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In all fairness, Ororon can’t be blamed for this one.
He has always tried to learn his tribe’s ways and pay them respect. As such, he didn’t know how to turn the offer down when he arrived at the Fatui’s camp and was promptly cajoled into joining their circle, an alcoholic drink shoved into his hands. Ororon didn’t know what to make of their friendliness towards him — certainly, they had fought side by side, but this level of amicability was unlike what he’d heard the organisation to be like. He recalled, though, that the Traveller had commented on how this particular battalion is different from the ones they’d seen before. No matter his doubts, however, Ororon’s own manners didn’t allow for refusal. Ifa had taught him earlier that mutual respect for each other’s customs is a key part of intercultural communication. Snezhnayans are well known for their drinking habits, and so it fell on him to meet their courtesy. The Fatui are an important ally of Natlan now, after all.
Seeing their uncharacteristic merriment was interesting, at least. Ororon isn’t in the business of judging others, so his own negative sentiments towards alcohol didn’t prevent him from nodding and hesitantly following suit. Perhaps negative is a strong word — Ororon just never happened to drink much, even when he came of age. His impression of alcohol only went as far as overhearing the elders scold one of the more troublesome tribeswomen for over-drinking. And also Granny’s drinking. Both cases didn’t exactly inspire him to indulge, especially knowing that getting drunk can make one troublesome. That was last on the list of things Ororon wanted or needed.
… So maybe his impression is negative, after all. But the Fatui sitting next to him, who handed him his drink, is the nominal secretary of the Captain, and so he accepted it.
The agent, Maxim, didn’t have a drink himself. Ororon was quick to ask, more as an excuse to give himself a break from voluntarily scalding his throat.
“Some of us have to be sober when the Captain returns.” He said with a smile, clapping him on the back, “Don’t mind me, have fun.”
“Should’ve given him something other than vodka if you wanted him to have fun.” One of the mages, Lida, approached them, dancing a little on her feet. She gave him an impish smile when he looked at her, “He looks cute with that disgusted face, but I feel bad for him.”
“I’m not disgusted.” Ororon was quick to protest. He wasn’t, truly. His mouth felt like it’s on fire, and there was a tangy taste that he didn’t like filling it, and his head was starting to feel heavy, but he wasn’t disgusted. He’s been through worse. Abyssal corruption, for one. This feels slightly better.
“It’s okay, you can say it.” Lida remained empathetic, “Even the people of Mondstadt can’t handle vodka well. Not that they drink it often. We don’t have very good trade relations. You know, our terrorism and all.”
“Right.” Ororon nodded, “Terrorism.”
“Oh no, he’s already feeling it.” She looked even more pitying now.
That made him feel worse, so to prove his point, he asked for another cup. That was his forth one of the night. A nearby trio of three are at their tenth.
Lida looked like she was about to protest again, but Maxim enthusiastically supplied him before she could. She glared at him, then stepped on his toes with her heel. Her scowling face looked a little like Granny’s. Granny who was not going to like this, him getting drunk in the Fatui camp. Granny who would probably chase him with her slipper if she finds out, or break his legs once and for all. That was also depressing to think about, so he drank a little faster.
Lida and Maxim argued a little in Snezhnayan, before the mage switched back to the common language, and said in an accusatory tone to them both, “The Captain won’t like this.”
Ororon opened his mouth to respond, but the hulking figure of another soldier stumbled over first, somehow managing to hang himself off of her small figure.
“You’re always trying so hard to please the Captain.” He grunted, clearly wasted already, “He’s not going to fuck you.”
“Fuck off, Sergio.”
“I’m just saying. I can think of at least one person here’s he’d want to fuck more than you. Which isn’t a lot but I know it’s pissing you off.”
Maxim stood up with a serious expression, stepping in to help the increasingly agitated Lida in escaping the other soldier’s hold, “Knock it off. Now.”
At any other time, the rapidly increasing tension would’ve alerted Ororon. The three had already switched back to Snezhnayan, the one named Sergio looked like he wanted to square off, yet another agent approached and grabbed him, trying to pull him away. Lida snarled something undoubtedly unflattering, and it seemed to send Sergio over the edge, but before he could get to her Maxim stepped between them and glared him down until he finally relented and let himself be dragged off.
It turned out that Lida was right. The Captain definitely wouldn’t approve of this. Ororon felt a little bubbly with pride when he realised that he wasn’t part of the problem, though. Or maybe he was. The argument started because Lida was talking to him. But then Sergio didn’t really pay attention to him, so maybe not. He was not sure how much self-blame he should take up. It’s a little hard to parse his thoughts.
It was a little hard to think at all, actually. Ororon felt oddly lethargic, but all too awake at the same time.
Is this how it felt to be drunk? His head still felt heavy, but it wasn’t unpleasant, somehow. He felt warmer than usual. His body had gone half-limp, slumped sideways in a precarious manner that had him swaying a couple of times. He would probably fall face first into the ground if someone jostled him even a little. He rubbed at his face a little, staring down at his drink. At some point in his earlier struggle to maintain his balance, Lida and Maxim had both disappeared elsewhere. It saddened him — the two of them were the agents he is most familiar with in the camp. Was Lida okay? Should he go check? Try as he might, even the thought of dragging himself to his feet felt like a chore.
He felt… very nice right now. He was still swaying in his seat, but the warmth inside him has formed a pleasant fog in his head. He liked the fog, would like to keep his head in it longer. If he went to find Lida, he would wake up from it. Lida would remind him about how the Captain wouldn’t like this, and that would remind him that the Captain wasn’t there yet, and he probably won’t see him that night, because he would have to go home at some point. Probably about right then, actually. Ororon could tell from the way the wind had picked up that it has gotten late enough. Not that anyone is waiting on him in his home, but Granny will find out. Ororon doesn’t want her to worry, or to distrust the Fatui. At least not this particular camp of Fatui. Then she won’t let him invite the Captain to dinner, which is a random thought, but Ororon quickly decided that he liked the idea.
It would be nice to have dinner with the Captain. Maybe tonight. He probably hadn’t eaten anything. Maxim didn’t say what their commander was up to, but it must be something important. Ororon has never actually seen him eating or drinking anything at the camp, so he’s sure the Captain isn’t doing it while on business. That’s not good. Eating is important. For growing… not that the Captain has anymore growing to do. He also doesn’t need it. He’s big enough. Really, really big, with big hands and wide shoulders and thick thighs. Also big biceps. And…
… But no, that wasn’t the point. The point is having dinner with the Captain. Ororon’s cooking is average on a normal day and would likely be horrendous while he was drunk. Provided that he can even hold a knife without chopping off his own fingers instead of the ingredients. That would not be good. He can’t trouble others by losing his fingers. Broken bones can heal, but he doubted he that could sew sliced body parts back.
As he was contemplating the feasibility of reversing amputation, he found Maxim emerging from somewhere in his peripheral vision. He perked up, intending on asking him the question about the limbs and also about what kind of food the Captain likes to eat, but Maxim passes him by quickly, before he could. Ororon’s eyes follow him, and he soon finds the reason for his rush.
There, at the foot of the hill where the Fatui camp is set, he could see the dark, distinct outline of the Captain’s figure.
Ororon rushed to his feet, slipped, nearly fell back into the rock he was sitting on but was saved by an older-looking agent, who caught his arm in time.
“Careful, kid,” he said in a heavily-accented grunt, alcohol reeking from his breath, “Captain’ll have our heads if something happens to you.”
He let Ororon sit. Then, unfortunately, he sat nearby, as if he didn't trust Ororon with himself. The distrust wasn’t really important, it was just that the angle at which he sat was making it hard for Ororon to see the Captain. He had to angle his body backwards, once again challenging gravity to bring him down and potentially open a crack in his skull, but surely the soldier would prevent that, so Ororon can observe and wait for the person he’d been seeking to come look for him. The Captain usually does — Ororon’s presence is often reported to him, and he always comes to say hello at least. And talk to him.
In the distance, Maxim spoke to his commander. He handed him something — a letter, Ororon’s vision is good even when drunk it seems — and the Captain checked it, nodded at him once, and promptly turned to go to his tent.
That was when the disaster began. It wasn’t the drinking part — that part was normal, even though it was what facilitated the following events. All hindsight would have in store for him later was shame and blame for himself — after all, it was his choice to drink, and it was his heart that felt inexplicably broken at that sight.
It wasn’t a big deal. It really wasn’t. It’s not like the Captain walked away from him, he might not have even known Ororon was there. It looked like whatever Maxim had to report to him was important, too. So even if he did know, well, he obviously has more important things in his life. It’s not like he owes Ororon anything. They have already settled their accounts, and Ororon loathes to even think that the subsequent companionship they had has all been a result of a lingering responsibility the older man feels towards him.
So it shouldn’t have been a big deal. But it did feel like it was in that moment.
“Sorry about — woah, what’s up?” Maxim has returned to where he sat, “No one messed with you, right?”
Ororon didn’t pay him any mind at first. Extremely rude, but his brain power has slowed to the pace of a slug and at the moment, it only had space for the sense of betrayal the sight of the Captain’s retreating figure had left him with. He vaguely noted the cursory glance the middle-aged man gave him as he stood to leave, exchanging a quick word with Maxim on his way. Whatever he said seemed to bring the other agent great amusement, and he sat down on the ground, leaning back against the rock behind him.
“Not a good time to see him right now, kid.” He said, rubbing at his own shoulder, “Letter from the Doctor came today, so he’ll have stuff on his mind.”
“The Doctor…” Ororon echoed slowly, then stiffened as the words settled in, “Is — is he sick?”
“Huh? Oh, no. Not a doctor, the Doctor. Il Dottore, the harbinger.”
“Oh.” Ororon blinked. The name felt familiar. He wasn’t patient enough to recall the exact details. “So it’s work? He’s not sick?”
Maxim chuckled, “No, he’s fine. Well, fine as can be. He’ll probably have a headache.”
“Why?”
“The Doctor… isn’t the most pleasant to deal with, let’s just say.”
Ororon might have noticed the subtle contempt in the words if he was more aware of his surroundings. As it were, the confirmation that nothing was wrong with the Captain’s health robbed him of the alert that cleared his head momentarily, and he sank back in the fog and the sadness. His eyes returned to the Captain’s tent. He was probably reading his important letter, and not thinking about Ororon at all. Was the letter stressing him out? Maxim said the Doctor isn’t a pleasant person, but that could just be his bias. The Doctor is the Captain’s coworker, and with how charismatic the Captain is, they might be friends. They might be close. The letter is certainly important. The Captain might rather write back to him than talk to Ororon.
“Woah — hey, buddy, no need to tear up.” Maxim sounded half startled, half amused. Ororon blinked, and tore his gaze away to look back at him.
“I’m not crying.” He protested, after touching his face and making sure.
“You look like you’re about to.” Maxim sighed, rubbing his neck, “Look, just go say hi to him. He’ll tell you if he doesn’t want you to bother him.”
Ororon’s heart seemed to dislodge itself from his chest and crawl downwards to his guts, “He’ll tell me that?”
“Yes — no — I mean —” Maxim paused, and looked a little despairing now, “Shit, Lida was right. I shouldn’t have let you drink.”
Ororon wasn’t thinking about Lida, “I will bother him?”
“… No, no, just go.” The look of despair has heightened on the agent’s face, “I don’t like feeling guilty because of this of all things. I just killed a man yesterday. No one you know, of course.”
Now equipped with the unofficial secretary’s permission, Ororon happily ignored the rest of the sentence and stood up to leave.
That was right, there was no reason why he would be bothering the Captain. He could just say hello and leave. It wasn’t like he had important business, anyway. And it wasn’t like this would be the last time he sees him. The earlier sadness of being forgotten by him was replaced with anticipation. He would just see him quickly, and then let him know that he enjoyed a night drinking with his men, which would show the Captain how he is not a lost cause at socialising after all and is perfectly capable of interacting with Natlan’s new allies and ensuring they get along. Surely, even Granny would be proud of him for this.
With that newfound and completely misplaced confidence, he somehow made it to the tent without tripping and falling face first into the ground. It should be said that determination truly goes a long way — his legs really did feel like jelly.
So maybe the determination and confidence had been great in carrying him the short distance to the tent, but he ought to have prevented them from making him swing open the entrance and walk right in without permission.
“Who — Ororon?”
And just like that, he wanted to cry again. But the Captain sounded only surprised, not angry. Ororon clung to that and didn’t immediately turn around to leave.
He let the flap fall, leaving him alone in the dark tent with the Fatui commander. Across him, only a short distance away, the man he’d been wanting to see all night sat next to a small wooden desk, which carried a lantern and a couple of documents. His heavy fur-lined coat was removed, hung on the back of the chair he was occupying. Ororon always felt a little too hot seeing the coat — surely, it must be sweltering to wear something that warm in Natlan’s humidity, not to mention that the Captain is, quite literally, covered from head to toe. Then again—
Realising that his thoughts were meandering off-course again, he tried to focus and bring himself back to task. It was a chore — what was he doing? Oh, right, he came to say hello. And he should. Also apologise for being rude. But then he saw the letter in the Captain’s hand, and what came out of his mouth instead was, “Did something happen?”
… Not the worst that he could’ve said. But it was rude. It’s none of his business. Fatui problems in Snezhnaya aren’t his business.
“… Just some complications. Don’t worry about it, it has nothing to do with my mission here.” The Captain, being a good man, explained to him anyway. He stood up then, and the space of the tent seemed to get significantly smaller from his sheer size, “Ororon… you’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“No.” Ororon responded, too quick and too high, and if that didn’t give away the lie, then the way he ducked his head and let his bangs cover his face probably did. Maybe he wouldn’t find out though. Ororon’s bangs are long enough to cover his bleary eyes, and surely, the flush of alcohol wouldn’t show on his dark complexion.
The tactic proved tragically ineffective, as Capitano dealt away with it via the simple action of taking his jaw gently in his hand and lifting his head back up. As expected of a commander as experienced as him, not only did this move nullify Ororon’s defence, it also collapsed all the rest of his… well, thinking.
Because this close, and at this particular angle, he managed to catch a glimpse of his eyes.
Ororon has heard about the beauty of Khaenriahn eyes before. It was one of the few positive things the people of Teyvat had to say about them, albeit not without negative connotations attached to the subject. That their eyes, which looked like stars plucked out of the sky, or like gems engraved into their sockets, had the power to bewitch a soul. Clearly an inaccurate statement, as Khaenriahns historically did not rely on such magic the way the people of Teyvat do.
Ororon could’ve believed it in that moment, though.
Was it because Khaenriahn eyes were truly so beautiful, or was it because they were the Captain’s eyes? Ororon has been spending too much time lately thinking about him. About the face he hid beneath the helmet, the thoughts he restrained beneath decorum, the power he concealed or perhaps couldn’t use any longer. About the soul of a man older than some of the archons, and whether he was as weary as Ororon thought he himself would be, were he in his place.
“Ororon?”
He blinked, as if awaking from a momentary dream. The Captain was looking at him — looking, Ororon could tell now, finally able to catch a single glimpse of his face. The realisation nearly knocked him back into that seemingly stunned state, and he had to drag himself awake even if he didn’t want to. Even if he wanted to spend longer just looking into those royal blue stars, without a word.
“Um.” He said, just to make it clear he heard him. He knew this wasn’t going right. He was being a bother after all, just standing there and staring. But if he said hello now, he would have to leave afterwards, and who knows when he could ever be close enough to see the Captain’s eyes again?
The Captain’s hand shifted, moving from his jaw to his hair. He brushed away his bangs, and then his hand lingered on top of his head, his thumb rubbing away at the furrow of his brows. Ororon’s face twitched, and he couldn’t help the way his contrite expression soon gave way to a small smile. Capitano’s thumb paused its motion, but fortunately, thankfully, didn’t pull away. Ororon might have done something embarrassing if he did, like reaching up to keep his palm where it was, or maybe on his cheek next.
“Ororon,” he spoke again, “Did you need something from me?”
No, and I’m sorry for interrupting your work. I only came to say hello and leave. It was fun with the agents tonight, surprisingly.
“You say my name a lot.”
… Oh no, the voices of his heart and brain switched places again.
The Captain cleared his throat, but did not take too long in replying, “… It’s a lovely name. My apologies, I didn’t notice. Is it uncomfortable?”
“No!” His voice went too high again, and once again he ducked his head, embarrassment filling him, “Um, no. I… I… I don’t not like it.”
Wonderful, he got that out. Next, he should say what he actually meant to say. The words were at the tip of his tongue, but they shrivel up and fade when Capitano dropped hand from his hair, only to grasp his shoulder next as he circled him, gently stirring him towards the sleeping cot in the tent.
“You should sit down,” he said, and sighed a little when Ororon planted his feet stubbornly onto the ground instead, suddenly suspicious, “You must already be drowsy and tired. Sit. I doubt we have any sobering agents in the camp, so I’ll have to send someone to find it in the marketplace, provided any are even open at this hour. Then I’ll take you back to your tribe.”
A perfectly sound plan. But the Captain’s voice sounds a little colder, in the way that it does when he’s commanding, and Ororon shrank a little upon hearing it.
“Are you angry?” He didn’t turn around as he asked the question, scuffing his toes instead. He wished he didn’t ask the question. He might actually, finally cry if he said yes.
“No.” The older man seemed to soften his voice, “Not with you, anyway.”
“… I can just not go back,” Ororon said, because he just didn’t believe that the Captain was not a little mad about putting up with him, except he also can’t stop being difficult, “I can sleep on the floor outside. I’ve slept in worse places.”
“And I wish to never impose those circumstances on you again. Sit.” At last, the Fatui commander succeeded in gently forcing him to sit on the cot. But no sooner had he began to turn that the young man in his care surged forward suddenly, grabbing at him. There was one unmistakable problem with the action: the Captain was right, and Ororon really didn’t have the energy to keep himself standing. His body only supported him as far as the short leap, and he collapsed back in his seat as soon as his hand had safely latched onto the older man. Onto his collar, to be more exact, which was torn open in the process, because all of Ororon’s weight evidently wasn’t enough to weight the Captain down.
The sound of fabric tearing sounded like nails on a chalkboard in his ears.
There now. I’ve finally done it.
Hand dropping limply to his side, Ororon was stumbling through a half-apology, half-excuse, only for the words to run dry along with his mouth when the Captain knelt down on front of him.
Now, since he was looking slightly downwards, he could no longer see his blue eyes.
“Ororon,” he tried not to wince; the Captain has said his name so many times tonight, while he was acting progressively more embarrassing with each time, “What is the matter with you? I can tell you’re quite drunk, but it seems you’re upset about something too. Did something happen? Did one of my men do something to you? Has something happened with your tribe?”
He was concerned now. Of course he was. Ororon may be troublesome and awkward most days, sometimes like he didn’t know what to do with his own limbs, but he is always respectful of other people’s boundaries. He knows better than to impose on others like this, to keep getting in their way even when they were trying their best to be kind and considerate to him. He didn’t need to be sober to understand that much.
Alas, he did did need to be sober to keep his mouth in check.
“You didn’t come earlier.”
“Pardon?”
“You didn’t see me when you came. You didn’t… you didn’t talk to me.”
There, he said it. Even sounded fully aggrieved, still somehow perceiving the non-issue as an insult aimed at him. No, not an insult, just… just something hurtful.
It was just that the Captain has been more and more kind to him every day lately, has given him his attention every time he was there, and a big part of Ororon was still the lonely abandoned child who didn’t understand why no one among his tribe wanted to look at him. That child had latched onto this man’s care, to his patience for him, the way his big hands would sometimes pat his head, and how the things Ororon did were interesting to him. Along with the child, all of Ororon had become attached, in ways less innocent, but far more mysterious.
That moment, where he’d seemingly become robbed of that attention, where something had been more immediate and important than him, felt heartbreaking in a way it shouldn’t have. Because Ororon knows better, or least should know better.
He shouldn’t be mistaking the Captain’s consideration as a personal investment. Even as he sat there in front of him, taking in his vague, selfish words, Ororon knew he was trying to figure out the best way to deal with this without hurting him… hurting him, and consequently hurting his alliance with the tribes. Jeopardising his grander plans all over again because of Ororon.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Ororon’s place was never supposed to be so high as to have any affect on something so huge as all of Natlan’s future. But the Captain evidently thought it does, seeing as he traded the victory within his reach for Ororon’s life. It was because of his honour, Ororon always reminded himself. The same thing that made the Captain risk his own life for Natlan was what made him choose to save Ororon’s life as well. There were no evil machinations or malevolent purposes involved, that much he had already proven to them all. And yet, still, Ororon would still feel upset sometimes. Not because he was saved, but because all of his future companionship with the Captain has come to hinge on that singular act of sacrifice. Whatever he was feeling now, the truth behind his longing, all of it will remain tied to a debt already paid.
He wondered, staring down at his hands in his lap, why the alcohol led him to making so many mistakes in one night, but didn’t wash away the guilt he still felt at making them. In front of him, the Captain had stood to his feet, and he braced himself for the ache of watching him leave him, but he simply sat down next to Ororon instead. His hand found a perch on top of Ororon’s head, rubbing a little.
“I didn’t realise you were there. Maxim didn’t tell me either. I would’ve come to see you as I always do if I knew.”
It was sad how genuinely relieving that was to hear. Just those words, and the obstinacy in him settled, the despair stilled. The relief visibly showed on him, and because he has come this far, he let go completely, letting his head tilt, trying to lean more into that wide palm. It shifted, coming lower to cradle his cheek, where he could lean his head down and rest it there for him. The clawed shape of the gauntlet wasn’t comfortable, exactly, but the coolness of the metal helped alleviate the heat of his face.
“Tell me what you need right now.” The Captain continued, “What will make you feel better?”
“… So you can send me home after?”
“Indeed. So that I may see you in the afternoon, perhaps, once you’re not so hungover.”
Oh, he liked that last part.
“Hungover… will it feel bad?”
“Absolutely terrible.”
“Oh.”
“And I imagine your grandmother will only make it worse.”
All of Ororon’s body seemed to go limp at the reminder. With his head still cradled in the Captain’s palm, he didn’t collapse back into the bed, but it was a close call. The Captain still held him straight, though… then he brought him close, until Ororon’s head found rest on his chest. He still kept his hand in his hair, fingers just barely stroking, and his other arm came up, wrapping around his body with ease. Holding him flush against himself, or at least as much as their sitting position allowed.
Ororon’s breath hitched for a moment. Then his heartbeat picked up pace, sending a full body shiver through him.
“Is this uncomfortable?” The older man asked, pulling back a little, and maybe he only meant to look at Ororon’s face to check but he wasn’t willing to let it happen, to let distance come between them. His hands moved, one grabbing his forearm and another his elbow, stilling his movements.
“This is fine.” He squeezed out the words, not sure what else to say, what else he needed to say. He’s already been needy enough. The Captain should understand. But maybe he doesn’t, and why would he, when Ororon also doesn’t understand himself. But just in case he’ll never let this happen again, Ororon continues, even as he’s not even sure what he wants to say, “I… you see, I —”
“Hush.” The Captain cuts him off, with a voice that came somewhere from deep in his throat, gravel and softness both. Ororon couldn’t have spoken again if he wanted to. “Save your words for when you’re sober. You’ll only be more upset with yourself tomorrow.”
He wanted to ask if the Captain would be upset, if he’s upset already. He decided that he didn’t need to, because the man squeezed him closer in his arms, arranged him carefully so he can fall asleep with ease even without laying down. That made all things fine in his book, at least for now.
Besides, Maxim said the Captain would tell him if he’s a bother. He must be right.
Approximately thirteen hours later bring him to the present.
“It was my fault. I’m the one to blame.”
Ororon makes his confession after coming back from washing the breakfast dishes. In his living room, an eerily quiet Citlali sat.
He woke up this morning with a headache so painful it felt like some cosmic rock giant was bludgeoning him with its golden hammer. A rather specific scenario, but such uniquely terrible pain seemed to bring him an epiphany. He was sure the rock giant exists somewhere out there, and that it will murder him one day. Unless Granny beats it to the punch, which felt very likely, because she didn’t explode immediately upon finding out where and when he’d been drinking.
That made it more intimidating. This was uncharted territory. He was almost looking forward to the slipper, but all Citlali did was make him a hangover soup that she watched him eat quietly.
The quiet times are over though. He’s sure of it as he sits down in front of her and, at her command, begins to recall the previous night.
It was his fault, he makes sure to let her know, just in case she starts getting ideas. It would be bad if Maxim mysteriously vanished tonight and is never seen again. He tries to strategically leave out the more embarrassing details of his conversation with the Captain — if it could be called one. He could vaguely recall waking up when the Captain brought him back home, not long enough to have another “conversation” though. Hopefully. Remembering those parts made him genuinely miss the slipper, or the hanger, or any other projectile. However, for all his efforts, his Granny’s face goes gradually pale as his little story comes to a close.
Now it was a matter of waiting. It wouldn’t take long for the explosion to happen. It had to. He was worried that holding back would finally make the vein throbbing in her temples burst open.
Just as he’s certain that she’s about to breathe fire, she sighs instead.
“You know what, it’s not worth it to yell at you. I can make you feel worse in easier ways.”
Ororon blanches, “What do you mean, Granny?”
“You threw up on the Captain when he brought you back last night.”
Oh. Granny does know him best after all.