Work Text:
Baxter prided himself on his ability to measure things to their exact variable. To predict the result of an experiment with over ninety-eight percent accuracy based on the observations he'd made so far. He did not often put himself into situations wherein he was not at least eighty-three percent certain of the outcome. Even the battle at Vee Tower had fallen within those margins, and whilst he had only given Velvette a fifty-nine percent chance of showing up, he had at least considered the possibility.
Situations with less certainty than that eighty-three percent made him nervous. He had tried to gather more data, but whilst Niffty was undeniably charming, she was also incredibly unpredictable. Baxter did not like unpredictable things.
At least – he thought he didn't.
He was no fool. He knew what the skip in his chest meant when she shot a grin his way – what the tightening of his stomach signified. He'd tried to deny it at first, for these sorts of feelings inevitably led to an even less predictable outcome, one where he may very well need to pack up his experiments and bags and leave the hotel altogether. It had happened before. But the way his pride swelled when she clapped at the results of one of his tests, when she grasped his hands and dragged him around the room in a mad, hopping sort of dance – it was more intoxicating than any drug or liquor could ever manage. He didn't drink, he didn't partake in narcotics, for he didn't like the sensation of being out of control. Not in charge of his own faculties.
Niffty scattered his faculties across the floor, then rearranged them into neat piles.
Seventy-six? No, perhaps seventy-nine. That was the likelihood he gave to the possibility of her accepting his proposal. Not a proposal, proposal – a question. A request of her time, her company. A date.
Yes, that was it. A date.
Baxter cleared his throat, his heart once more stuttering over its regular rhythm. He could not flush, for his blood ran cold – but the bulb above his head brightened a little as she turned around. She'd been in the middle of stabbing a rat, blood spattered over her apron and her face, her pupil wide with fervour and her sharp teeth bared in a smile to rival that of the Radio Demon himself. A strand of rat intestine clung to the end of her hair.
She looked radiant.
He was grateful for the fact that he could not sweat, for he was certain his palms would be slick within the confines of his gloves. He swallowed, the words he'd rehearsed so many times running through his mind, and he only hoped he'd get them in the right order.
Love made fools of even the most intelligent of men, and though he wasn't prepared to leap into such dramatic declarations just yet, he was not immune to its stirrings.
“Good morning, Niffty!” He greeted her, his own teeth bared in a smile and one hand tucked behind his back. “I see you're starting work rather early today. Such dedication really ought to be admired and recognised.” He was going off-script, his bulb dimming a little as his guts swooped in his abdomen. But Niffty's smile only widened further, a giggle echoing up from behind her teeth.
She flipped a hand at him, brushing the rat intestine from her hair as she got to her feet. She gripped her skirts and performed a cursty – before holding her bloodied needle aloft in her fist, a cackle bursting from her throat. She spun in place on one foot, fixing him with a delighted – and somewhat mad – grin.
“You flatterer. The rats are getting too bold, I had to remind them that their queen's wrath is quick – and violent.” She punctuated her statement by stooping, jabbing the needle into the rat's eye – and leaving it there. “Did you need me? Do you need your room cleaned, or your sheets changed?” Her eye narrowed, a smirk on her face. “Did you make a mess?”
“Certainly not!” Baxter shook his head. His bulb brightened again, and he drew in a breath. He'd prepared for this. “I have a question to pose to you, Niffty, and I'd rather appreciate your full consideration on the matter.”
Her smiled dimmed a little, her head tilting to one side. Yet another curious trait she shared with that bizarre employer of hers, though Baxter supposed he, of all people, couldn't criticise one's place of work. He puffed his chest a little, lifting his chin and holding up one finger.
“It's after much deliberation that I've come to realise something. That I no longer wish to be your friend–”
“Huh?” Niffty squeaked, and Baxter's bulb flickered. His confidence melted a little as he pulled out his notebook, for that statement had sounded a lot better in his head. He could see, now that he'd spoken it aloud, how it might be misinterpreted – how it might be cause for the hurt suddenly shining on Niffty's face.
“Not that I wouldn't be happy to continue with your friendship, if that's the path you'd prefer! You're most valuable to me, one of my dearest friends, and it's simply that–”
“You don't wanna be friends?” Niffty sniffed, her arms hanging loosely down her front, her knees sagging. She looked devastated, and guilt twisted Baxter's heart, his bulb dimming so far that it very nearly went out. He shook his head, then nodded it – then waved his hands when tears welled on her lid.
This was not going well.
“I do!” He hastened to reassure her. It was now or never, for he was blowing this more effectively than a pipe-bomb in the fourth floor drainage system. “But – but – I would like to take you on a date!”
Nothing he'd said had matched the words he'd prepared. The conversation had derailed, and he had absolutely no metric with which to predict Niffty's response. He wrapped his arms around his middle and stared at the floor, suddenly feeling his small stature more viciously than he ever had before. He'd hurt her feelings, offended her – and she was not likely to forgive him any time soon. She probably thought he was ridiculous for asking in the first place, she–
“A date?” Niffty repeated – and there was no disgust or scorn in her voice. Baxter risked a look up, some of his tension easing when he caught sight of her wide eye, the faint hint of pink creeping into her cheeks, barely visible under the smears of rat blood still staining her skin. He nodded.
“If you're agreeable to the idea. You see, whilst I've enjoyed your friendship immensely, it would be remiss of me not to make my feelings known. If you're not interested – if you don't feel likewise – then we can return to the way things were before. I will treasure your company regardless, and nothing will stop me from improving the roaches in the pop-up band. But if you would like...” Baxter cleared his throat, his bulb brightening once again. He wished the damn thing wasn't so eager to betray his emotions. “Then I've booked a table at a restaurant along Razorwire Boulevard. If you... if you'd like to go.”
A lacklustre end to an abysmal performance. But at least he'd managed to get the words out – albeit rather incorrectly – so all he had to do was wait for the result. He tucked his hands behind his back and tried to straighten up, though his shoulders seemed determined to curl forward as Niffty looked at him, a small 'o' shaping her lips.
The seconds dragged on, each one feeling as though it were scraping over his skin, like a knife tearing the scales from a fish. With each moment that passed, the chances of her saying yes went down. He did not want to calculate the percentage. He opened his mouth to tell her again that her refusal would not be an issue – but his words died as a grin blossomed on her face, one hand lifting to curl a finger around a lock of her blood-soaked hair. She rocked on her feet as she tucked her other hand behind her back, a nervous kind of giggle seemingly breaking free of her control as the flush on her cheeks darkened.
It was stunning. Baxter had watched Niffty tear into an Overlord without hesitation, cackling all the while. He'd seen her on the nights she went out, those rare evenings wherein Cherri Bomb invited her along to a club. Niffty was not a shy woman, and yet she blushed at this. His heart tapped hopefully on his ribs as the odds of her agreeing to go to dinner with him went up, like it were trying imitate one of the stock-market tickers of old.
“Razorwire Boulevard is fancy,” Niffty pointed out. Finally, something approaching his normal confidence started to rise in Baxter's chest, drifting through him and retreating just as quickly. A tide coming in. He nodded.
“It is. But it seems only fitting that a lady as inimitable as yourself should be treated to something of equal value. I hesitate to clarify, but was that a yes...?” Baxter prodded, unable to keep the note of hopefulness from his voice.
Niffty mouthed the word 'inimitable' to herself, before giving him a sharp nod.
“Okay! I gotta clean up, though. Fancy places don't like it when you walk in covered in blood, unless you're Alastor. They don't say much to him. Or they try to, but then he just tears their head off.” Her lid pinched up in a squint. “Are you gonna be tearing somebody's head off tonight?”
He hadn't been planning on it.
“Not unless they give me good reason to, my dear. Then that's – that's settled! Arranged! I shall organise a car and knock on your door no later than seven twenty-six tonight.” He could have giggled, what with how lightheaded he'd suddenly grown. It had worked. “Until then... I shall let you return to your duties, and eagerly await the pleasure of your company.”
Baxter almost floated away. His heavy boots had never felt so light, the bulb hanging above his eyes nearly bright enough that he needed to switched to his shaded goggles. He suspected the bioluminescent marks along his skin would be glowing just the same, though his coat kept him from dealing with that embarrassment.
He, too, would need to clean up. Some of his experiments needed to be adjusted so that they wouldn't explode during his absence, and he had to decide which of his coats to wear. So many options. His stomach flipped again as he recalled Niffty's blush, an admittedly stupid grin blooming on his face.
In the wake of his passage, a shadow shifted, though Baxter paid it no mind. He had far more important – and stunning – things to think about.
* * * * * *
Baxter had debated the idea of presenting Niffty with a bouquet of roses, ultimately deciding that giving her something which would inevitably wither, die and make a mess was not a very good start to what he hoped might turn into a relationship. She enjoyed cleaning, yes, so she probably wouldn't mind sweeping up the petals as they slowly dropped off their stems – but he was a man who usually chose more practical gifts.
In the end, he had selected a long coat of mixed colour, the top half his usual black, the bottom half fading to a deep red. She was terribly fond of the Radio Demon and seemed to favour the colour herself, so it was a calculated choice. The colour being on the bottom of the coat was to his benefit, for it would otherwise clash quite terribly with his skin and hair. His gloves were a matching shade of deep red, and at seven-twenty-five, he lifted his hand and rapped smartly on her door.
He knocked no more than twice before it flew open, and he had to stop himself from gawking like a fool at the sight of Niffty in a striped black and white dress, a red kerchief tied around her neck – and a tiny black beret balanced on her head. He was suddenly grateful that he'd chosen to polish his boots and his gloves, for he already felt somewhat underdressed in comparison.
“Hi,” Niffty greeted him, her wide grin turning somewhat more demure as she tugged on a lock of her hair.
Like a gormless idiot, Baxter echoed her. “Hi.”
Riveting. He was being as awkward as the snake, fawning over Niffty like that moron did with Cherri Bomb. He should be better than this. His bulb glowed, and he swept a hand in front of his stomach, bending into a bow. A habit he'd never lost from life, for just because one was in Hell did not mean they had to forgo manners. “Our carriage awaits!”
“Carriage?” Niffty pulled her door shut and fell into step at his side. Walking with somebody had never felt like it held so much promise.
“Taxi,” Baxter amended drily. “But I made certain to request one that hadn't been recently urinated in!” An expensive request, but worth it. “You look...”
He searched for the right word. Niffty seemed to vibrate a little with anticipation, the bounce in her step increasing two-fold. There were many words Baxter could choose, but his sharp teeth flashed in a grin when he finally thought of the perfect descriptor.
“Absolutely killer, my dear.”
Niffty giggled. “You look like a mad scientist who's just been pulling out somebody's organs.”
Oh.
His step faltered, and Niffty caught his arm, looping hers through the crook of his elbow as they side-stepped a hippopotamus-like sinner – then immediately had to veer out of the path of a gaggle of women, chatting so animatedly they didn't seem to see the two sinners no taller than their knees.
“I like men who pull out people's organs,” Niffty confided, lowering her voice as though sharing a particularly sordid secret. Baxter's heart tripped in its rhythm.
Oh.
“The organs I deal with mostly belong to beasts, though I'm not averse to sinner experimentation if the need might arise. Bio-engineering is a fascinating branch of science. Did you know I occasionally ran diagnostics on Vox's pet shark?” He might have frozen, were he talking to anybody else. He did not like to mention his employment at VoxTek too frequently, for he knew it was something of a sore spot amongst the staff of the hotel – despite the fact that they'd found it quite useful when bringing him down. But Niffty only nodded at him with a smile, straightening her kerchief when he pushed the door open and ushered her down the front stairs.
Really, he didn't see why so many people thought her too extreme. She was an absolutely fantastic woman once one got to know her. Her hobbies were not so off-putting as to be an issue, and she'd certainly shown a level of appreciation for his hobbies unlike any he'd experienced in recent memory. He watched as she jumped down the last few hotel stairs, his own calves burning with the effort of taking such long strides – and chuckled to himself when she clambered up onto the taxi's hood, slapping a palm against the windscreen and drawing her other hand over her throat whilst making eye-contact with the driver.
The driver did not seem in the least bit bothered. An imp with sagging eyelids and greying white hair, he didn't seem as though many things would bother him.
“Address?” The imp asked flatly, as Niffty climbed into the backseat and turned to give Baxter her hand, helping to yank him up after her. He was a little out of breath with the effort, and when he pulled the seat-belt over his lap it pooled in a useless pile regardless of how he tried to tighten it.
He cleared his throat. “The Wee Bonnie Barroom. On Razorwire Boulevard,” he added, chest swelling with pride. The imp grunted, as unimpressed with their destination as he was with Niffty's threats, and the car groaned as he put it in gear and set it trundling down the hill. Baxter noted that the imp, too, wore no seat-belt – and that his shoes were of the platform variety, much like his own boots.
Hell's infrastructure was not one size fit all.
It felt rather awkward, continuing a conversation wherein there was a third party potentially listening. Not that there really seemed too much chance of that, given that the imp had put in a set of earbuds the moment they'd pulled onto the main thoroughfare. Not exactly the embodiment of safe driving, but so long as they didn't end up overturned in a ditch or catching fire, then he was likely doing better than most. He did not drive recklessly – perhaps because his own life was not of the regenerative variety. Maybe that was why the taxi companies chose imps as their drivers in the first place, for they could be expected to have at least a modicum of self-preservation. Maybe they should–
“Did you know your light bulb goes all flashy when you're thinking really hard?”
Baxter stifled a startled yelp, jolting in his seat. Niffty was stretched out on her stomach, hands propped under her chin and her legs kicking the air behind her back. If they were going to discuss safe driving practises, then they really ought to discuss safe passenger practises, too.
He adjusted his goggles. “I'm aware. It's bioluminescent, you know. And it's not the only thing that glows on my body.” He had been referring to the marks on his cheeks and the fronds he had that passed for hair. Niffty's eye widened, her gaze raking down his frame in a way that felt altogether too intimate for the back of a taxi. “Niffty.”
His hissed warning only made her giggle, and his bulb brightened as embarrassment curled its way down his spine. He folded his arms, crossed his legs, and turned to stare out the window for a moment in an effort to compose himself. They weren't too far from their destination, and he watched as a demon leaning on a lamppost stooped to talk to the driver of a car that had pulled up, clambering into the backseat after a few seconds. A broken bottle flew through a bar window – but as they pulled onto Razorwire Boulevard, the frequency of Hellhound bouncers at the front doors increased, the likelihood of stepping in a pile of vomit or some other bodily emission decreasing in kind.
Baxter turned back to find Niffty had moved. She'd seemingly lost interest in the glow of his bulb – at least for now – and was on her knees, bouncing a little as she peered out the window. She lifted her arm in a wave as they passed a pair of sinners exiting a card house, and to Baxter's surprise, they waved back.
“Friends of yours?” He inquired, for anything he could learn about Niffty was another puzzle piece in solving her mystery. She blinked, turning back to him with a somewhat secretive grin.
“Not telling.”
Somebody else might have found her refusal to share infuriating. To Baxter, it only added another element to her intrigue. He almost slipped forward off his seat, throwing his hands up to brace himself against the back of the driver's seat as the car came to a sudden halt.
“Here.” The driver held out a hand. If he was expecting a tip for exemplary service, then he was going to be sorely disappointed. Baxter had paid in advance, and that payment had included the mandatory gratuity that had been auto-calculated, plus the service fee, plus the convenience fee – not to mention the request to have a urine-free car. He was not forking over more cash.
He hopped down onto the pavement, ignoring the disgusted scoff from the driver. Niffty crawled across the seat after him – and the back wheels of the car spun, the driver slamming his foot down before she'd even exited. She let out a shriek, half-excitement, half-surprise, and tumbled end over end through the still open passenger door. Baxter leapt forward, catching her before she hit the ground, glaring after the departing taxi driver. His open passenger door hit a signpost, sparks flying as metal squealed.
As much as he wanted to start ranting about how he was going to find out where that imp lived, hack into his personal devices and order ten thousand Hell-crickets to his home, he was more concerned with dusting Niffty off. Her back rested heavy against his arm, the woman draped backwards as though close to swooning – and Baxter's brows pinched in a furrow of concern.
“Niffty! Are you alright?” He asked. Niffty's eyelashes fluttered, and she lifted a hand to press the back of her palm against her forehead.
“Oh!” Niffty huffed. “I could have been killed. That was an excellent start to our date, Baxter. How did you know?”
Another person might have dropped her on the pavement, put off by her manic giggling and how obviously she was taking advantage of the situation, her arm wrapping around the back of his neck as though she were still on the verge of passing out. Baxter grinned, his bulb flickering, and pulled her upright. He set her on her feet, his hand lingering on her waist – just in case her dizziness hadn't been a complete falsehood, of course – and swept a hand out before them, gesturing at the restaurant he'd booked.
A grand set of double doors led into the establishment, heavy glass with embossed golden handles. Sinners strolled past them, laughing together, pushing open those doors without a modicum of effort. Neither Niffty nor Baxter could even hope to reach the handles. He continued his movement, drawing Niffty's attention away from the main doors, and warmth stirred in his chest at her shocked, thrilled little gasp when she saw what he was pointing at.
A smaller door, a door sized for sinners such as them. Even Lucifer himself would have to duck to go through it – and Baxter imagined that might be something of a novelty to the king – with a neon sign above it proclaiming it the V.I.S entry.
“There's a dedicated team of chefs and an exclusive menu, for those of us lucky enough to be seated within this section of the barroom,” Baxter muttered, leaning perhaps a little closer to Niffty's ear than was strictly necessary. His hand was still on her waist, and he could have cursed himself for wearing his gloves, but he didn't like putting the delicate webbing between his fingers at risk; nor did he want anybody staring at the glowing spots along his knuckles. Perhaps another time he could better appreciate the sensation of having his hand on her middle – but he was getting ahead of himself.
He cleared his throat, his bulb flashing with a faint stirring of embarrassment.
“If you'll please – our table awaits.”
Niffty did please. She rushed forward with a high-pitched, chittering noise of excitement, yanking open the door before Baxter had a chance. A sinner resembling a mixture between a pug and a fire-hydrant greeted them, his voice a low, rumbling growl as he asked for their reservation.
Baxter stepped forward, giving his own name. “Baxter. I've booked a table for two on the VoxTek company account. Thank you.” The man hardly waited to hear him finish talking, turning around and gesturing them onwards.
“The VoxTek account?” Niffty whispered, once more looping her arm through Baxter's as they followed the host past other tables of short-statured sinners, enjoying their own evenings out. Baxter's lips twitched in a smile.
“They never upgraded their security system. I'm still technically listed as an employee – but tonight's dinner will show as having been booked by Vox himself. It's the least he can do, don't you think?”
Niffty's answering grin nearly split her face in half, and she squeezed his arm tight, almost hopping in place as she suppressed her cackle. He was terribly charmed at the effort she was making, though he hoped she wasn't feeling any pressure to act differently than she usually did.
The host tried to pull out Niffty's chair, but Baxter held up a disapproving hand, stepping forward to do it himself. A gentleman had to maintain his standards. Niffty flipped her skirts back as she sat, flashing rather more thigh than one might expect to see – at least in a place like this. Baxter glanced away, fiddling with his collar, hastily sliding into his own chair.
Menus were placed in front of them, the specials were read out. Though Baxter had spoken rather highly of the exclusive menu, he already knew exactly what he wanted. He'd looked up the menu several days back, had planned his dinner, and was rather looking forward to the meal. If Niffty had said no, he may well have still come here alone – though he would have been quite put-out by the rejection, of course.
“Ooh!” Niffty chirped, kicking her legs over the edge of the chair – and promptly banging her heel into the floor. She was clearly not used to being able to reach it. She winced, but it didn't dim her enthusiasm. She glanced at Baxter, a question in her eye, and he raised a brow. Silently trying to remind her that this meal was not just on him, but on VoxTek. “I'll take the unagi with a side of matsutake mushrooms! And a Coke.”
She could have ordered the most expensive of champagnes, but Baxter was not one to criticise. Their host turned to him, pen held ready over his notepad, and Baxter folded his hands atop the menu, rattling off the order he'd already prepared.
“A wagyu beef burger, flame-grilled, with sliced cheddar and pickled red onions. Diced lettuce with a splash of aioli, a side of thin-cut fries – and please make sure the chef does not put pickled cucumber on the burger.” He watched the host's pen bob as he nodded along. “And a glass of sparkling water for me, thank you.”
Their orders in, there was nothing left to distract Baxter from the reality that he was on a date. No ornery taxi drivers, no obstinate sinners. Just the woman sitting across from him, tearing her napkin into tiny pieces and feeding them to the flames of the candle burning in the centre of their table. The topics of conversation he'd planned on had all fled his skull, abandoning him in his time of need, and he felt panic start to creep into his veins as the silence dragged on.
Oh dear. Was he a boring date? He'd genuinely intended for tonight to be an extremely pleasant experience, but what if it was too traditional for Niffty? Her idea of fun often ended in far more bloodshed than he had planned, but perhaps he could still arrange something–
“Do you think dragonflies think they're better than horseflies? Isn't it funny how neither of them looks like a dragon or a horse?” Niffty asked, pressing her finger against an ember trying to take hold of their tablecloth. She shivered, looking up expectantly, waiting for Baxter's answer – and his mind was already working.
“I could probably manage to create a dragonfly that more closely resembles a dragon. The trick will be in making sure it doesn't just look like a tiny dragon with transparent wings, for that's leaning too far into one side of the equation,” he mused. He tapped his fingers on the table, hardly noticing at all when Niffty reached over and curled her fingers over his, stilling his restless movement. His bulb flashed, a grin breaking out over his face. “Aha! It would need to retain its multifaceted eyes and the number of legs, though the rest of it could embody the dragon of its namesake. As for a horsefly – oh.” He'd finally looked down, catching sight of Niffty's hand over his. “Apologies. I'm rambling.”
She shook her head. “It's interesting. Nobody else bothers talking to me about stuff like this, not even Alastor. But when you told me about giving the cockroaches lungs so they could play instruments, I was so excited. They're my favourite roaches now. I've given them names.”
“Names?” Baxter blinked. She nodded, bouncing a little in her seat.
“One is named Jeremy the Second, because you remember what happened to Jeremy the First. The saxophonist is named Celia, and the one that's learning the piano accordion is named Coffee Cup.” One of those names was not like the others. Baxter's smile widened, and he leant forward, clasping Niffty's hand in both of his.
“Are there any further modifications you'd request?”
She wrinkled her nose, mouth twisting a little as she squinted up at the ceiling.
“Fingers? It would be easier for Tabagatha to play the flute if she had fingers.”
Baxter nodded. He would start work on that right away. “How do you decide which roaches you bring to me and which ones you eliminate?”
Her manic grin sharpened a little more. “I eliminate the bad roaches. The nice, pretty ones get to play instruments. Only the good ones come to you.”
That made sense. He nodded again, startling a little when a waiter – not the host who'd seated them and taken their order – placed their drinks on the table. Baxter sat back and sipped at his, watching Niffty inhale her Coke like it was the drug and not the beverage. They'd given her a curly straw, and she seemed to be having a wonderful time trying to unbend it – until the plastic snapped, and she placed the pieces into a neat pile beside her cutlery. She dragged her finger through the ashes of her napkin, tracing out a pattern Baxter couldn't discern the meaning of, and rested her cheek on her other fist.
“Hey,” she spoke up, her energy seeming to dim. Baxter's bulb dimmed in turn, concern seeping into his chest and his expression twisting with it. “Why'd you ask me on a date?”
“Because... because I like you.” Her question startled the honesty out of him, as juvenile as the admission sounded. She looked up, blinking as she cocked her head.
“Really?”
“Really.” Honesty had gotten him this far. He watched as her pale cheeks turned pink again, and reached over the table to capture her idling hand. “Niffty, you fascinate me. You're completely unpredictable and unhinged, and your obsession with cleanliness borders the line of a mental disorder. But your passion and care for those in your life is undeniable. I... I should like to be one of them.” He adjusted his goggles with his free hand, suddenly self-conscious. He hoped that wasn't too much.
She was silent for long moments, and Baxter stared at the pattern she'd traced. If one turned their head, it might be letters in a different alphabet, but he couldn't read it. Finally, she huffed out a breath, heavy enough to smear those ashes over the table.
“I'd like that.”
Baxter looked up, meeting her eye, and his bulb brightened to the extent that they both had to squint, jerking back and covering their eyes with barely-stifled laughter. It was at that moment that the waiter reappeared at their table, their plates in hand. Baxter peeled off the top of his burger, just to be sure they'd gotten his order correct, and sank into his seat with disappointment when he noted the pickles on top of the patty. A part of him knew that he could probably pick them off, but the burger would retain their essence. Still, he didn't want to make a fuss, so he remained quiet as he looked over to see how Niffty was enjoying her meal.
He found her glaring at his plate, her fist clenched around her fork. Anger flashed in her eye, and Baxter couldn't have stopped her even if he'd wanted to when she stood up on the seat of her chair, shouting after the waiter.
“Hey!” Niffty yelled, capturing not just their waiter's attention, but the attention of the entire restaurant. The waiter turned – before stumbling back, his hand coming up to clutch at the fork suddenly lodged in his shoulder. Niffty had impeccable aim. “He said no pickles!”
* * * * * *
He probably shouldn't have cheered her on. Probably shouldn't have shouted encouragement, told her to aim a left hook straight at the guy's dorsal fin – but seeing Niffty unleashed was almost enough to warm his cold blood, his burger forgotten, her own plates on the floor.
They'd been kicked out – and banned – but as they'd pelted their way down the street, Baxter's heart thumping against his ribs and Niffty's cackle ringing in his ears, he wasn't sure he could have thought of a better ending for their dinner if he'd tried. They'd ducked into a dingy little diner, clambering up into booths that were too big for them, sneaking away without paying. It hadn't been hard. A woman with a bottom half like a bee's hive had been leaving just as they'd finished, and nobody seemed to notice them strolling along in the shadow cast by her huge rear end.
He hadn't felt the least bit winded, walking back to the hotel. They hopped onto passing scooters and bikes when they felt the need to rest their feet, jumping off at the next intersection – and their conversation had been easy, their silence even more so. His bulb had never glowed so brightly.
When they finally pushed open the hotel doors, both of them shoving up against one of them to get it to move, they practically fell into the lobby. Niffty kicked her feet and giggled, and Baxter barked a sharp laugh as he sat up, his stomach starting to hurt. Too much cardio for one day – or perhaps it was the greasy diner food to blame. Or the laughter.
A shadow fell over him where he sat, and he looked up. And up. And up. He blinked at the sight of Alastor's grinning face, the Overlord standing as straight as a pole with his arms tucked behind his back. He glanced over at Niffty, raised one brow – and promptly bent himself in half, his waist hinging with a faint pop as he lowered himself to Baxter's eye level.
Static crackled around him as he looked Baxter up and down, let out a dismissive 'hm' – and disappeared. Collapsed into a pool of shadow and left, leaving Baxter staring at the space he'd been mere moments before, utterly bewildered. Niffty finally got to her feet and trotted over, holding out a hand to help him up.
“You're a mess,” she told him, though she had far more blood and food staining her own clothing than he did. He'd gotten away with little more than a splash of marinara sauce on his coat. Her lashes lowered as he stood, a suggestive purr in her voice. “We should get cleaned up.”
Oh.
Baxter's stomach tightened.
Oh.
His bulb flashed as he let her take his hand and lead him off, and he was too distracted to consider the implications of her words too closely – to try and predict the outcome.
He was more than willing to leave this one to chance.
~fin~