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After the holidays and Blitzø’s rise in fame, business at I.M.P. picks up steadily. And then it picks up so much that the team is pulling overtime, staying late at the office to make good on all the hits. Blitzø doesn’t force any of them to stay, but Millie seems keen to make as much money as possible. Moxxie does too, though his demeanor is less desperate about it.
Stolas stays late because really, what else is there for him to do? The only one who keeps a somewhat normal schedule is Loona, since she’s been trying to hang out with her friends more often. Or maybe she’s trying to escape the apartment so she doesn’t have to watch Stolas and Blitzø circle around each other like giddy, awkward teenagers. In any case, she leaves work at 5 pm on the dot with hardly a wave goodbye.
The fervor around their work is confusing for the former prince, at first. Stolas considers himself a hard worker, punctual and organized, but royal prophecies never required the kind of speed and dedication that assassinations do. Perhaps it was an aspect of the privilege Blitzø mentioned, working leisurely rather than ferociously. Sure, the missives from kings and princes were important and demanding, but it was sort of an accepted rule that royals did not rush, unless it was Lucifer himself requesting something. And that hardly ever happened.
And so, the work pace at I.M.P. is difficult to get used to and even more difficult to understand. That is, until Stolas takes a look at the company records.
There had been a discrepancy with a client’s payment, so Stolas pulled out the files of financial information and started paging through. He didn’t find his answer, so he kept looking further and further back. And then he discovered a whole other issue, a dip in productivity and profit that was so stark, it stopped him short.
During the summer and just before the trial that changed everything, the business had clearly hit some kind of trouble. Trouble in the form of copious orders of horse plates and… taxidermy owls?
Via likes taxidermy, Stolas’ mind supplies.
Yes, the link is quite clear, isn’t it? He snarks back at his ever unhelpful thoughts.
Shaking his head, Stolas works to steady his trembling beak. He flips the page and forces himself to pay attention to the information in front of him. His eyes widen when he sees a second order of the owls.
“Blitzø?”
“Hmm?” Blitzø answers, walking out from his office. He’s got his work coat half-off, the fabric swinging behind his back.
“Well,” Stolas starts, and then he stops himself because who is he, really to question things? He’s just stepping into this role and it’s mostly a favor from Blitzø anyway. “Mm, nevermind.”
“No, no, what’s up?” Blitzø asks, slipping his jacket off fully now. The fabric of his red turtleneck is tight against his abs and the muscles of his chest, and Stolas forces his eyes away.
Blitzø walks over and peeks over at the desk, making some kind of strangled sound when he reads the notes there. Immediately, Stolas’ eyes cut to Blitzø’s face and his beak drops open to ask the obvious question. Before he can, Blitzø swipes the papers off the desk and presses them against his chest. “Oh, don’t worry about these old files, Stols.”
“But–”
“Seriously, no need to pay any mind,” Blitzø says, and his smile is wobbly and there’s a drop of sweat on his temple.
“Pay any mind to what?” Moxxie asks, popping his head out from the conference room. Millie mirrors the action, appearing on the other side of the doorframe.
“The ledgers,” Stolas says, now pretty sure Blitzø is hiding something with his odd behavior.
“Oh, fucking finally, we can talk about this,” Moxxie nearly shouts, his eyebrows raising high on his forehead. He steps into the office, one hand coming to rest on his chest. The other raises, posed as if to swish through the air as he talks. Stolas gets the feeling he’s preparing for some kind of grande speech.
Blitzø has escalated from hiding the papers against his chest to eating the pages, his cheeks stuffed like a hellsquirrel.
“Yes, well, during his month-long—” Moxxie starts, but he stops when Millie flicks his shoulder once, her head shaking back and forth. Moxxie clears his throat and says instead, “Nope, can’t say I know anything about that.”
Stolas may not be the most observant person among their team, but he can put some pieces together. Blitzø’s reaction, Moxxie’s immediate desire to harp on the details, and Millie’s interruption? Plus the timeline of the purchases?
Blitzø had clearly spiraled more than Stolas thought, after their fight. And this also explains the fervent need to make up that money, building up the pensions for Millie and Moxxie and paying the back rent on the office.
Stolas’ shoulders slump and he sits lower in his desk chair, shoulders hiking up with shame. Blitzø scampers back to his office to hide and Millie and Moxxie slip back into the conference room, too.
Alone, Stolas thinks over this revelation. The numbers, the purchases, the damn owls are definitive proof that Stolas had broken something here, something in Blitzø, something he had no right to break. Worse, despite all that, Blitzø had welcomed him with open arms. Forgiven him, given him a home and a job and warm looks and gentle touches. Hesitant ones, always waiting for Stolas’ move. They’ve only just started cuddling, shyly placing arms around each other as they watch stupid TV shows.
So, Stolas starts working harder. He balances the new payments and their bills, organizing the hits by location so they can get more done in a day, minimizing any extra costs.
The work is a good distraction. It helps him think less about Octavia. He still misses her, of course, that same bone-deep sadness sitting underneath his feathers, but keeping his mind occupied prevents him from sinking too low into it.
And he forgets all about the ledgers, really. The money loss, the pain evident in the dip of productivity and profit.
Okay, he may mention the owls once or twice more, the first time while going over paperwork with Moxxie in the conference room. It seems apt, an easy question to ask, but Moxxie doesn’t respond. After Millie’s nudge, it seems that Moxxie is more dedicated to protecting Blitzø’s privacy. Stolas can respect that.
The second time, he goes to Loona. His agenda is twofold – he wants to get closer to Blitzø’s daughter anyway, since she’s kind enough to tolerate him in her space. Secondly, Loona is far more… brusque with her opinions, so much like her father.
Stolas isn’t even sure why he brings it up, why it’s like a splinter in his mind. He just… he wants to know , to fill in the gaps of what happened after that disastrous fight between him and Blitzø.
He takes his chance when he finds Loona alone for once, standing in the I.M.P. breakroom, a coffee already in hand.
“Uh, hi,” Loona says. The greeting is lukewarm and awkward, but he appreciates her efforts all the same.
“Hi, Loona,” he says. He hums as he walks towards the electric kettle and fixes himself a cup of tea. Something calming for all the anxiety in his stomach. “Um, if it’s alright,” he starts, stopping as he waits while the kettle rumbles and shakes through its rather noisy heating process, “that is, if I could ask you something?”
“Depends,” Loona says flatly, crossing towards the fridge. She opens it and rummages inside for a moment before closing it again. When Stolas doesn’t say anything else, she turns around and furrows her brows at him. “Well? What is it?”
“Right, yes,” Stolas says. “I just was wondering about… the owls? The taxidermy ones, the ones I saw in the ledger.”
“The owls?” She pauses, tilting her head to the side. “Fuck… yeah, he bought like… 300? The first shipment went by pretty quick, he had me burning them in the trash can. Not sure what happened to the rest of ‘em.”
Loona glances at Stolas’ face and balks, her muzzle pulling down. Stolas isn’t sure what his face looks like, but he can feel how wide his eyes are. All four of them.
Burning them?
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” Loona mutters. Her voice takes an angry lilt as she adds, in that surly way only she can, “Dunno why you asked, anyway.”
“You’re right,” Stolas says, his voice low and… empty. “I was being nosy, silly me.”
“Fuck, okay,” Loona says. She wraps her arms around herself and winces. “Um, look, he just… he was having a hard time. At least he likes you so much that he made me do it, couldn’t even do it himself. He just cried whenever he came near one.” Loona gives him an awkward grin, her shoulders hiking up. This is clearly uncomfortable for her. “He’s better now, though.”
“That’s good,” Stolas says. “Thank you, Loona, I appreciate your… candor.”
“Shit, I fucked up,” Loona says, tipping her head back with a groan. “Don’t say anything to him, okay? Please?”
“I won’t,” Stolas promises. He takes a sip of his tea, now tepid. He searches for something else to say and perhaps lands on an even more awkward topic, the words spilling out before he can keep them in. “You know, Octavia really enjoys taxidermy.”
“Oh yeah?” Loona says. Her posture is still hunched, maybe more so now that Stolas is talking about his estranged daughter. “Um, that’s cool. Matches her aesthetic, I guess.”
There’s a moment of silence between them, each clearly not having anything else to add.
“I’ve kept you long enough, haven’t I?” Stolas asks suddenly, his beak wobbling. “My apologies, Loona.”
“Wait, wait,” Loona says, holding one paw up. “Look, shit was fucked up. He ate a lot of ice cream. But you make him happy, too. Like, kind of disgustingly happy. So just… I don’t know, fuck, don’t let this make things weird, please? I’m just starting to get used to all your feathers everywhere.”
“I will do my best,” Stolas says. He offers the most genuine smile he can and then marches himself back to his desk. He sits down, breathing deeply through the mix of emotions curling in his chest. He regrets asking Loona, because he has no idea what to do with what he knows. What good does it do, really, knowing for sure what he already suspected, that the owls were a stand-in for himself, a way for Blitzø to work through all that hurt and bitterness.
In the end, Stolas just… keeps going. He works hard and learns how to cook. He pitches in more with chores, even if he has no idea how to do laundry or work a vacuum. He proposes a campaign for reaching out to Sinners they’ve worked with for referrals or additional targets, and then he spends hours on the phone organizing those hits.
It feels good, in a way, to be busy. Plus, it’s nice to contribute more – to be a devoted, dependable part of the team. To help build back what he ruined.
So what if his throat aches at the end of the day or the tips of his talons dull a bit from the constant typing? Or if he’s dead tired by the time they get home – sometimes as late as 9 pm, leaving barely enough time to help with dinner and collapse on the couch. A small price to pay, Stolas decides.
It’s not like anyone will notice, anyway. Everyone is working just as hard, so really it makes Stolas stick out less for once. Everything is fine.
**
Stolas should know better, really. Better than to assume that because Blitzø is working as hard as ever, he won’t clock the changes in Stolas’ behavior. No, Blitzø looks out for him, watches him carefully. Carefully enough that a mere week later, he marches up to Stolas’ desk, one hand on his hip.
“Alright, Stolas, enough of this shit,” Blitzø says. His frown pulls the corners of his mouth down, so much so that one of his fangs peeks out. The two are alone for once, M&M having left to catch a show at the theater, Loona having been picked up by a friend.
Which, Stolas realizes, makes it the perfect time for an intervention. He does his best to play it off. “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean?”
“You're doing too much,” Blitzø says. “We don’t need you working so hard to find clients, birdy, we’ve got them coming out of our earholes.”
“I-I know,” Stolas says. He taps his pencil against the notebook in front of him nervously. “I just, well, I wanted to help.”
“Is this about the ledgers?” Blitzø asks. His eyebrows scrunch and he looks away, towards his door. “Look, we’ve more than made the money up, okay? Nothin’ to worry about!”
“Yes, I know,” Stolas says. “I just–” He stops himself, remembering his promise to Loona.
“I don’t want you to work yourself sick, Stolas,” Blitzø says. “Can you tell me what’s gotten into ya? Did someone say something? ‘Cause I’ll punt Moxxie through the window, I swear–”
“No, no, that's not necessary,” Stolas interjects, waving off the words.
“Well then, what is it?”
“Nothing–”
“Stolas,” Blitzø is the one to interrupt him this time. His mouth flattens into a line for a moment before he continues. “You're overworking yourself and trust me, I know what that shit looks like. I mean, you always worked hard ever since you started here, but ever since you saw those, you've been acting different."
“They were a bit concerning,” Stolas admits, looking down at his desk.
“But we're fine now though,” Blitzø says. “I mean, our rent is actually paid off and shit.”
“Right,” Stolas says. He runs a talon across the wood grain of the desk, feeling the uneven pattern under his touch. “It's just that the dip happened, well, the timing of it was when…” He takes a deep breath and forces himself to look up at Blitzø, forces himself to stop hiding. “We’ve been working and living together but we haven't really talked about things, have we?”
“You mean like the fight and everything? Yeah, it just, still didn't seem like the right time yet.” It's Blitzø’s turn to look away now, clearly uncomfortable.
“I'm just worried,” Stolas says, and that admission makes Blitzø’s snap right back to his face, those shiny lights appearing. The ones that mean he's feeling anxious or emotional. “I want us to … be better, this time. Start better. You can tell me if I… did something that bothered you, or hurt you, or caused an issue–”
“Someone told you more about the owls, didn't they?” Blitzø's voice is lower now, tinged with something that’s hard to read.
“Yes,” Stolas says. He's glad Blitzø put it together, glad he didn't have to say anything.
“Fuck, it was so dumb,” Blitzø says. He wraps his arms around himself, his claws clenching around his elbows. “I couldn't even go near them.”
“Yes, they mentioned that,” Stolas says. He reaches across the desk to hold out a hand and is heartened when Blitzø unravels himself to hold it.
“‘They’ being Looney.”
Stolas doesn't say anything, but he's sure the answer is written on his face.
“Fuck me,” Blitzø sighs. Stolas squeezes his hand and Blitzø meets his eyes sheepishly. “Yeah, I had a bit of a… sad sack fest. Loona saw the worst of it, I think. It's not a big deal, though, the owls are all just sitting there now.”
“In the closet, yes?”
“Fuck, have you seen them?” Blitzø asks, clearly embarrassed.
“No, no I haven’t,” Stolas assures him. He pauses, tilting his head. “But… but perhaps I'd like to?”
“Really?” Blitzø raises one eyebrow. “I mean, to be honest, they’re not very good ones. Barely look like birds at all.”
“Perhaps that will make it better,” Stolas says, standing up from his chair. He waves Blitzø forward and the two make the short trek to the supply closet just next to the kitchen.
Blitzø takes out his ring of keys and unlocks it quickly. He steps inside and flips the light on and there, at the back of the room, are stacks of cardboard boxes. A lot of cardboard boxes.
“Alright, let's see,” Blitzø says, but there's no enthusiasm in his voice. He pulls a box down off the pile and brings it closer. Flipping the flaps open, he peers inside with a frown. “Yeah, just as ugly as I remember.”
Stolas leans over, bending his back a little to get closer. The owls are… terrifying, really. As Blitzø said, they barely look like birds at all. The googly eyes are glued on with far too much paste and what could be a faceplate sits unevenly on the head.
“They are ugly,” Stolas affirms, standing up straight. “Certainly not a particular type of owl that I can name.”
“Yeah, I ordered them because they reminded me of you and then they just didn’t,” Blitzø says. He looks up at Stolas with a gentle, hesitant look on his face. “I ordered them ‘cause I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” Stolas says, smiling softly. He pokes at the hard feathers on one wing, so stiffly set against the body. “I'm sorry, Blitzø, I never meant–”
“I know you didn't,” Blitzø says, interrupting with a shrug. “We both… well, it went how it went. You said shit, I said shit, and then we ended up here, anyway.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Stolas says. “I'm still sorry, though, and I'd like it if… well, if you told me more about what happened. If you want to, sometime.”
Blitzø shakes his head quickly. “Stolas, you're already dealing with so much.”
“And so are you,” Stolas says, raising a brow. He leans down so their faces are close. “You've taken such good care of me, I'd like to do the same.”
“I can… try,” Blitzø starts. “That is, try harder to tell you more and all that. Like we talked about.”
“Thank you,” Stolas says, leaning even further down so he can leave a soft kiss on Blitzø's cheek. He keeps the kiss light, dusting the affection over the scarred side of Blitzø’s face. The skin is warm under his beak, which makes Stolas smile.
It doesn't happen immediately, but they begin digging through the past together. The conversations are hard, especially when they get tangled in their own hurts from that time. But they make it through, somehow.
Blitzø continues supporting Stolas through the aftermath of the trial and his fallout with Via, doting on him in that constant, supportive way. Stolas, for his part, looks up how best to massage sore muscles after a hard day’s work so he can attend to Blitzø’s needs as well. He adds words to the touch, spending nights fumbling through all the halting and emotional sentimenta he knows, trying to impart just a fraction of what Blitzø means to him.
It takes a while for the words to sink in, because at first Blitzø is still full of guilt, guilt that’s burned into him from not just Stolas, not just this, but many other things. Big things, life-altering things that happened even before Stolas came back into his life. Blitzø lays out the events with a trembling frown, piece by piece, each coupled with the stark, plain admission that he is bad and he ruined everything, he keeps ruining things. It nearly breaks Stolas’ heart all over again.
But the more Stolas assures him, the softer Blitzø’s rebukes get. Until, eventually, Blitzø starts blooming under the praise. Drinking it in like water. It reminds Stolas of tending to his flowers, cultivating them, watching them grow.
It feels like healing. Via is still a hole in his chest, but the rest of him starts to feel less empty.
**
“Dad?”
“Yes, Looney?” Blitzø says, doing his best to keep up with his daughter. They’re on one of their rare father-daughter trips to the mall, Loona having been excited about some new line coming out at Stylish Occult. Despite the fact that they came here to go to one store, Blitzø is already loaded up with bags from other shops. Plus a soft pretzel and cheese, obviously.
“Do you need help with those?” Loona asks, turning around. She places a hand at her hip and the big block letters of her favorite store are visible just behind her. She looks like she could be a model for them, seriously, all outfitted in her black and grey clothes. Blitzø tells her so and Loona just rolls her eyes. Her tail wags happily though, even if she pretends to be embarrassed.
He’s right on her heels as they enter the goth-emo-punk clothing store, adjusting his hold on his pretzel so he can bring it closer to his mouth. He’s about to take a big bite when Loona stops short and he has to swerve to avoid running into her. If he gets cheese sauce on her fur again, she’ll kill him.
“Looney, what’s–”
“Oh, it’s you.”
The voice is familiar, even in its callousness. Octavia is here, standing at one of the racks of black sweatshirts, her beak set in a deep frown. She glares at Blitzø and it’s a bit scary, honestly. He’s seen what she can do, how powerful her magic is. The flare of her eyes is bright in the dimly lit store.
“Oh, shit,” Blitzø mutters. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Loona’s awkward stance, the twitch of her ears. “So sorry, uh, Octavia. Didn’t know you’d be here, obviously.” He turns to look at his daughter and can’t tell what she wants in this moment, not really. So he decides to just remove the problem – aka himself – and leave her to shop in peace. Maybe see how Octavia is doing, without him there making things fucking awkward.
“I’ll wait outside on the bench,” he says, jerking his head back towards the exit. “Looney, you buy whatever you want, okay?”
“Okay,” Loona says, her eyes glancing from Blitzø to Octavia and back. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah, you know, gotta eat my food!” Blitzø says, forcing his face into a smile. It wobbles at the corners but it sticks the landing, so that’s a win. Then he turns tail and runs outside.
Shit. He hopes he didn’t ruin Octavia’s day. It can’t be fun, living with her mom and that icy peacock. Maybe he should wait in the van so she doesn’t have to see him when she comes out. He doesn’t want to make anything fucking worse than it is. If that’s possible.
He’s talked himself right into a spiral as he sits there, next to one of those cheap mall plants. The ones that look fake as fuck. He doesn’t even eat his pretzel, his stomach too tight to be hungry. He pulls out his phone and tries to distract himself, but he just ends up staring at the picture of Stolas there. The one he set as his background, the one where Stolas actually looks marginally happy.
Sighing, he clicks his phone to sleep mode and wiggles until he finds a slightly more comfortable position on the bench. He settles all the bags in front of him, some on the seat and some on the floor, and waits.
Moments later, there’s the click of shoes against the tiled floor. Not the tap of claws, though. Not Loona. Blitzø looks up and Octavia is standing there, just a few floor tiles away. She looks nervous as shit, one hand at her elbow, her beanie pulled low over her forehead. So low it almost covers her eyes and he wonders how she can see anything like that.
Pursing her beak, she marches over. Blitzø’s spines raise because, fuck. What if she wants to yell at him or worse, slice at him with her cool ass magic? He’ll just have to sit there, obviously, he’s not gonna say shit to Stolas’ kid, no way.
But Octavia does not yell. She walks over and she motions at the bench awkwardly. Blitzø scrambles to move all the shopping shit out of the way, clearing a spot for her. She sits down, her posture as stiff and formal as Stolas’ used to be. Still is, sometimes, when he gets anxious.
“Um, hi,” Blitzø says. Octavia fixes her eyes on her hands, fiddling with something there. “You, uh, get something nice from the store?”
“It’s just a hellsquirrel,” Octavia says. She holds up the thing and yeah, it sure is. A taxidermy hellsquirrel, preserved in a pouncing stance. The tail is fluffy but it looks stiff.
“Nice,” Blitzø says blandly, the word falling flat like a fucking bag of potatoes.
Octavia doesn’t say anything back, just pets at her squirrel thing. Blitzø is just about to offer to leave her alone when she opens her beak.
“So, Loona sort of bit my head off in there, a little.”
Shit. Shit. What the fuck is Blitzø supposed to say to that? He doesn’t want Loona yelling at Octavia, obviously, but he also isn’t going to not take his kid’s side, right?
“Fuck, she probably gets that from me,” is what he settles on. Fucking idiot, way to make yourself seem even worse. “I’m sorry about that.”
“No, it’s okay. I think she had a point, even if she said it with about three growls and seven swears,” Octavia says, shrugging. She’s still not looking at Blitzø, but she continues with halting words. “I might have deserved it. I said my dad shouldn’t have gone to the trial.”
“Ah,” Blitzø says, nodding to himself. “If it makes you feel better, I thought the same shit when he showed up. Kept thinking about it after that, too.”
Octavia turns towards him, her face wearing an expression that screams what the fuck are you talking about? “But didn’t he save your life?” Octavia asks. “That’s what Loona said.”
“Yeah, he did, and I’m grateful, obviously,” Blitzø says. He rubs at the spot on his neck, under his collar, where the blade almost came down. Forcing his hand away, he clears his throat. “But I felt like shit about it, felt like I didn’t deserve it for a while. I still doubt it, sometimes.” He takes a breath and shakes his head, doing his best to avoid those darker thoughts. “And I’m real sorry about what happened to him and to you because of it.”
Octavia looks away, but Blitzø catches the gleam of tears in her eyes anyway. She takes a breath and wipes at her face roughly, angrily. It reminds him of Loona, but it also reminds him of… well, himself. Anger is easier than despair, after all. More satisfying than confusion, too, and he can’t imagine how confused she is.
She composes herself well, though. Just like Stolas does, just like all the royals are probably taught to do.
“Is he, um,” she starts, pausing to sniffle. “Is he doing okay? I… I want him to be happy.”
Satan, this girl was gonna break Blitzø’s damn heart. “He’s alright,” Blitzø says. He kicks his feet out in front of him, swinging them lightly. “As alright as he can be, without you,” he pauses, wondering if he’s being too subtle, and adds, “Meaning he’s sad as fuck, in case that isn’t clear. But like, not because of you? Well, because of you, but not because you did something wrong. Fuck, I’m really fucking this up, huh?”
Octavia’s beak curls a little, just a tiny bit at one corner. Like she finds him amusing, and that amusement is enough to break through the sadness for a second. She hugs her middle, shifting in her seat. “Do you think he misses me?” The question is a whisper, posed so vulnerably that it makes Blitzø’s throat tighten.
He swallows roughly. “Yeah, of course. He writes to you a lot, obviously. Letters and notes with fancy ass paper. All in cursive, don’t know how you can read that shit.”
Octavia huffs out a bitter laugh, tilting her head to look up at the fluorescent lights above them. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I haven’t received any of those.”
“No, I guess not,” Blitzø says, though his claws twitch with anger. He knows how much time, how much thought Stolas puts into those letters. He’s watched him cry over them, little tears dotting the paper and smearing the ink. Stolas always starts those ones over, mumbling about the smudges. Blitzø takes a deep breath and works to keep his voice even despite the emotions circling in his chest. “Probably that icy fucker, if I had to guess.”
“Icy fucker,” Octavia repeats, nodding to herself. “My uncle. You called him Elsa.”
“Yeah, like the princess? From that one movie?” Blitzø says. “You’ve seen it, right? She has magic powers but she’s not as fucking rude as that peacock. She has better hair, too.”
Octavia snorts and it’s not a fully happy sound, not really, but it’s better than her crying. She looks around for a second before she turns, facing Blitzø more fully on the bench. “Do you think… well,” she starts, sounding so much like her fucking dad, it makes Blitzø’s chest ache. “...Maybe we can all meet up sometime? If he wants, that is.”
“I think he’d probably run all the way here if I texted him right now,” Blitzø says, his eyes stinging. Shit, Stolas would probably take a bus to get here, and he swore off public transportation after that one time.
“I’m not ready,” Octavia says, the words rushing out as she shakes her head. “I need time to get my thoughts together. Maybe in a few weeks?”
“Yeah, sure,” Blitzø says. “Looney can contact you, right?”
“Or you can, or maybe him,” Octavia says. “Mom took my phone, though, and I had to get a new number.”
His anger comes back and doubles, boiling into hot rage. It sits under his skin there, rolling through him at the mention of that bitch but he does his best to hide it. “Okay, well, why don’t you program your new one in for me.” He shifts and takes out his phone, unlocking it and navigating to the contact book. “I already have your name in there, so you can just change the number.”
Octavia puts down her hellsquirrel and takes the device. Her thumbs move like lightning as she types her new number. She swipes up the screen as she finishes, probably a muscle memory thing, and catches sight of Blitzø wallpaper. “Oh.”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Blitzø says. He lets her keep the phone for a second, even though he’s blushing. “It’s one of my favorite photos of him, at least right now.”
Octavia hums and hands it back. She picks up her taxidermy figure and her talons brush over the stiff-looking fur on his back a few times.
“So, you like taxidermy?” Blitzø asks, pointing at the thing. It’s kind of creepy, but it’s also kind of cute.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Octavia says, holding it up. “Yeah, I collect them. Sometimes I make stuff.”
“That’s cool,” Blitzø says. He scratches at the back of his neck, tilting his head in thought. “You know, I have like… 150 taxidermy owls and I have no idea what to do with them.”
“Why do you have 150 taxidermy owls?”
“It’s a long story,” Blitzø says, waving his hand. “Right now they’re just taking over our supply closet. Maybe you can come by I.M.P. some time and take a look.”
“Okay, I guess,” Octavia says, still giving him a wary look.
“You’ll be doin’ me a real favor,” Blitzø adds. “Moxxie is on my ass about getting rid of them.”
“Sure,” Octavia says. “I’m gonna, um, leave now.” She stands and waves her hand in a tiny gesture, apparently finished with the conversation. Blitzø nods and she nods back before she hurriedly walks away, something in Blitzø’s chest tightening as he watches her go.
It’s all tentative. Uncertain. But it’s a start.