.”

She shakes her head. “Nonsense. It…makes me sorrowful, yes, but sometimes that is just the way the world works. Being a mother means I must take things like that on the chin.”

“Is it a thankless job?”

“What do you mean?”

The waitress emerges. Both of them are served, with five small crackers and two colorful rainbow crystals next to them.

“Mind your teeth,” Percival says. “You’re not supposed to bite down, just suck on them until the color goes away.”

Sage blinks. “The sou-rocks? Are you sure they won’t smudge your lipstick?”

Percival laughs. Sage finds themselves laughing too, for some reason. Percival’s voice is clean, just like Iris’s, if just a bit higher than hers. Almost like a bell she sounds, if combined with the throat of a snake.

Both of them eat their crackers before saying anything.

“I feel like Iris is grateful to you even if she never says it,” Sage says.

Percival wipes her lips carefully with her napkin. Somehow, her lipstick has been perfect this entire time. “We thank each other enough,” Percival says. “…Does she say it to you a lot?”

Sage nods. “Very frequently. Almost like a puppy.”

“You like that about my daughter? Her puppy dog-face when she wants something?”

Sage snickers. They try not to smile, but thinking of Iris wanting them to eat her out again, yes, they do like that face of hers. It’s adorable scrunched up and pleading.

“You got me there. I bet I could make her wear puppy-dog ears if I asked hard enough.”

“I’ll bet you could.”

Sage stops. Percival is smiling. She’s really smiling. The air smells like ice cream and crème brulee as the waitress brings out something, but Sage doesn’t pay attention to anything. Their eyes glaze over as that smile sinks into their brain and freezes it over.

Is this it? Is the meal over now? Percival partakes in her food without a word, relaxed more than ever, and they think of what Iris would say having heard this conversation. She’d definitely have balked at that word, but what about everything else?

They don’t really know. Eating their food, they try not to think about it too much. Home is just an hour away, a car ride’s away from this place, and Percival.

Their phone rings. They look down to see who it is.

With a swallowed piece of something silver that dissolves in their mouth like honey, they answer. It’s rude to answer your phone at the table, but even ruder to ignore someone so ceremoniously impatient.

“Sage! Where are you?”

“Go on, you can tell her.”

Sage scratches the back of their neck as they take a deep breath. “Um, hey Iris. I’m eating with your mom right now.”

A moment of silence.

“Oh my goodness, she didn’t…scare you, did she?”

Sage bites their lip.

“No, not at all. She’s lovely. I’d…like to get to know her more, sometime.”

“Do you want to have lunch with all of us tomorrow then? We’ll take you to a proper place in Little Havana.”

Sage considers the offer, and finally relaxes. Their shoulders slouch and a heavy sense of sleepiness washes over them.

“Will they have…pernil there?”

“Of course, it’ll be the main course.”

“Pick me up then, in your best suit.”

“Can we see each other before that?”

“Do you want me to bring you something for lunch?”

Iris giggles cutely, and Sage’s face goes hot.

“Yes! That would be nice.”

They struggle to keep themselves from smiling, but they relent. It’s time to put all of the cards down.

“Okay. I’ll find something you like on the way there.”

Hanging up, they sigh. Quickly they find Percival right by their side and they jump; when did she—

“Go,” she says.

Sage looks her up and down wildly.

“But we haven’t—”

“Iris is waiting for you. Don’t keep her long. Go. I’ll make sure you make it there safely.”

Sage thinks of their betrayal again, all the cameras in London. They think of what their mom would think if they died stupidly to something they should have seen coming.

“Always?”

Percival grins eagerly, her ivory fangs flashing like polished silver daggers.

“Of course. You have our blessing eternally; we shall see to it that you will never be harmed.”

Sage exhales, rising from their seat. Without thinking they find themselves off, their feet hitting the ground in an rocky, unsteady pace; it’s when the sunlight hits their cheeks that they take a moment to savor what just happened to them, let a tear of exhaustion run down their cheek.

Fuck, running from stuff was exhausting. Being a mouse afraid of mousetraps was exhausting. It was now that they are asking themselves why they can’t just be normal; there’s no time for that though, when Iris Darke is waiting for you to give her a kiss. No time for anything except hailing a cab and giving an address, going into a building with an elevator which takes you to an impossibly located office…

Breathe. Sage breathes. They breathe as they think of Percival’s eyes behind them, wondering if they can used to all of this. Manners, money, food, dining, love, it all feels like a test they’re destined to fail.

But no way to fail Iris. No way to fail someone who loves them so much.

And maybe that’s all they need for now.